Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #4

by Marvin Kaye

  CARTOON, by Peter Arno & John Betancourt

  THE PERFECT (PART-TIME) FOIL, by Jean Paiva

  Sydell Davis drained the last of her cold Collins, its redolent juniper flavor particularly soothing to her parched throat. Grateful for the relief from dryness as much as the easing of bunched muscles and taunt nerves, she pushed the glass away. Even more important to Sydell, she was grateful that this was the only drink she now wanted—one, each day, after work.

  Glancing at the kitchen clock, Sydell hurried to gather her belongings in the large tote bag. Keys, wallet, cosmetic case, comb, tissues, a miscellaneous pile (not yet inventoried but surely needed), an apple—no, make that two, both the kids would want one—and, finally, dark glasses—the sun seemed oddly bright of late.

  And, she reminded herself, don’t forget to hang the uniform out to air. The sulfur stench was at its worst when she stood downwind from the plant and this morning, positioned directly down-wind, the fumes had belched continuously. Sydell had been warned that end of the month quotas always increased production. Today’s frantic activity, and lingering malodors, bore pungent witness to that fact.

  Time to head to school and retrieve the twins.

  The last drag on her unfiltered cigarette was sweeter than the first. Nicotine-saturated smoke smoothly entered Sydell’s lungs and, holding the poisonously laced vapor for a full minute, she cleared the final traces of other, more fetid, odors from her respiratory system. Smiling, knowing it was well worth the trade, Sydell headed to her car.

  Finding the twins waiting, already squabbling, was an added pleasure. The drive over had been luxurious. A turnpike accident, rich in greasy smoke, held up traffic for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of stop and go traffic in the unusually hot, late-September sun. Fifteen minutes of breathing noxious carbon monoxide fumes inside a car that was threatening to overheat any second. Fifteen tranquil minutes of relative peace and quiet.

  “I want that apple, it’s bigger.”

  “No, I want that apple, it’s got a leaf attached.”

  “I’m first, I was born first. I’m older.”

  “So what? I’m bigger and I want that apple.”

  “Charleene, Robert,” Sydell gently intercepted the apple clutched by four small hands, “I can cut this apple in half or we can play a game and the winner gets all.”

  “In half,” Charleene voted.

  “No, a game!”

  “You always win.”

  “You always get your way.”

  “No I don’t, you do.”

  “A game,” demanded Robert, “is fair.”

  “What kind of game,” asked Charleene, already resigned to the smaller apple.

  Sydell smiled at the twins, her heart filled near to bursting with love for them—scraped, dirty, torn tee-shirt, lost shoelaces and all. “How about a riddle?”

  The twins shot a look at each other, grinning under their professed petulance.

  “Sure,” they simultaneously offered, “we’re both good at riddles.”

  “Okay,” Sydell said, glancing in the rear view mirror at her treasures. “Here goes: What’s black and white and red all over?”

  “Me first,” Charleene volunteered. “That’s easy. A newspaper.”

  “Well,” Sydell signed, “I guess that’s one answer. But not the one I had in mind. How about you, Bobbie, got an answer for your old Mom?”

  “Yeah, I sure do,” he answered with a sneer.

  “Well, what is it? You’re supposed to answer the riddle, I’m not supposed to figure out your answer.”

  “A racially mixed couple caught copulating by the Klan and slaughtered on the spot.”

  “Very good, Bobbie. Here, you get the apple,” Sydell said as she tossed the prized fruit to her beaming son. Taking the smaller apple out for her daughter, she handed it over to the deflated girl and soothingly added, “Charley, this one is almost as big. Someday you’ll be as precocious as your brother. You just have to try a bit harder, that’s all dear.”

  Sydell drove on, mindless to the arguments erupting from the back seat. It was so encouraging to hear such vitality and purpose. Life was so different before she started working part-time. These wonderful sibling interactions once bothered her. Not so now. The darlings could do anything they liked, short of permanently disfiguring each other, and it was a true pleasure to behold. Fortunately, they were primarily into psychologically torturing each other and both were extremely inventive. Retelling the twin’s antics made her very popular at break time.

