EQMM, December 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  We made it back to Ushuaia with the help of a baffled but benevolent sheep farmer. After food, baths, and sleep, we discussed going to the authorities, but David was convinced Verena had someone official on her payroll. He'd seen her through that keyhole talking with a tall, tanned man in an expensive suit. He thinks that's how she's pulled off the scam. Someone had died up on Lake Grey Glacier, and with a little calendar manipulation somewhere within the dark backrooms of officialdom and a documentation switcheroo by some cash-strapped clerk somewhere, poof, the dead woman becomes Verena Walters Maratea. David had no idea who the guy was. Could have been local law enforcement, could have been some government bigwig. Who to trust?

  So here we are. We know that in one more day the money will be beyond our reach. As it turns out, David has a clever head for figures. Probably from all the Toyota parts he's ordered over the last decade, he says. He's seen—and more importantly, he's memorized—the account numbers where the insurance money is being routed. But we can't let Verena get off this island or she'll move it again and that will be it. One hop is traceable, two hops and it becomes much more difficult. Three hops and she and the cash vanish into another dimension.

  We poke around and find that the beefcake brothers are putting up provisions on a nice new boat. Verena is now sashaying around in the open as if she doesn't have a care in the world, and we find ourselves collectively irked. To borrow from Winston Churchill, this is something up with which we cannot put.

  We are on constant surveillance while we try to concoct a plan as brilliant as the one that got us off that boat. So far we're not exactly clicking along on all cylinders. I spot the bodyguards loading things into the trunk of a car and I hear Harvey call to Verena as she comes out of the house. He tells her he'll see her in an hour. She turns toward the docks and heads out on foot, and he calls after her, “He should be there with the boat by the time you get down there."

  I hesitate a moment, remembering that trailing along after her is what got me in trouble last time. But she thinks we've been taken care of and if no-neck number two is already on the boat, then this isn't likely another trap. I step out of the alleyway, but Julia hisses at me and pulls me back. She points, and I see Harvey's brother coming out of the house bringing more boxes.

  So if it's not No-Neck waiting on the boat, who? Verena must have herself a new honey. Maybe a Latin lover? I wait until both Harvey and his brother have their line of sight blocked by the trunk lid, then motion to the others. We start after her. We try to be stealthy, but there are three of us and David, still a little woozy, is having navigatonal difficulties.

  The wharf is deserted, but I see a large pleasure boat—when does a boat stop being a cabin cruiser and become a yacht?—headed toward the pier. Julia and I are gaining on Verena, darting from doorway to alley, when the woman suddenly whirls and spots us. She registers shock, then anger, and starts digging in the bag she's carrying like a starving terrier after a bone she's buried for emergencies. I sprint and launch myself, catching the strap of the bag and wrenching it from her grasp. Her gun falls to the ground and we both scramble for it.

  I see Julia come up right behind me, swinging an oar she's found somewhere like a crazed ninja. I get to the gun first and pick it up, trying to remember everything I learned in gun-safety class a few years back. As I scramble up, Verena picks up the bag and throws it at me and takes off. She is surprisingly fast for a real-estate agent—especially a dead one. We all start after her, but David catches his foot on the bag and goes down. Julia—naturally—stops to make sure he's okay. I run on, panting already and sure I'll never be able to catch the fleet-footed Verena. She is flying, looking back over her shoulder every few steps to see if I am gaining on her—which I am, but by mighty small increments.

  The boat is getting closer, and I try to work some geometric and physics calculations in my head to determine if it will get to the pier before she arrives, and if I have any chance of stopping her. I decide now is not the time for higher math and concentrate on putting a kick into my stride. Suddenly Verena's foot gets snared on a tangle of fishing line someone has left on the pathway. She skids, head first, on the pea gravel for what seems like a long time. She tries to scramble to her feet, but the line has gotten wrapped around her ankles and she tumbles, head over feet down an embankment until a rock seawall finally brings her to a stop—with a sickening thud. Julia catches up and we make it down to her. I confirm that Verena Walters Maratea has, at last, fulfilled the requirements of her death certificate.

