The FBI, Elizabeth told me, followed, after the complaints came in, a multitude of leads, only one of which vaguely pointed to Maine. The girl had mentioned a boat, so she had to be somewhere on the coast, and the letters M and E, which indicate Maine, are painted on the sides of boats registered in Maine. Then there was “you too,” which made no sense. “Love you, too?” “You're in danger, too?” M and E were pronounced unclearly. Maybe she said M and A, which would be Massachusetts. The call had made her father very nervous. He babbled, cried, didn't make much sense except that he was hoping that the FBI wouldn't worry about the money, where he got it, he meant to say. He wanted to make a deal: He gave them the information about his daughter's kidnapper, and there would be no other law enforcement agency involved. No SEC, no IRS, etc. Yes, please?
"What information?” the motherly agent, a top investigator and interviewer, suddenly shrieked. She yelled, shaking him by the shoulders, that so far he had told her diddly squat. Well, the father stammered, there was the parking lot he helped the FBI to find. And he had told them about the voice of the kidnapper, a white voice, with a New York accent, faint. The kidnapper had to be an educated man, a professional, one of their former dentist or doctor clients.
I pictured the scene as Elizabeth described what happened next. Shanigan buries the kids’ bodies, takes the dolls, and flies to the airstrip outside Boston. He gets in his waiting car.
Next scene: There are the dolls, handcuffed to the fence, so that they seem to be standing up, and they are yelling in the real kids’ recorded voices. There is the hooded and caped figure walking diagonally across the empty parking lot to meet the fathers walking toward the kids. Mr. Hood throws the handcuff key at the fathers, deliberately missing their outstretched hands by ten feet so that they have to walk away from him to get it. Mr. Hood walks on, picks up the suitcases left by the fathers, walks to his car, drives away leisurely (nobody is after him, the fathers are staring at the rag dolls dressed up like their kids). Shanigan drives to Bunkport, a six-hour drive at most. He parks the car in Bunkport, walks to the harbor carrying his suitcases. His kayak, that he dropped off using his powerboat some time before, is waiting at the harbor. He paddles it home to the island and has a good sleep. He is still not done. The next day he ferries himself in the powerboat back to Bunkport and drives to Boston in a rental from Enterprise, Bunkport, that he leaves at the airport. He now walks to the airstrip, flies home.
"Figured it out nicely,” Elizabeth said. “And it would never have been un-figured if you hadn't put the name of your boat in your ad."
"You too."
That's right, Elizabeth told me. “A boat with that name, on the Maine Coast, in Bunkport. That tied it all together for us."
Which made me a suspect. For the little girl had seen my boat, and told her father, who didn't get it, who told the FBI, who didn't get it, but then the ad told the FBI and this time they got it and sent their special agent. Elizabeth.
"Who needed a change of scenery,” Elizabeth said, “what with her non-breast and her runaway husband."
"You were a suspect,” Elizabeth admitted. “The ad you placed proves you're somewhat of a character, maybe a little crazy, and the kidnapper/killer was obviously crazy too. The little girl mentioned your boat. You don't work. You have all the time in the world to be bad.” She smiled. “But you don't fit any of our kidnapper/child abuser profiles.” She kissed my cheek. “Look how you treat Tillie. There's your interest in nature. You're respectful of kids. You do have too much money, though."
"Frugal,” I said.
"And the nephew and former henchman of a mysterious money maker.” She nodded. “Known as Uncle Joe. We heard about the inheritance which had to be much more than what it says in the probate, and your disabled-veteran monthly check.” She shook her head. “But you don't seem to care about money. Old boat, aging pickup truck, regular cabin, fuzzy-haired mongrel for a dog, grow your own vegetables, catch your own fish, wear coveralls of which you own six pairs, all the same color."
"Hey,” I said.
She scratched my beard lovingly. “That's why I'm so fond of you. And you aren't stingy, it's just that you don't care about the usual trappings of a man of your wealth. But the kidnapper was really fond of money. Nothing but the best for Dr. Freddie Fastbuck Shanigan.
