AHMM, November 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I guess so."

  "Maybe you can help Penny out after this is all over.” Two lines appeared on her forehead. For a moment she looked like her mother. “God knows that little ghoul needs someone to talk to."

  "I'll try, Roxy."

  She nodded, and having taken care of another responsibility, she was ready to resume her story. “So I waited until the last customer left the bar, and I went in. First I pleaded with him. But when I saw that that wasn't going to work, I picked up the baseball bat he always keeps behind the bar...” She stopped, letting me fill in the picture for myself. “He was too astonished to defend himself. Afterward, I took the cash out of the till."

  Her eyes turned inward, and a shudder went through her entire body. “All I ever wanted was for him to love me like a real father. But no-o-o.” The pain, cutting through again like a sudden gush of blood, was so palpable I could almost touch it. “Is that so much to ask?” she said mournfully.

  I shook my head. “No, Roxy, it isn't. Unfortunately..."

  "Yeah, I know.” She rifled through a huge handbag that was on another chair and took out a plastic toiletry case. On it was a picture of a little boy and a little girl, sweetly kissing. She gazed at it for a few seconds. “Madeline gave this to me once, a long time ago,” she said in a dreamy voice. “She always did believe in the tooth fairy.” She took out a tube of lipstick and held it in her hand as she contemplated the picture. Then she straightened her shoulders and said in her normal voice: “I really gotta ditch this thing. It is so not relevant."

  * * * *

  "What do you think will happen to Roxy?” I asked later on that evening. Steve and I were lying in the bed in my little studio apartment just holding each other. We had tried to make love, but both our heads had been someplace else—I couldn't stop thinking about Roxy. I knew she had gone to The Crawfish intending to kill her father—the fake ID, the secrecy, all pointed to it. And she would have gotten away with it, if she hadn't had to confess to get Madeline out of jail. But if she hadn't mentioned the fake ID to Steve, I certainly wouldn't. “A prosecutor will say that she didn't go to the police after her father tried to blackmail her."

  "So what else is new?” He snorted. “Actually, she did something better. She cleverly taped her father's attempted seduction and his threat to start on the sister if she wouldn't go along. Apparently, he came backstage after her performance and as soon as she got the gist of what he was saying, she surreptitiously switched on one of the recorders they use for the performances. Any jury hears that tape, it's over.” I could feel the anger, like an electric current, rippling through his body. “After I heard it, I was ready to go right over to the M.E.'s office and punch that SOB out myself. And he's already dead."

  Trust Roxy to have thought of everything.

  Steve sat up, swung his feet over the side of the bed, and said: “I think the D.A. is going to let her plead down. A good lawyer could probably get her off altogether, and I hope she gets the best one around."

  Tears were welling up behind my eyes, and I knew my heart was breaking for her. Death is a heartache no one can heal. When had she painted that message on the side of her van? Before or after she killed him?

  I put my hand on Steve's arm and said, “Don't go away, Steve."

  "I was just going to make some coffee,” he said. Then he shot me one of his totally infectious grins and said, “So, ditch the coffee. Shall we go back to Plan A?"

  He lay down on the bed again and in a few minutes, nothing else mattered except him and me.

  Copyright © 2006 Harriet Rzetelny

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  UNSOLVED: LOGIC PUZZLE by Robert V. Kesling

  For some time, police suspected the La Paloma Club was a major drug outlet in the Bay area. Yet despite their surveillance, they could connect no consistent visitor to the club with a potential courier.

  The big break came when a woman, who identified herself only as “Hazel,” furtively approached Captain Arlen. “Captain,” she said, “sooner or later you police will break up the La Paloma Club's cocaine deal."

  "We have hope,” declared Arlen guardedly.

  "Well, I want out of it. How much would it be worth to know everyone involved?"

  "Name a figure."

  "Ten thousand. Unmarked bills."

  The police captain quickly calculated. The savings in departmental man-hours would be worth it. “Agreed,” he told her, “if your information proves out."

