EQMM, December 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Shh. Don't say anything. Just try to forgive me."

  He pulled her tightly to him, but she forced herself back away from him again so that she could look up sincerely into his face one more time. “I looked at that magazine again, Charles. It's a beautiful boat. I think we ought to go look at it as soon as possible, before somebody else beats us to it."

  He stroked her hair, then cupped her face with his hands. “Lenore, you don't really think I married you because you have the name of Poe's romantic heroine, do you? She was doomed, after all, and dead! I married you because I fell in love with you. Your name was just the sign—in neon—that you were truly the right woman for me, like seeing the Nevermore tells me it's the right boat for us. Your name only told me that we are destined to be together. It didn't make me fall in love with you. I was so in love with you, I would have married you no matter what your name was. You do know that?"

  "Of course I do, darling."

  "I can't tell you how much this means to me, Lenore. Just to see you in here, showing an interest in my books! And you know what? Our first trip on the boat, we could sail to that Poe conference in the Bahamas."

  Lenore ducked her head into his chest again and muttered, “Nevermore."

  "What, sweetheart?"

  "The name of our new boat, dearest. The Nevermore."

  * * * *

  On their way out to inspect the boat two days later, they hit every red light between their home and the yacht club where the Nevermore was docked.

  "You're sure this isn't a sign, Charles,” Lenore gently teased him, “that we should stop and think about this before we make such a big investment?"

  He smiled over at her, looking happier than she had seen him look in months.

  "Not on your life,” he said, just as a light turned green. “It's a sign that nothing can stop us now."

  * * * *

  "You even wore the correct shoes, Lenore!"

  Standing beside her on the dock, with the Nevermore rocking gently in front of them, Charles smiled down at her feet in pleased approval. “I wouldn't have thought you'd even know not to wear hard soles on a boat.” His words took on a teasing tone. “Are you sure it's not just an accident that you have on those tennis shoes?"

  "Right,” she said, teasing him back. “You know how many pairs of sneakers I keep in my closet.” The answer to that was none. “It was strictly an accident that I went out this morning and shopped until I found these."

  They both stared down at the cute little navy-blue canvas-backed shoes with the rubber soles. She'd been reading up about more than Poe. She'd also boned up about life at sea, learning, among other things, that it was considered the height of vulgarity to endanger precious wooden boat decks with shoes that might mar them, not to mention the fact that it was dangerous to wear slippery footwear on wet, rocking decks. Lenore intended to wear her new blue tennies, with their grip soles, to the next meeting of the book club, so they'd ask her where and why she got them and she would get a chance to tell the story of the marvelous sacrifice she was willing to make for love.

  Charles inhaled deeply.

  "Don't you just love the scent of salt air, Lenore?"

  She eyed a dead fish carcass that was floating at the waterline and bumping up against the side of “their” boat.

  "Refreshing,” she said, with a finger under her nose.

  "Did you take your Dramamine?"

  She eyed the constantly moving boat. “I took two."

  As if escorting his queen onto her yacht, Charles offered his hand to help her cross from dock to deck without falling into the water.

  * * * *

  "Cute little kitchen,” Lenore said, looking around it.

  "On a boat it's called a galley,” the sales agent told her.

  "I knew that,” Lenore said, and smiled so charmingly that both he and her husband smiled back at her.

  "Do you think you could cook in here?” Charles asked her.

  "I don't see why not,” she said. “It's got everything. A stove, oven, refrigerator, freezer, even a garbage disposal and a trash compactor.” Leonore picked up a roundish purple and white object from a woven basket on the counter and began to toss it lightly from her left hand to her right hand and back again. “Just like home."

  "What's that?” the sales agent asked, nodding his head at her “ball."

  "This?” Lenore stopped tossing it and held it up for the men to see more clearly. “It's a turnip. Haven't you ever seen a turnip before?"

  The agent laughed. “I guess not."

  But Charles didn't laugh.

  Lenore saw that he was staring at the turnip with his mouth slightly open, as if he could take a bite of it.

  "Is something the matter, Charles?"

