AHMM, October 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "It was blood all right,” Uncle Warren said. He made a face and got up. “I'm going to go clean up. Any supper?"

  "Sandwiches,” Mom replied. “Or I can fry you some eggs and bacon."

  "Sandwiches will do. I want to go into town later and see what the news is."

  The news was that Sheriff Hanson had arrested Gus Davison for the murder of Gwen Davison. The children were all taken down to the orphanage in Sioux Falls, where at least, as Mom said, they would be fed and clean and safe, which was more than they ever were at home. Just about everybody in Laskin felt that Gus had finally gotten his comeuppance, although the fact that the body hadn't been found was bothersome. The general feeling was that it would turn up someplace, which gave me nightmares and brought an abrupt end to my career as an archaeologist.

  What really bothered people was the long wait until trial. It seemed an open and shut case to everyone, even without a body, and the idea of Gus sitting in jail (the judge refused bail, as if anyone would have supplied the money), eating his head off at taxpayer expense, didn't sit well. In earlier times, it might have led to a late night break-in and lynching, but this was Laskin, South Dakota, home of Norwegians, so everyone just grumbled their way through the long, hot August and waited for September.

  Mom grumbled more than anyone, but that was mostly because a couple of weeks after the arrest Uncle Warren had left. He said he had an old army buddy up in Missoula who'd invited him to fish trout on the Bitterroot, and he wasn't going to miss the chance. He promised he'd be back before harvest, but I could tell Mom wasn't too confident. Montana had lured a lot of young men away from South Dakota. I'd have given my left arm to go with him, but instead I had to stay at home and do the chores. So I spent August grumbling along with everyone else.

  September came, still hot, still dry, and finally Gus's trial began. Everyone went to the trial, including us. I wouldn't have missed it for the world, both for the trial and Judge Paulson, who looked like a large, dignified Ulysses S. Grant, but had a voice as high pitched as a chipmunk. As we packed into the pews, I could hardly wait to hear him say “Order in the court!” I just had to be sure not to giggle, or Mom would shoo me out.

  Gus was sitting up front, next to his lawyer. He looked older than ever, and shrunk up on himself. The judge spoke, I kept my laughter to myself, and the trial began.

  Actually, trials are boring. Even murder trials. Lawyers don't do half the things they do on TV, and they certainly never tell the judge what to do. Or at least they didn't twenty years ago. When we came back after lunch, I started to nod off, full of the Mellette Lounge's baked chicken, when there was a murmur in the court, followed by gasps and what for a bunch of Norwegians was a real commotion. I looked around, and gasped with the rest: walking into the courtroom was Gwen Davison.

  She looked pretty good. She had a scar across her forehead that I didn't remember, but she certainly wasn't dead. She went up to the witness stand, took the oath, and sat down.

  "Mrs. Davison,” said Judge Paulson, “do you realize that your husband is on trial for your murder?” His voice went up an extra octave at the word “murder."

  "I only found out about it last week,” Mrs. Davison replied, in a mild voice. “I was in Kansas City, and I ran into a friend who told me what was going on. Well, it took me a while to get the money for bus fare, but here I am."

  "Why didn't you call anybody?” Judge Paulson asked.

  "Why, I never thought of that. We've never had a telephone.” That was true.

  "Mrs. Davison, in view of the situation, I have to ask you, what happened the night you left?"

  "Well, Gus and I had a fight. And he struck me, knocked me out. You see I still have the scar.” She pointed to her forehead. “And when I came to, there was blood everywhere, Gus was gone, and I had a headache that would kill a cow. Well, I stopped the bleeding and cleaned things up. And then I thought, that's the last time that son of a bitch does that to me.” Everyone gasped—profanity wasn't used much in those days. “So I left."

  "And how did your things come to be at Olson farm?"

  Mrs. Davison hesitated a bit. “I wanted to start a new life. So I walked across the farms and I saw the rock pile ... It seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Do you realize that those bloody rags were the main evidence against your husband?"

  "But I put them there so that no one would suspect him!” Mrs. Davison replied. “I knew what people would think if I disappeared and there was blood all over our house. I thought I was protecting him."