  “Are we going to pick up Daddy?” Robert asked, his mouth full of partially chewed apple.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear. It isn’t polite,” Sydell cautioned. “We’re going home to make a wonderful dinner for your Daddy. Then we’ll pick him up.”

  “What’s for dinner?” Charleene asked.

  “Daddy wasn’t feeling well this morning, he had a bit of a tummy ache, so I thought I’d make something light. Let’s have chili.”

  “I get to chop the peppers,” Charleene volunteered while Robert still had his mouth full.

  “Of course, dear. And, Bobbie, you can grate horse-radish for the salad,” assigned Sydell, knowing both her precious offsprings would tackle their respective chores with care and diligence. “And I brought home something special from my job. The double-rich, double chocolate layer cake with fudge icing that you both love.”

  The squeals from the twins may have reached a decibel level painful to most but to Sydell it was music. Even her husband’s particular choice of operatic arias, which used to sound like mindless caterwauling, were now melodious masterpieces.

  Thinking back to a few short weeks ago, Sydell remembered how almost unbearable life had become. Her nerves had been frayed to the quick with the seemingly endless household chores and petty disruptions caused and embellished on by two active children and a husband who worked long, hard hours to keep them living stylishly in the prestigious community they called home.

  A hobby, her mother had lovingly suggested, would provide both distraction and constructive occupation; a job, her husband had practically pointed out, would provide both diversion and additional income. A job, her mother had almost choked on the word, would imply to their neighbors a failure and inability to properly maintain one’s lifestyle. A hobby, groaned her husband, would be another expense. Surprisingly, they had both resigned themselves to whatever Sydell chose to do, with the stipulation that she find something before she either had a breakdown or alcoholic lapse.

  And find something to do she had definitely done.

  * * * *

  It was chance that posted the notice on the supermarket bulletin board at eye level, her eye level being 5’7” in Nike running shoes. It was opportunity that caused the brown paper bag to burst open from a leaky milk carton leaving her standing, exasperated, staring blankly ahead rather than dealing with the already purchased mess at her feet. It was fate that brought together these disparate incidents and stranded Sydell with the notice pinned six inches from her nose.

  *

  Part Time Jobs

  4 Hours a Day—Your Choice AM or PM

  Good Pay. Easy Commute.

  Crossing Guards—Redheads Preferred

  Guaranteed to Make Your Day!

  *

  It was the Guarantee that caused Sydell, now empty-handed with squashed tomatoes underfoot, to tear off the paper tag bearing a local phone number. “If I weren’t already auburn I’d run back for some Lady Clairol,” she muttered to the dour assistant manager now standing next to her, his annoyance at the mess she’d made clearly written on his pinched face. Turning on her rubber heel and further mashing a pint of spilled blue berries, Sydell intentionally flicked her foot back—spraying berry juice on the market guardian’s clean white uniform—and tr
otted out. Of course red hair would be preferred for a crossing guard, she had assumed with a newly defined singular purpose. It would be much easier to spot at a crossing.

  At home she mixed herself a gin gimlet, the consumption of which once was required after shopping of any kind, and called the neatly typed phone number that, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to fade even as she punched in the numbers. A recording instructed her to leave her name, address, phone number and the hours she would like to work, and promised to get back to her very shortly. Before she had the gimlet glass washed, the doorbell rang.

  A job was so much more fulfilling than a hobby, Sydell reflected. Besides, the hobbies she had tried were disasters—from lumps of clay that resembled dog feces to developing a unique knack for growing weeds—and the ones she would like to try weren’t feasible. There were no mountains nearby to climb, even if she knew how, and directing snuff movies probably required some sort of film background. Best of all, the job paid well. Now she earned enough to make life a little easier and also found she was ten times more efficient, twenty times more relaxed, a hundred times more responsive and a thousand times more appreciative of her own home, family and life.