  He briefly hesitated, but then smiled—not at her, but at the vegetable. “Why, no. Definitely not."

  She gently placed the turnip back into the basket. “All signs still ‘go,’ darling?"

  "They certainly are."

  "Do you want to see the cabins?” the agent asked them.

  "We do,” Lenore said, with a happy lilt in her voice.

  * * * *

  They moved into the master stateroom, where Charles and Lenore tested the built-in double bed by sitting on either side of it. At Lenore's suggestion, the sales agent had withdrawn discreetly to allow them some time alone together in the cabin where they might soon be sleeping while at sea.

  "Look at this, Charles,” she said, picking up a paperback book that sat on top of the bedside table on her side. “You said I could read to my heart's content if we lived on a boat. I guess somebody else likes to read novels, too."

  He held out his hand to take the little book that she handed him.

  She saw him read its title and heard his slight intake of breath when he saw it was Miss Pym Disposes by Josephine Tey. Ignoring that, Lenore picked up a second book on the bedside table and said, “I've never heard of either of these authors, have you?” She handed him the second one. “How would you pronounce that name anyway? Mig-Non?"

  "Mignon Eberhart,” her husband said, pronouncing it "Minyon."

  He drew out the word as if it held some secret meaning for him.

  "Never heard of her,” Lenore said briskly. “What's the name of it? Fair Warning? Maybe I'll get to read a whole lot of things I've never heard of before, starting with Edgar Allan, of course."

  "Poe, yes!” Suddenly Charles threw the books down and flung himself off the bed. Looking excited, he turned toward his wife. “You feel it, too! Oh my God, Lenore! This really is fate. This is unbelievable. The portents couldn't be clearer if somebody had painted a sign to this boat that said ‘Buy Me.'” When he saw that she looked uncomprehending, he said, “Sweetheart, have I ever told you about the only novel that Edgar ever wrote?” Seeming to assume that either he hadn't or she wouldn't remember, he said, “It was called The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. Pym, Lenore! Just like the title of that book."

  Together they stared at Miss Pym Disposes.

  "Really? That's a bit of a coincidence, I guess."

  "Coincidence nothing, it's a sign, and it's not even the only one."

  "What do you mean?"

  "This other book?” He picked up the one by the author with the difficult first name. “By Mignon Eberhart? Lenore, Poe's novel was about a ship that sank and three of the survivors ate the fourth one. Almost fifty years later a real ship sank and three marooned survivors ate the fourth. The name of Poe's fictional victim was Richard Parker and that was also the name of the real man who got eaten!"

  "You're kidding."

  "I'm not. And you'll never guess, but the name of that real ship was ... the Mignonette!"

  "Charles, stop. I already told you I'm ready and willing to buy this boat with you. You don't have to make up stories about signs to convince me."

  "I'm not making anything up. It's all true. Lenore, this boat is meant for us."

  "You're really not making these things up?"
/>
  Solemnly, he shook his head.

  "Well, this is amazing,” she said, getting up slowly from the bed. “And I think you're right. Maybe I'm not the great believer in signs that you are, but even I have to admit that this is just too much of a coincidence for it to mean anything else."

  Her husband let out a sigh of relief. “I'm so glad you see it that way, too."

  Lenore walked around the bed until she could embrace him. “Of course I do. You always tell me to pay attention to meaningful coincidences, and these are just too obvious to ignore."

  "Shall we go find the agent and put in an offer?"

  Lenore grinned at him. “Let's do it!"

  "And, Lenore?"

  "Yes?"

  "I haven't even told you the funniest coincidence. When the Mignonette sank, the only food they had to eat was ... a turnip."

  Lenore's eyes widened in astonishment.

  "A turnip!” she said, as if she had just fallen off the back of a truck full of them.

  On their way out of the galley she said, “Before we make our offer, let's take one more look around our boat, Charles."

  * * * *

  They ran their hands over the lovely teak wood of the cabinets.