  "Oh, it will. You see, my husband and I are one pair of the deliverers. The system works like this: Ten couples are involved. To avoid detection, one couple goes to the La Paloma each morning between the hours of 8 and noon, Monday through Friday. A different couple goes there each afternoon between the hours of 2 and 6, Monday through Friday. To add more possible confusion, each couple leaves the package with their coats and hats with the hat check girl, then hangs around like a regular customer."

  "Sounds clever. Now, exactly who are these couriers?"

  Hazel hesitated. “I don't want you to be able to testify that I told you outright. But I'll give you enough clues...

  1. Of the ten couples, no husband and wife have the same first initial. So Abe isn't married to Amy, Bart to Belle, and so forth.

  2. Abe, Bart, and Chaz come different days; they include Mr. Malone, the man who delivers at 10 A.M., and one of the two men who come Monday. They are married to Dolly, Eva, and myself—Hazel.

  3. Gus, Hank, and Joe come different days; they include Mr. O'Toole (who isn't married to Belle), the man who delivers at 4 P.M., and one of the two who come Friday.

  4. Mr. Karnak, Mr. Pitts, and Mr. Quinn come different days; they include Dan, the man who delivers at 9 A.M., and one of the two who come Wednesday.

  5. Mr. Null, Mr. Rankin, and Mr. Scholl come different days; they include Felix, the man who delivers at 6 P.M., and one of the two who come Monday. These three are married to Celia, Flor, and Ida.

  6. Eli's delivery is one hour earlier than Mr. Pitt's and one hour later than one of the men who come Tuesday; no two of them come the same day.

  7. Joe's delivery time is one hour ealier than Mr. Tarloff's and one hour later than that of one of the men who deliver Thursday; no two of them come the same day.

  8. The 2 P.M. delivery is made the day after Mr. Rankin's and the day before Ike's. The 8 A.M. delivery is made the day after Mr. Laboda's and the day before Abe's.

  9. Monday deliveries are four hours apart. Friday deliveries are six hours apart. And Wednesday deliveries are eight hours apart, neither of which involves Dolly or Flo.

  10. The couples delivering Thursday do not include Mr. Quinn, Belle, or June.

  11. Mr. Null does not deliver at 8 A.M. Mr. Sholl does not deliver at 3 P.M.

  12. Chaz is not Mr. Laboda (who is not married to Dolly).

  13. Mr. O'Toole makes his delivery at a later hour than Mr. Karnak; neither is married to Ginny. Mr. Rankin makes his delivery one hour later than Mr. Null.

  14. Felix makes his delivery the day before Mr. Quinn. Hank (who is not married to Amy) makes his delivery the day before my husband.

  Hazel's information proved sufficient to work out the names and schedules of the ten couples delivering drugs to the La Paloma Club. Enough hard evidence was then gathered to convict all involved—except Hazel, who was given probation for her cooperation.

  What were the scheduled times of delivery for the ten couples?

  Who was Hazel's husband?

  The answer will appear in next month's issue.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  RANSOM by R.T. Lawton

  They came out of the darkness like ghosts from my recent past. The old hill tribesman appeared in front, while the young Chechen brave kept off to one side, partially in shadow. Flickering light from my campfire reflected off pieces of bright silver embedded into the stock of the young warrior's flint gun, a weapon from the Turkic lands that lay far to the south. As the brave stood quietly in the background,
his face seemed grim and unfriendly, even though his musket was not aimed directly at me.

  Since my Nogay helper and I had recently left most of the Wild Country behind us, I had not thought it necessary to carry any weapon in our camp so near the river that served as a border in these lands. But then I generally thought of weapons as the last resource of an angry or frightened man. I much preferred to use the brain my creator gave me to solve any problems in this violent world of ours. For the present, it seemed in my best interest to sit very still and wait for these two intruders to make their intentions known.

  The old man advanced to the edge of my Persian carpet, which had been stretched out on the ground halfway between the fire and my tent. It was here that I sat cross-legged with a steaming cup of Assam tea held in my right hand, a hand now stalled in mid motion. The elder Chechen lowered himself onto the carpet and sat facing me.

  "You are the Armenian?” he inquired in broken Russian.