  That was her argument, and she stuck to it. Gus Davison was released, of course. And there really weren't any charges that could be filed against Gwen Davison. We drove home, stunned into silence, and found Uncle Warren sitting at the kitchen table, drinking buttermilk.

  "Where on earth have you been?” Mom said. But she hugged him. We all hugged him, and we spent the evening talking about the trial, Montana, the crops, and the Davisons.

  "The only question is how long until they get back together,” Mom said tartly.

  "That'll never happen,” Uncle Warren replied.

  Mom snorted. “They're two crabs in a bucket. Or haven't you figured that out yet?” Uncle Warren was silent for a long time. Mom finally said, “Well, let's all go to bed and get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

  We climbed upstairs, but Uncle Warren went into Mom's room for a while. I hung around in the hall, thinking. I kept wondering how could Mrs. Davison have hoisted all those rocks by herself? In the dark? As hurt as she was? And it wasn't as if she had the imagination to think of it.

  Sarah's door opened, and I popped into Uncle Warren's room. There was his old backpack on the chair, maps sticking out of the side pocket. The top one said Kansas. And there was the fact that Uncle Warren was the one who'd given me that book on the Mound Builders.

  Mom's door opened, and Uncle Warren came out, saying, “I'll take a look at that in the morning, Jean."

  He walked into the room and saw me, standing by the backpack.

  "What is it, hoss?” he asked. He looked tired, and disappointed somehow.

  Maybe he really had been in love with Mrs. Davison, back when she was young.

  I said, “I just wanted to tell you I'm glad you're back.” I gave him a big hug and said, “Good night."

  Copyright © 2009 Eve Fisher

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  Mysterious meetings and readerly rendezvous are available in The Readers’ Forum at www.TheMysteryPlace.com.

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  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  The success of Alexander McCall Smith's novels featuring Precious Ramotswe of Botswana, who first appeared in 2002 when The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was published, opened new parts of modern Africa to the world of detective literature. This month's column looks at some promising authors delving into the continent's cultures and problems.

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  Our authors take us to Ghana, South Africa, Kenya, and to northern Botswana. Despite very different approaches to their novels, the authors describe many things in common—terrible poverty, rampant corruption, the ugly, unhealed scars of European occupation, and the bravery and courage of those striving to form a “thin blue line” of decency.

  Kwei Quartey's West African debut, wife of the gods (Random House, $24), is set in Ghana, and the action moves from the capital city of Accra to the remote village of Ketanu, where old ways and customs are still firmly entrenched.

  Inspector Darko Dawson is sent from Accra, where he is stationed, to Ketanu to investigate the death of Gladys Mensah, a young AIDS volunteer in her third year of medical school. Darko is chosen for the unwelcome assignment because he speaks Ewe, the language spoken in the Volta Region where the crime occurred.

  Darko first traveled to Ketanu as a youngster of ten when his mother, Beatrice, took him and his brother to visit her sister, Osewa, and Osewa's husband, Kweku. On a later trip,
Beatrice went alone to Ketanu to help her sister celebrate after the birth of a child and never returned. Her disappearance was investigated but never resolved.

  So it is with mixed feelings that the adult Darko returns to Ketanu, not to visit relatives, but to investigate a murder deemed too important to be left to the local police in the person of Inspector Fiti.

  Darko and the victim represent a new and progressive Ghana, the former a modern policeman and the latter an educated young woman hoping to combine the best of modern medicine and traditional cures while eliminating harmful practices. In Ketanu, the brutal Inspector Fiti, whose favored investigative technique involves arresting a likely suspect and beating a confession out him, and Togbe Adzima, chief and High Priest of the village, represent the old Ghana.

  Quartey's novel is filled with respect for the culture and traditions of Ghanians while not glossing over the superstitions and resistance that make overcoming problems such as AIDS so challenging. Nor does he minimize the difficulties of the changing gender expectations that modern education encourages. The practice of trokosi—Wives of the Gods—where teenage girls are offered in marriage to fetish priests, plays an important role in Quartey's story, as does the rivalry inherent in the clash between modern medicine and traditional healers such as Boniface Kutu.