  Lenore ran the water in the double sink in the galley while Charles sat in the captain's chair and turned the wheel back and forth. They opened the cabinets and marveled at the tidy display of canned goods they saw. Laughing, Lenore walked over to the refrigerator, where a white board was attached to the door, with an erasable writing marker tied to it. She picked up the marker and said playfully, “Let's make our first grocery list for the boat, Charles."

  Playing along, he walked over to her and looked at the scribbling that was already on the board. The current owners appeared to have jotted down some of their recent boat expenses, complete with costs of each item.

  "Eighteen dollars and thirty-eight cents for a sirloin steak?” Lenore said. “Good grief, where do they shop for groceries, Neiman Marcus?"

  She turned, laughing, to face Charles.

  "Charles?"

  He was staring at the numbers written on the little board, his face gone white.

  "Charles, what's wrong?"

  Stiffly, as if he had suddenly turned into a robot, her husband lifted his right arm and pointed his forefinger. “Eighteen thirty-eight,” he said.

  "Yes. I know, it's a lot for a steak."

  He lowered his finger to the next item. “Eighteen eighty-four."

  "Even more for the second steak."

  "No.” Looking sad and worried, he gazed into her eyes. “Lenore, we can't buy this boat. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if we should be thinking of going to sea at all."

  "What?"

  "These dates, Lenore..."

  "Dates? They're prices of meat, Charles."

  "Not to me, they're not, they're dates. Eighteen thirty-eight was the date of the publication of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. Eighteen eighty-four was the date when the book came true."

  "Oh my God, Charles.” Lenore's hands went to her lips to cover her gasp.

  She turned and stared up at him, wide-eyed. “You don't think ... you don't think it could happen to us, do you?"

  "I think the universe is trying to tell us something.” He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around until she was facing the outer door. “It's too much. It's too many coincidences about something too awful to contemplate. The names of those books, the turnip, those seemed benign, but this feels ... malevolent, Lenore. This is a warning. And think of all those stoplights!"

  "But you said—"

  "I was fooling myself about their meaning, Lenore. Red means stop in any language, and certainly in the language of symbols and signs. They were already trying to tell me something and I wasn't listening. My God, I could have endangered both of our lives. I should have stopped before we even got here."

  He was half shoving her, half pulling her off the boat and back up onto the deck outside.

  "No!” Charles shouted at the sales agent when the man stepped toward them smiling. The smile faded fast. “We don't want it!"

  Almost before she knew what had happened, Lenore found herself back on dry, steady land again, with her new blue tennis shoes planted on terra firma. She thought about letting disappointed tears well up in her eyes, but decided not to push her luck. She slipped her hands inside of Charles's hands, looked up at him, and said, “I want what you want, and if you think this boat is bad luck for us, well, I trust your instincts. And I know that you and I will be happy together anywhere we are, even back in our own home."

  Charles leaned over and gratefully, lovingly kissed her lips.

  "Thank you,” he said. “For saying yes. And thank you for saying no."

  They walked arm-in-arm back to where his car waited in the parking lot.

  "I've got a class to teach,” he said. “I'll take you home first."

  "No, you won't; that's completely out of your way and you don't have enough time to do it, anyway. I'll just take a cab.” She had a bookstore in mind where she wanted to make a stop and pick up a copy of the book for next month's meeting.

  Charles waited with her for the taxi to arrive, and then he ushered her into its backseat.

  "I guess it wasn't meant to be, darling,” she told him.

  "No, one must never argue with fate,” he said, and then kissed her.

  * * * *

  Well, she had argued with fate and she had won, Lenore thought, feeling triumphant as she leaned back against the taxi's seat. There would be no boat in her future, thank God. No vomiting over railings, no peeling, sunburned skin, no weathering of storms out in the open sea. She could curl up at home studying and reading, and live contentedly for all the years of Charles's retirement, while he puttered about at his Poe nonsense.

  When the taxi driver peeled away from the dock fast, jerking her from one side of the cab to the other, she had a moment of doubt about his skill as a driver, but it was quickly forgotten as they sped away and she began to reminisce about the delicious ... and only ... hour she had spent on a boat with her husband. It was not, however, the only hour she had ever spent on a boat. On that boat. Just that morning, she had made a preview inspection, telling the sales agent that she knew just the right things to scatter about the cabin to convince her husband to purchase this boat that he so dearly wanted to buy.