  "What about the guy on the boat?” Julia asks.

  I try to think, but my brain is oxygen deprived.

  David comes limping up, carrying the bag.

  "Don't come over here, David,” Julia says. She steps up to block his view of his former wife/kidnapper/attempted murderer.

  "Is she—” he begins.

  "Yes, I'm sorry,” Julia says, going over to place a comforting hand on his arm.

  "Look,” I say, “I'm sorry, too. Really, I am. Conflicting emotions and all that, but right now we have to figure out what to do about that.” I stab a finger in the direction of the boat and turn David to face the water.

  "Well,” he says slowly, “he's waiting for Verena, and Julia is the same height and shape as her—as she was,” he corrects, swallowing hard. He opens the bag and rummages, producing a scarf and a pair of sunglasses. “I mean, he wouldn't know it wasn't her until he was close, right?"

  "You're a smart guy,” I say, admiringly.

  "About some things,” he says giving the crumpled heap near the rock wall a sad glance.

  Julia is busy wrapping the scarf. I pull her a couple of steps away from David and whisper to her that it would be good if she put on Verena's coat, that the man might recognize it. She looks at me like I've grown another head and flat-out refuses.

  "Well, at least try to walk like her then,” I tell her, “and here.” I shove the gun into her pocket. “David and I will try to get as close as we can. When you think you've got him far enough from the boat that he can't outrun us and get back onboard, signal by holding your hand way up, like you're waving at him. We'll rush him. We need to get this done before the no-necks show up."

  Julia nods. She takes a few running steps, then remembers. She juts one hip out to the side and goes into a back-and-forth pendulum with her rear end that I fear might dislocate a vertebra. David and I split up and make our way down to the boardwalk, each approaching from a different direction.

  The man has tied up the boat now and has come out onto the pier. He beckons to Julia to hurry it along. She stops and turns to point up to the shore as if she needs help with something.

  "Good job, Julia,” I whisper under my breath. She always does lady-in-distress well.

  The man is walking down the pier toward Julia. The hood is up on his parka and he has on sunglasses.

  I have no more than gotten into position when I see Julia lift her arm and wave like she's trying to flag down a passing helicopter or something.

  David and I take off at a flat-out run. David runs like he's on a slalom course, but he's got speed.

  Too late the man sees us coming at him. He turns to run for the boat, but David seems to have finally gotten mad. His face is crimson and he pours it on and hurls himself at the man, bringing him to the pier so hard I feel it shake.

  The man struggles to get David off him, but Julia and I are there before he can kick David free. The two of them hold him down while I tie his hands behind him with the scarf.

  He is still trying to scramble away as David rolls him over. I jerk the hood down and rip off the sunglasses. The man looks at me and gives me a dazzling smile.

  "Isabelle, oh, thank God it's you,” says Neil Compton. “I—I can explain everything."

  * * * *

  Of course, he couldn't explain anything. Not to anyone's satisfaction—least of all mine. The snake. He'd been in it with Verena all along. That's why he'd recommended the payout. But when the company hired us
to try to recover, he'd come on to me strong, so he could find out our every move. I had David Maratea's question pierced into my brain: How stupid could I be?

  Julia, God love her, never said a sarcastic word, never gloated, never smirked, though she had every right to. Like I said, the woman is a cupcake.

  "This model is designed for the amateur photographer,” I tell a customer and wave as David and Julia come through the door of my camera shop with Ringo in tow. They have come to discuss wedding pictures—theirs.

  I've warned Julia about David. He's not her type. He is nice, loyal, considerate—and he adores her. Like I said, not her type. She whines that I'm being mean, so everything is peachy-keen here.

  It's taken months to sort things out. But finally our payments have all been released. It took high-level negotiations. For which we hired David's brother. Who is a hell of a lawyer, and also a nice guy. He's also cute—and available. I've been flirting with him outrageously—nice-guy traits are very appealing to me right now. He's shy, and I think I scare him a little, but he'll get over that.