  The result is an extremely satisfying mystery. As Darko probes for a solution, readers receive an introduction to a people and culture delivered through a cast of finely drawn characters. Darko Dawson deserves an encore at the earliest opportunity.

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  Michael Stanley, the writing team of South African natives Michael Sears and Stanley Trollip, introduced Botswanian detective David “Kubu” Bengu in A Carrion Death. The detective's nickname, Kubu, means hippopotamus in Setswana, and the large detective lives up to his name with an insatiable appetite and immense appreciation for well-prepared food.

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  In his second adventure, the second death of goodluck tinubu (Harper, $24.99), the good-natured Kubu is assigned to investigate a murder at Jackalberry Camp, a small international tourist camp near the northern tip of Botswana. There, one of the guests, Goodluck Tinubu, has been found in his tent with his throat cut. Another guest, Sipho Langa, has likewise been found dead in a gully near the camp, and a third guest, Ishmael Zondo, has disappeared.

  The guests comprise a pair of English sisters, Judith and Trish Munro, journalists compiling material for travel articles; William and Amanda Boardman, a South African curio dealer and collector and his wife; Boy Gomwe, a music salesman; Zondo, the name used by a man with a false Zimbabwean passport; Langa, a South African; and Tinubu, an ex-Zimbabwean now a teacher in Botswana. The small camp staff consists of ex-Zimbabweans Salome McGlashan, owner; Dupie Du Pisanie, her chief aide; and Enoch Kokorwe.

  Despite such a small group of suspects, Kubu finds the investigation leading into all kinds of unexpected areas, beginning with the astonishing news that the victim, Tinubu, has been dead for twenty-nine years! There are plenty of surprises as Kubu's attempt to use himself as a stalking horse backfires and puts his family in danger.

  Sharp characterizations, including Kubu's delightful wife, Joy, and his old-fashioned parents, Wilmon and Amantle, enrich the novel. Stanley reaches back to the violent transformation of Rhodesia to Zimbabwe and into the current uneasy relationships of neighboring countries such as South Africa, Namibia, Zimbabwe and Botswana to create a complex, engrossing plot.

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  Nick Brownlee's impressive debut, bait (Minotaur Books, $24.99), is set in Mombasa on the east coast of Kenya and introduces ex-Scotland Yard cop Jake Moore and Mombasa detective Daniel Jouma. Far grittier than the two previously reviewed novels, Brownlee's mystery probes the cutthroat world of international cartels dealing in human trafficking and the carnage it leaves in its wake.

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  The former Scotland Yard officer took a bullet and retirement, and came to Kenya. He joined up with countryman Harry Philliskirk to operate Britannia Fishing Trips and captain the Yellowfin, taking tourists (derisively called “Ernies,” after Ernest Hemingway) out to catch game fish. Detective Jouma is a rarity among Mombasa police—intelligent, dedicated, and uncorrupted. Moore's impulsive interruption of the kidnapping of an infant initiates a meeting with Jouma that leads to an unofficial partnership.

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  The murder of Dennis Bentley, a white Kenyan who operated a similar game boat, launches the story and sets in motion the events that will bring his daughter, Martha Bentley, home from Manhattan, trailed later by her boyfriend, Patrick Noonan. The Malinda police, in the person of Chief Inspector Oliver Mungo, are quick to declare the case solved—the explosion, which happened in their jurisdiction and destroyed Bentley and his boat, is written off as an unfortunate accident.

  When Jouma persists in investigating the case, he and Moore enter a world populated by such unsavory characters as the gangster Michael Kili, who deals in prostitution and drugs; Tug Viljoen, the owner of a decrepit crocodile farm masquerading as a tourist attraction; the deadly Jacob Omu, who lusts only for power; a ruthless moneylender known only as the Arab who collects his debts one way or another; and a man known as Whitestone, who brokers deals of all sorts from behind the stage.

  Brownlee keeps the action moving steadily, tosses in a couple of neat twists, and keeps readers wondering whose death might dissolve the nascent partnership as both Jouma and Moore are targeted for elimination. This classy debut merits a quick sequel.