  And so she had dropped a turnip here, placed a couple of paperbacks there, all based on her study of the Poe story and her forays into old bookshops and other stores. Why, Charles hadn't even noticed some of the best “signs” she'd left for him ... a painting of Nantucket, and the souvenirs from England and Australia, which had been the destinations of the real ship that went down.

  She did think that the turnip was her most inspired “sign."

  Knowing Charles, she had suspected there would come a tipping point at which too many signs began to mean bad news instead of good, especially considering that the stories they pointed to were so tragic and grim. She had no way of knowing it would be the telltale dates that did it, the ones she had cleverly—if she did think so herself—camouflaged as grocery prices. She just knew it would be one of them, once they all piled up on him. It had never been a completely sure thing, her plan.

  But it had worked, oh my, had it ever worked well.

  Alone in the backseat, imagining many years of sprawling on her sofa at home, reading and analyzing delicious popular novels, Lenore Lowery smiled. The cabdriver, seeing her smile in his rearview mirror and taking it as meant for himself, grinned back at her.

  At the moment of taking his eyes off the road, his hands jerked the wheel.

  In the instant after that, when he turned around to speak to her, she opened her mouth to shout, “Look where you're driving!” But between the time she started to yell and the time when he looked back at the road, a second car had pulled out of a side street in front of her taxi and smashed through the door where she sat.

  Horrified, she had
only a split second to flash on Charles's familiar warning against tampering with fate.

  Red lights! her brain screamed. They warned you to STOP!

  As the impact hurled her across the backseat, her terrified brain registered the last thing she ever saw. On the back of the seat, right in front of her frightened eyes, was the driver's ID card with his name spelled out in bold black letters: Richard Parker.

  Copyright (c) 2006 Nancy Pickard

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  DEAD EVEN by Clark Howard

  A multiple EQMM Readers Award winner whose stories are almost always non-series, hardboiled crime tales rather than mysteries, Clark Howard took a different turn when he created P.I. Lon Bradford. Not only was Bradford Mr. Howard's first fictional P.I. (in a long career), but with this second story we'll call him a series character—and one who solves mysteries to boot!

  Memphis private detective Lon Bradford was sitting in his cubbyhole office, feet up on his secondhand roll-top desk, reading the early edition of the Commercial Appeal, when Elmo Keel, the area's letter carrier, knocked and walked in with the morning mail.

  "'Morning, Brad,” said Keel. “Any good news about this weather?"

  "'Morning, Elmo. Not much. Hot and humid today, hot and humid tonight, hot and humid again tomorrow. Hot and humid forever, I reckon."

  "Well, hell, I guess that's the price we pay for living in this paradise on the ol’ Mississippi River.” He handed Brad several pieces of mail. “Lots of folks ain't lucky enough to live on the ol’ muddy Miss and have catfish for supper ever’ evening."

  "You make a good point, Elmo. A steady supply of catfish makes up for a lot of shortcomings in the weather."

  When Elmo left, Brad started slitting open his mail with a switchblade he'd taken off a drunken black man he arrested for disorderly conduct years earlier when he was sheriff in Kennant County, some fifty miles north. Being a Thursday morning, the mail was scant, but Brad was pleased to find a check from Goldsmith's Department Store for services having to do with an employee in the shoe department who was knocking down on the register. Fellow had a clever way of doing it: Instead of ringing up $10.05 for a pair of $9.95 shoes and the dime sales tax, he'd simply push down the 5-cent key and ring up a nickel. If anybody said anything about it, he'd just say he probably didn't push down the $10 key hard enough, and he'd correct it by ringing up the ten dollars—which made the cash drawer contents match the white roll of paper in the register that recorded all the sales. But if nobody noticed, then the cash drawer would have an overage of ten bucks—and sometime before closing, the salesman would palm a ten-dollar bill for himself.