  I speculated he knew the answer before he asked. Not much went on in this land below the Terek River that the hill tribes didn't quickly discuss with others residing in the steppes and foothills beneath the snow-peaked Caucasus. From the pro-Russian Chechens on the south bank, to the Ingush in the west, to the wandering Nogay from the Golden Horde, and even the Abreks—those Chechen brigands roaming the last of the Wild Country near the Blue Mist Gorge—news traveled fast.

  I lowered my teacup.

  "I am the one you mention,” was my reply.

  "At sunrise you will cross the river and pass through the Cossack cordon?” he asked.

  "That is my intention."

  A few hours prior, I had instructed my Nogay helper to pitch our camp at least a pistol shot's distance from the south edge of the Terek. Night was not a good time to make the crossing. Cossack guards at the cordon on the north bank, with their constant watch for raiding Abreks, were quick to fire their muskets at any movement in the water or even into the brush on our side of the river if they thought some Chechen might be in hiding. An imprudent man could easily be shot by accident.

  "Did you wish something of me?” I continued.

  "For the last month, you have traded your goods in several villages to the south,” said the old man. “Now we wish you to make a different trade for us in the morning on the other side.” He paused. “We will pay in silver Turkish coins for your assistance."

  Ah. Money is the language of merchants, and it transcends all ethnic boundaries. I now had a chance to make one last profit on my trading venture into the land of the Chechens. It only remained to see what items these two of the Sunni Muslim faith had for trade, and what they wanted in return.

  "I may be interested in your offer. What would you have me do?"

  The old man motioned the young brave to approach closer to where we sat.

  "This is Kasimov."

  I gazed up at the lean warrior. In true Chechen tradition, his head had been shaved bare, and his trimmed mustache and cropped beard were dyed red. He wore a ragged Circassian coat over a white cloth shirt, while his blue trousers were held at the waist with a wide leather belt and tied at the knees with thongs. Boots of soft moroccan leather covered his feet. As he came closer, I saw even his fingernails had been dyed a deep red.

  Kasimov muttered to the old man in guttural Chechen but spoke too fast for me to understand much of what he said. The old man then translated into Russian as he gestured toward the young brave.

  "This man is the last of three brothers. A year ago, his older brother was killed during one of the Russian army campaigns south of the Terek. Last night, he lost his younger brother somewhere over there on the north bank. The Cossacks now hold that body for ransom."

  "They wish Kasimov to redeem the corpse of his brother for a price?"

  "They do, and we want you to negotiate with those infidels on our behalf. In the past, we have heard from others, you've been fair in all your dealings with us Nokhchi,” he said, using the name the Chechens did when referring to themselves as a people. “Therefore we will trust you in this matter."

  He then named an amount as my commission. The price seemed fair enough. I didn't quibble, perhaps because I felt uneasy about this buying and selling of the dead. True, in the past, I often traded in antiquities scavenged by others from ancient burial tombs in various lands, but never had I purchased a body, either living or dead. With this macabre business I was now being drawn into, sleep would not come easily tonight.

  In the waiting silence, I contemplated my options. Already, on these dark nights when strong winds howled around our tent and storm-swept clouds scudded across the face of a pale moon, I found myself plagued with dreams of the Russian staff captain I'd sent down the road to his death on one of my earlier trading ventures. And the young face of a murderous Abrek I'd abandoned to wolves at the Blue Mist Gorge a few weeks back often slipped into my inner vision when I least expected. I wished to decline this generous offer of a commission from these two late-night visitors, but at the same time, my instinct told me how unwise it would be for me to refuse their request if I wished to continue trading safely in the south.

  My tea had gone cold in the cup.

  "We three will cross together in the morning,” I finally said, “and I will do my best with the Cossacks."

  With a few words of thanks, the elder Chechen rose to leave. He and Kasimov disappeared into the night in much the same manner as they had come. I heard no rustle of bush, no breaking of twig. Only a heavy stillness remained in the dark, broken by random whispers of lapping water from the nearby Terek and the faint buzz of a few brazen mosquitoes in this season of early fall. The ground beneath my bed seemed extra hard this night.