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  While Brownlee's debut is gritty, Roger Smith's mixed blood (Henry Holt, $25) is positively lurid and violent. Jack Burn flees the U.S. with his wife and son when it becomes clear that his involvement in a bank heist, which resulted in the death of a cop, has left him no viable alternative. Burn was fortunate to escape with enough money to start a new life, and he chooses Cape Town, South Africa as a safe place to begin.

  Smith's unrelentingly grim tale introduces the repulsive Rudi “Gatsby” Barnard, an Afrikaner cop as corrupt and villainous as any in recent fiction, and Disaster Zondi, a Special Investigator and a Zulu, determined to root out corruption generally and Barnard in particular.

  It is Jack Burn's misfortune to run afoul of a couple of hopped-up thieves, an encounter that endangers his family's well being by putting them in the path of the noxious Barnard. When Barnard targets Burn, the pressure ratchets steadily upward against a background of gratuitous violence until the inevitable explosion.

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  ALL POINTS BULLETIN: Harriet Rzetelny's novel graveyard blues will be published by Hamilton Stone Editions later next year. Rzetelny's hardscrabble, blues-singing, Brooklyn-based characters originally appeared in the October 1999 issue of AHMM, in a short story of the same name. * Modern-day Civil War reenactors find the decapitated body of a young woman in Peter Lovesey's latest novel, skeleton hill: a peter diamond mystery (Soho Press, $24), which will be in bookstores this September. * Loren D. Estleman's historical western, the branch and the scaffold (Tor/Forge, $24.95), was published earlier this year. In it, Estleman fictionally depicts the true story of Judge Isaac Parker, who kept the scaffold mercilessly occupied for the sake of order in a lawless Arkansas town. * Edgar Grand Master Lawrence Block puts his prolific hand to his own past, examining his lifestyle as an inveterate walker in step by step: a pedestrian memoir (William Morrow, $24.99). Among Block's foot-pounding journeys are his childhood in Buffalo, New York, a pilgrimage to Spain, and a trip to Antarctica to examine penguins with his grandchildren.

  Copyright © 2009 Robert C. Hahn

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  Fiction: A LIFE IN BOOKS by Janice Law

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  Jorge Mascarenhas

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  I never imagined that I'd ever have to deal with a murder—not an extra-literary one, anyway. Literary murder, au contraire, is something of my specialty, what with Ma
cbeth, Othello, Hamlet, Richard III, the homicidal Lear daughters, and a host of titled thugs and minor felons in Shakespeare I every fall, not to mention the whole American sequence with Bigger Thomas, Faulkner's violent rednecks, and the assorted psychopaths of Edgar Allan Poe who gladden the spring semester.

  I've conducted critical flirtations with Raymond Chandler and the god of suspense, Eric Ambler, so literary murder is home ground, and though this was the messy, infinitely distressing real thing, I wasn't terribly surprised when my friend Steve stopped by.

  Lean and intense, Steve's a detective with the campus police. We got to know each other some years ago when I was editing a collection of literary murder mysteries, and we occasionally see each other for coffee. Not so much lately. When my memoir took off—did you catch me on Oprah?—I was busy off campus as well as on, and Steve was preoccupied, as you'll soon understand, with the tragedy.

  A shock to us all. Spotting the case on a back page of the state paper took sharp eyes, such as I have. Come the next morning, front and center in the campus rag, LOCAL WRITER FOUND DEAD headlined the horrendous discovery of a colleague with her neck broken and her skull smashed at the bottom of a stony escarpment right on our big, rural campus.

  Terrible, no doubt about it, though I didn't know her well: “Hello” in the hall, brief exchanges at the copy machine, and remarks on the welcome arrival of holidays and the longed for end of the semester. I told the investigating officer—not Steve, someone lower down in the chain of command—that Marjorie Tellman came in, taught her classes, and went home. “I really can't tell you anything else,” I said and thought, like Jane Austen, that it was all horrible and that I was so fortunate not to care about any of it.

  That was—when? Nearly a month ago. How time passes when one is occupied with interviews and book signings and media appearances. Tedious in some ways but profitable, very profitable. And wonderful for my academic career, for, though professors scoff at the market and money, they are, and quite properly in my opinion, enraptured by big publishing numbers.