  Fortunately the commute was so easy, Sydell thought as she pulled into her driveway. This ’74 Pinto wagon, running on three cylinders, wasn’t good for the long haul. Another month and the down payment on the brand-new, bright-red Thunderbird would be nested away; it was time to forgo station wagons for the sporting life, time to enjoy everything that life had to offer.

  Uninterrupted bickering from the twins played in the background like a Brahms lullaby; the backfiring ancient power lawnmower across the street added percussion to the soothing rhythms sifting through her neighborhood. The Gordon’s next door, now retired and at each other’s throats ever since, were loudly proving that even after the golden fiftieth wedding anniversary couples could still find things to communicate about, albeit at the top of their lungs. What a comforting thought, Sydell realized; there was something more to look forward to. Humming softly as she unlocked the back door, Sydell herded the children into her warm and cozy kitchen.

  “How about a piece of that devil’s food cake with milk now, before dinner?” she offered.

  The happy screeches from her beautiful babies reassured Sydell that again, as usual of late, she’d made a wise decision.

  “Then we’ll start dinner and pick up Daddy,” she added, pouring two large glasses of heavily chocolated milk.

  Some career women complained about their bosses, despite whatever benefits they claimed to gain from working. Angelia, even thinking her friend’s name caused a grating at the base of Sydell’s skull, professed to love her job at the art gallery. She said it afforded her many moments of reflection on the beauties of life, but hated her boss—whom she called a fiend. Angelia couldn’t even begin to know the meaning of having a perfect foil, even part-time, to enforce the true bounties life had to offer. And, one thing Sydell was absolutely sure of, her friend did not have a fiend for a boss.

  Sydell shook her head in wonderment as she busied herself in the kitchen, effortlessly lining up the ingredients for dinner. She was so lucky; her crossing guard job took so little time, four hours and five minutes including the commute—though it was a bit tougher getting home than getting there. It still was terrific the way they picked her up and brought her back. There was still a miraculous (the sharp stab at the base of her neck sent a shiver down Sydell’s spine; she would get the hang of the terminology very soon) amount of time to whip through her chores.

  The preparatory work complete, Sydell checked the clock and realized she was running a few minutes late. The twins’ verve and vigor never ceased to amaze her; even with the simple chores assigned them they had managed to invent a spirited game involving the loser having chili peppers or horseradish (depending on who was preparing which and who lost) stuffed into their nostrils. Gathering up the children, she made ready to head for the railroad station to pick up Barry.

  Ah, Barry, he of the tall trim torso still lusted after even now, fourteen years later. Desired even more now that her daily tensions and aggressions had an outlet. Last night, despite the onset of Barry’s upset stomach—could it have been caused by the curry he said was fiery? Doubtful, as it was mild to her taste—was as good as their first time. During her indoctrination session for the crossing guard position they had alluded to improved sexual relations, relating it to the phenomena of a need to renew life, and cautioned her to stock up on birth control methods. Sydell was glad she had paid attention and that her medicine cabinet now stayed constantly full.

  “How was your day, dear?” Barry solicitously inquired as he slid into the front passenger seat. Even Barry’s attitude toward her had greatly appreciated. Once, just a few short weeks ago, he had rushed home and downed two or three properly chilled martinis before he said anything halfway intelligent to her. Now, ever since she had begun to share the wonders of her crossing guard job—telling cute anecdotes, talking about co-workers and supervisors, and especially relating her deep inner thoughts and feelings about how much she enjoyed her work—he treated her with, well, respect.

  While he seemed to blanch at the description of the dinner that awaited him, Barry’s bright smile belied any doubts she had about his sincerity in that the chili was just what he was looking forward to.

  And he did justice to eating every last morsel, though he blamed the greenish cast of his skin to the new fluorescent lighting at work.