"And there we are,” Elizabeth said. “Here we have our true suspect. Not the Sisters, not Priscilla, not Tom Tipper, none of your drinking buddies seem capable of killing little kids for cash."
"DNA?” I asked. “You guys must have been given the dolls with the recorder inside. There were no fingerprints, hairs, anything?"
There were none. Shanigan was a doctor, used to working with rubber gloves on. Besides, neither his DNA nor fingerprints were on record.
"The car?” I asked. “No traces there?"
The FBI never found the car. Suspect must have sold it to a chop shop or driven it into a lake or burned it somewhere.
"Great,” I said. “But you still have no suspect in custody."
"The dogfish have him,” Elizabeth said. “That's my best bet. Some of you jokers caught him, found out what he did, did your vigilante thing. Local law and order."
I looked surprised.
She narrowed her eyes, “How about you? Did you toss the doctor to the sharks? After that caper with the easy chair?"
"Nah,” I said. “With who helping me? Tillie?"
"I almost forgot,” Elizabeth said. “I want you to lose your uncle's rifle. That case of the dead pirates is still open. My colleagues might want to pick up that file again.” She got up, picked up a long parcel from behind her luggage, and gave it to me. Unwrapping the present, I found a new, nicely scoped deer rifle. A new version of my uncle's beauty. Elizabeth gave me the Dietrich smile. “My thank-you present. For all and everything."
We went boating that day and Uncle's rifle happened to slip out of my hands and splash into the sea at about the same place where Jacko once sprinkled Uncle's ashes.
My secret agent was due to return to Washington the next day. The moon was out, we had a few at the Thirsty Dolphin, which was closing but Priscilla switched on the lights again. We walked home holding hands. She told me what her former husband, a congressman, said when he heard about the cancer. “How can you do this to me?” He wouldn't drive her to the hospital. When she came back she stayed at a hotel and filed for divorce, which he agreed to in exchange for money. He later resigned because of a corruption charge. “He had attitudes,” she said, “you too, of course. But his were irritating.
"I never did well with men,” Elizabeth said. “With you it seems different. I wouldn't mind spending time with you. Vacations. Long weekends, maybe.” She glared at me. “You're still seeing Dolly?"
I told her Dolly had King Carlos now. And she was calming down some. She was also getting fond of Sheriff again. They were planning a holiday in Europe.
I drove Elizabeth to the airport next morning.
When Bunkport calmed down again and the seals were barking on the rocks, feeling the first breeze of what could perhaps be a slight warming up, I visited the Sisters to ask what made them target Dr. Shanigan.
"Bad Cat?" Big Sis asked, pointing at the stern of her boat where the name stood out in big bold letters. “Bad curious cat?"
"We just had to know what Doc was up to,” Less Big Sis said.
"We just had to check out that island. What was the man doing? How could he be buying all that stuff when he just lost his business on the Ridge? We waited until we saw him fly off, and phoned Nurse, who said he was in the Bahamas again. She wasn't expecting him some time soon."
"Worth the trouble,” Big Sis said. “Once we were in Doc's house and looked around his office we figured it out. I used to be a bookkeeper, in Boston, can you believe it? Feels like a previous life now. I can handle computers.” She massaged my shoulder with surprisingly sensitive fingers. “Going through his financial files I saw plenty of income, but that was way back, before that hairy
ape took over the medical business on the Ridge. So Shanigan's income dipped toward zero, but then I found another money file, saying ‘cash.’ Which made sense, for none of the figures showed up on his bank statements, and he wasn't using his credit cards anymore. Question was, where did all that cash come from?"
"We're talking millions here,” Less Big Sis said. “What was he doing? Smuggling drugs with his airplane?"
"Then we found the dog cages in the basement,” Big Sis said. “And plastic containers filled with greenbacks. And human hair. He had kids imprisoned in there. And ransomed them for money."
"What did you do with the money?” I asked stupidly.