  At sunrise, I placed my Nogay helper in charge of our camp and instructed him to wait for my return. He regarded me with his usual expressionless face and asked no questions. After he began his daily tasks, I walked down to the river crossing.

  Kasimov and the elder Chechen were waiting for my arrival. They'd made arrangements with a man from one of the pro-Russian villages for a boat to take us across the water. We soon cast off into the current. As the villager strained at his long wooden pole, I stood precariously up front in the narrow skiff so any Cossacks on guard could see who was coming.

  When we'd gone partway, I hailed the opposite bank and was fortunate enough to find a graybeard of the Old Believer Cossacks who knew me from previous trading ventures. He stood at the water's edge in his worn black boots, baggy trousers, and long-sleeved white shirt trimmed with red thread in Cossack designs. A musket was slung on one shoulder and a soft cap sat jauntily on top of his long gray hair, as if his many years carried no great weight.

  "Garaska, how are you?” I called.

  "I see you come in the company of Abreks,” he replied, then continued, “Just two nights ago, we had a shooting match with your Sunni Muslim friends there and came away even."

  "You had casualties?” If so, it could make my negotiations more difficult."

  "We did."

  I cursed beneath my breath. The old man seated behind me whispered to Kasimov, but once again I couldn't catch all the words spoken in Chechen. Obviously, something more had happened than they'd told me the night before.

  "But,” continued Garaska, as we drew closer to the north bank, “the only loss to our side was a Russian sergeant, one of those Muscovy troops that are quartered in our village by order of the tsar. Of course, our officers stamp their boots and roar for revenge on those marauding red devils from the south, but us common Cossacks deem this particular exchange to be no great loss to our ranks. Good riddance, we say, but we don't let the officers overhear such statements."

  As the prow of our skiff beached on the gray sand, I leaped for shore, hoping to keep my balance. Garaska reached out his large calloused hand to steady me as I stepped ankle deep into a brittle carpet of red and orange and yellow fallen leaves that littered the bank. A light wind swirled more of these bright colors down from overhanging tree limbs. The time of
cold nights was not far off. I needed to finish my business here quickly and move on before winter blocked my passage home.

  "We expected you and your pack train to cross one of these days soon, Armenian,” said Garaska, “but now it seems you come with a different sort of animal in tow."

  I glanced back at Kasimov and the old man. Neither reacted as if they had understood the words of our host. I hoped for the best.

  "They approached me to negotiate for the dead Chechen. I'm told your side is holding his body for ransom."

  "In that case, Armenian, you are doubly welcome. With the ransom money in hand, our lads will drink vodka tonight. Come, I'll show you our prize."

  The villager stayed with his skiff, while the two Chechens and I followed Garaska up the bank to a watchtower built out of rough logs. From the advantage of that height, any Cossack on guard duty could see movement for some distance up and down the river. Meanwhile, on the ground, several Cossacks lounged around in the barely warm sunshine, while their horses grazed in a small pasture nearby. Only one horse stood saddled and ready, reins tied to a support log on the watchtower.

  In the shade of a low-growing tree, Garaska led us to a body sprawled in the grass. He swished away a couple of flies as he pointed out a small round hole just above the right eye of the corpse.

  "I marked him well so his owner will surely know him in the future. He'll not get lost on our side of the river again."

  "You're the one who shot him?"

  "And an excellent shot it was. Two nights ago, I went off by myself to the east and hid in bushes farther down the Terek than we usually go in evening time. Soon a dead tree limb floating against the current and away from our north bank caused me to suspect something was not right with this piece of wood. I set up my musket rest and quietly cocked the hammer. As the moon came out from behind gray clouds, its light glistened on the top of a shaved head moving in the water on our side of the log. Crossing myself in the manner of a true Old Believer, I said an Our Father and then whistled loud, like I was calling my hunting dog. When that shaved head turned in my direction, I pulled the trigger. There was a flash and my night vision was blinded for a moment. My dead Abrek soon floated up onto a sandbar, and we got him the next morning."