  Children tucked in, husband reading a book—what was that title? His thumb covered all but “Daniel Webster”—Sydell began preparations for the morning. Getting the family out early used to be a chore but now, knowing that she’d be picked up for work as soon as everyone was gone, breakfast was the best time of day. Coffee pot ready to be plugged in, table set with cereal bowls, her uniform—still airing outside!

  Carefully removing the jacket and slacks from the clothes-line, Sydell brought her uniform into the kitchen. For some reason, the sight of it in the morning seemed to evoke unease in Barry, though not the children, but hanging it next to the refrigerator served as a pleasant reminder that she would soon be back in control again. The shiny metal buttons, with the traditional pitchfork logo etched on each, gleamed against the soft black leather of the jacket; the supple leather matching slacks zippered merrily up each leg and were most becoming. The piece de resistance was carefully folded in the jacket pocket; it was understandable that her high-tensile strength whip would make the children nervous, not that she’d ever use it on them.

  It got enough use during her shift; performing duties, exorcising (damn that demonic twinge, thought Sydell) aggressions and executing (now, there was a good word) her supervisors’ instructions. And with her brilliant auburn hair she perfectly matched the vibrant decor she worked in, even to the hooks suspended from the ceiling.

  The only flaw in this otherwise perfect arrangement was so minor that she berated herself for even thinking about it. But, with less time now for household chores it was the one thing that threw her schedule off. When they picked her up for work, why in hell did they have to burn open her kitchen floor, even temporarily, for her to chute down? It always left ashes all over the place.

  MISS PODSNAP’S PEARLS, by Roberta Rogow

  Most visitors to Deauville came to get away from their lives. Miss Podsnap came to find hers.

  The little fishing village on the coast of Normandy had become a magnet, drawing the aristocratic world when the putative brother of the Emperor Napoleon II had decided to construct a race-course there. With the fall of the Emperor, the nobility went elsewhere for amusement, but bourgeois holiday-makers were able to visit the coast via the newly-built railways. Moreover, the English were able to cross the Channel in regular steamers, and swelled the numbers of visitors to such hotels as the Grand National, a sprawling pile with access to both the beach
and the town.

  To this resort came Miss Georgiana Podsnap. She marched into the Grand National Hotel with an odd air of defiance, followed by a grim-faced middle-aged maid. Miss Podsnap had once been a gawky adolescent, given to hiding her elbows and cringing in corners. She was now a gawky woman approaching forty, wearing an unfashionably full-skirted English walking-dress in the pale grey and mauve of half-mourning, topped with a black straw hat decorated with a gray ribbon.

  M. Renard, the manager of the hotel, came forth to greet her. He made it his business to check the credentials of new arrivals. Miss Podsnap, according to his sources, had just inherited a tidy fortune from her late father, a gentleman well known in London Society. She had no immediate relations, there were no entails or other encumbrances upon her inheritance, and she appeared to be traveling with only her maid as companion. M. Renard knew of several gentlemen who would appreciate an introduction to Miss Podsnap. He bowed ingratiatingly, then recognized the young lady who had stepped forward to greet Miss Podsnap.

  “Bonjour Mademoiselle Podsnap,” M. Renard said, beaming at her. “We ’ave been expecting you.”

  “Bon Jour,” Miss Podsnap said, trying to recall the words she had learned before taking her unprecedented trip abroad.

  Before she could go on, she was interrupted by the object of M. Renard’s consternation. “Miss Podsnap?” the young lady asked. “I was asked by Mr. Lightwood to meet you here. I am Miss Venn.”

  “Mr. Lightwood told me that he had arranged for an acceptable guide,” Miss Podsnap said. “He did not mention that the guide would be female.”

  Miss Venn shrugged. “I speak both French and English, and I have lived in France most of my life. I suppose Mr. Lightwood thought that he would do both of us a good turn, since I am in need of employment, and you are in need of a translator.”