The Sisters looked at each other. Then they looked at me. “Can't remember,” Big Sis said.
"What money?” Less Big Sis asked.
"Maybe we left it for the FBI to find,” Big Sis said.
A joke. We laughed.
I remembered that the Sisters sometimes drove to Boston to help out with the National Battered Women Club. Maybe I had struck a sister-lode of goodness.
Big Sis was talking again. “We went back to Shanigan Island when Nurse told us he had returned. We went armed, of course. Doc Shanigan didn't expect us. He seemed kind of nervous, scared, you might say. Even so, we had to work on him a bit. He confessed all right. On his knees, crying. He told us where the bodies were. We didn't dig them up. Too much work and we would leave traces. We didn't want to hang around too long, our Bad Cat was in full sight. Folks might see the boat and get ideas
"So,” Less Big Sis said, “it wasn't a good day for Fastbuck Freddie. We kept him chained down in our basement while we got the recliner from the dump and had the squeezes help create that work of art on the channel marker."
"And then you emptied a few clips,” I said. “Jeezum, I wouldn't like to mess with you guys."
"You're welcome,” Big Sis said.
"Just don't mess with little kids,” Little Sis said. “It brings out bad things in us."
"I'm sorry now,” Big Sis said, “having the squeezes paddling the Bad Cat around that marker, with us firing away."
"You know the song, don't you?” Less Big Sis asked.
The Sisters and I sang it together. We gave the song a new name. “Wake for Freddie.” All three of us have good voices. I thought of ways to improvise on the melody when the Bunkport Musicals would be playing again in the Thirsty Dolphin. Maybe send a recording to Elizabeth.
Row row row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily merrily merrily merrily
Life is but a dream.
©2009 by Janwillem Vandewetering
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Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider
I thought it might be a good idea to begin this column with a little plug for your favorite magazines. I've mentioned before that EQMM and AHMM have a Web site, but it now has some revamped forums for reader participation. Just go to www.themysteryplace.com and click on the “Forums” link at the bottom left of the page. That will take you to the place where you can enter the “General Discussion,” which currently has eleven threads going, including “Bouchercon,” “Agatha Christie,” and “British Settings.” “Writer's Corner” is a place for “aspiring writers and pros alike” to talk about the business of writing. The third forum is devoted to the magazines themselves. One current thread deals with movies made from stories that have appeared in EQMM and AHMM. Another is devoted to Ed Hoch. If you'd like to discuss something that's not in any of the threads, you can create your own. You'll have to register (it's free) to take part in the forums, but you can read what others have said without registration. Check it out.
If you're looking for a more conventional blog (if there is such a thing), try fellow Texan Scott Parker's (scottdparker.blogspot.com). Parker “reviews books, music, and short stories, discusses crime and mystery fiction, the writing process, the business of writing, films, and works in progress, usually with a Texas slant.” I haven't really detected that much of a Texas slant, in case you were worried by that. Parker's also running a serialized novel as a blog. It's called Treason at Hanford(texaspulpwriter. blogspot.com), in which “Senator Harry Truman not only finds himself embroiled in the top-secret world of the Manhattan Project but also confronts the worst act of treason in American history since Benedict Arnold."
Over at Not the Baseball Pitcher (randall120.wordpress.com), you won't learn how to throw the heater, although the proprietor is a guy named Randy Johnson. This Johnson lives in North Carolina and blogs about books he likes (the latest Repairman Jack novel by F. Paul Wilson, for example), movies he's watched on DVD (recently, The Valley of Elah), football, TV shows on DVD (his glee at getting the complete Man from U.N.C.L.E.), and so on. As you can see from the examples, most of his posts are at least somewhat mystery-related. The others are fun to read, too. Trust me.
Bill Crider's own blog, Bill Crider's Pop Culture Magazine, can be found at billcrider.blogspot.com.
©2009 by Bill Crider
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Fiction: PARSON PENNYWICK TAKES THE WATERS by Amy Myers
The Parson Pennywick of this story (and the previous EQMM tale “Parson Pennywick and the Whirligig,") is only one of several historical characters created for her crime fiction by former publishing executive Amy Myers. She has also given us Victorian chef Auguste Didier, Victorian chimney sweep Tom Wasp, and her own rendering, in a detecting role, of the Greek goddess of love, Aphrodite. Ms. Myers's latest novels are Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner (Five Star) and Murder in the Mist (Severn House).
"Something is amiss on the Walks, Caleb."
Looking most agitated, Parson Jacob Dale came into his parlour, where I was taking my breakfast. My old friend and host had just returned from conducting the daily service in the church. He is an elderly man, of even greater years than mine own, and not in good health. “It requires your assistance,” he continued ominously.
"Of what nature?” I asked cautiously. My stay in his parsonage on Mount Pleasant in the delightful spa of Tunbridge Wells was a yearly delight, and I would help where I could, although the coffee and toast before me had greater appeal.
"I cannot say.” Jacob looked at me helplessly. “It centred on the bookseller's store, so Lady Mopford informed me. A threat of death, she cried. Send for Parson Pennywick."
I have some small local reputation for successful intervention in such situations, and unsought though that honour is, I find my services called upon from time to time. Lady Mopford, whom I knew from previous visits, was a better source of accurate information than the London Gazette.
"Threat to whom?” I asked.
"I do not know."
Poor Jacob finds matters outside the daily norm distressing. He is more at ease with his learned books than with the problems of his flock, dearly though he would like to help.
"You could take the waters, Parson Pennywick,” Jacob's delightful daughter Dorothea teased me, attracted by the unusual hullabaloo.
"Thank you, but I put my faith in rhubarb powder."
Dorothea laughed, and I could not blame her. She is young and therefore all that is old and tried and true is of no value to her—yet. It is hard for me to change my ways, and I cannot believe that a glass of spring water taken in the Walks, popularly known as the Pantiles, would prove a tonic more beneficial than the fresh air of Mount Pleasant. For no one but Jacob and Dorothea would I go to the Walks during the fashionable hours. It was late in June and the high season was upon us. Earlier this century, the Wells would have been host to every person of fashion in London, but by this year of 1783 the delights of Brighton offer an alternative that it cannot match, particularly for the younger visitors. Nevertheless the spa is still crowded with its admirers.
With a wistful glance at Jacob settling down to my coffee and toast, I hastened to remove my cap and to seek wig, hat, and cane. I too must look my best, as Dorothea insisted on accompanying me.
"Make ha
ste, Caleb,” Jacob urged me from the comforts of his own table.
"The spring will not run dry,” I assured him somewhat crossly, “and doubtless the threats of death will by now have cooled.” I was only reconciled to my fate by the thought of the wheatear pie, a Kentish delicacy that I had been promised for dinner that afternoon.
On the Upper Walk of the Pantiles a threat of death seemed as out of place as a Preventive Officer in a parsonage. I suspected Dorothea was less concerned about the fate of some unknown person than about missing the excitement of the day—which would doubtless be long over when we arrived. To enter the Upper Walk was like stepping onto the stage of Mr. Sheridan's Drury Lane straight from the rainy muddy streets of London town. Gone are the dull cares of everyday and around one is a whirligig of colour, chatter, riches, and culture. Here one may take coffee, read newspapers and books, write letters, dance, play cards, buy Tunbridge Ware—and above all converse. Death does not usually dare speak its name. And yet today, according to Lady Mopford, it had.
How could death be contaminating such a paradise, I wondered? This was a paradise with strict social rules. By now, at well past ten o'clock, the Upper Walk should be all but deserted, as society would have returned to hotels and lodgings to “dress” for the day. Before then, the ladies appear here in dishabille with loose gowns and caps, and the gentlemen are unshaven, as they greet the day by taking the waters. After their departure they would not return until noon, by which time they are boned-and-strutting peacocks in silks and satins of every hue—a delightful spectacle for one whose calling demands more sober colours.
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