  We'd argued that we did our job successfully. We found proof that Verena was still alive, but we hadn't filed an official report before she became dead—again. We'd finally settled on a third of our promised fee. Plus, they threw in a little bonus for our capturing Neil. It's enough.

  David fared better. His wife, who turned out to be anything but dearly beloved, is now actually, irrefutably dead—and he is the beneficiary. You've got to love irony. Julia still gets her bridal shop, because she gets David and he gives her anything she wants. She is to be her own first customer. This is going to be a doozy of a wedding.

  Shutter, my black lab puppy, comes barreling out of my office, sensing his buddy Ringo is here. David takes the dogs out in back of the store where we have a little play yard set up for them. Shutter has a bad habit of sneaking up on customers and putting his cold nose on their ankles. I'm trying to teach him some manners, but he's incorrigible. And I have to admit, I indulge him. How can I not? He thinks I hung the moon, I can tell by the way he looks at me with those big moony eyes.

  My customer finally makes his choice from among the point-and-shoot digital cameras I've shown him. I ring up the order, then Julia and I are alone.

  "Oh, Izzy,” Julia says, clasping both my hands. “I've had so much to do. It's just been crazy. But everything is all set for the wedding. Every detail except for the pictures, and I know you'll take care of that. I cannot believe this is happening. All these good things all at once—-how did I ever get so lucky? It's just nearly more than I can stand. Why is this happening to me?"

  It's a happy whine—like calliope music—and I smile and remember the sight of Julia-the-amazing diving off the deck of that sinking boat, her hair flowing out behind her like mermaid's tresses. She's earned a lifetime pass; she can whine all she wants and it will always sound like music to me

  Copyright © 2009 Brynn Bonner

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  Fiction: THE PROBLEM by Phil Lovesey

  If there's anyone in the mystery field who can equal Phil Lovesey's genius for piling twist upon brilliant twist, it can only be his own father, Cartier Diamond Dagger winner Peter Lovesey. Phil Lovesey's new story for us turns on the all too understandable weaknesses of an ordinary, child-rearing husband and wife. Other tales in which the ordinary turns surprising are already in EQMM's lineup from Phil Lovesey for the coming year.

  "It's not going to be a problem, is it, Chris?"

  Chris shook his head, tried to sound unimpressed, casual, as his old friend handed him the keys to the brand-new BMW Z4M convertible that now sat alongside Chris's own safe family saloon in the double garage. “Naah,” he said. “That's fine, Dave. Not a problem at all."

  "Mary won't have a problem with it?"

  Chris smiled. “I'm sure she'll come round."

  "Like I say,” the proud owner continued, “it should only be for eight months, till I get back from New Zealand, and frankly I wouldn't want to leave forty-three thousand pounds of quality motor in my garage for a weekend on its own, mate, let alone eight months. Someone would have the thing away within hours."

  "Not a problem at all,” Chris slowly repeated, eyes sweeping over the immaculate lines and silver chrome of the dark blue two-seater. He reckoned the price of the wheel-trims alone would easily pay for his old heap.

  "Nought to sixty in less than five,” Dave said, reeling off the statistics as only car nuts can. “Top whack—hundred and fifty-five miles per hour. You've got three hundred and thirty-eight bhp under the hood, plus the computer gadgetry's so smart the thing could probably drive you wherever itself."

  "The bachelor life, eh?"

  "Just one of the perks, mate,” Dave confirmed.

  Chris looked around his yard, a chaos of brightly coloured plastic toys, cheap garden furniture, and the remains of an old barbecue the kids had ruined last summer, now lying in pieces, as if provocatively symbolic of the fire that seemed to have seeped from his own life over the past few years.

  "Still,” Dave said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You've got Mary and the kids, Chris. Lot of men our age wouldn't swap a dozen BM's for that."

  "Right,” Chris replied, wanting to know exactly who these mythical men were.

  Dave shook his hand. “Got to be off, mate. Jen's giving me a lift to the airport.” He looked over, waved at the smiling young blonde in the VW soft-top. “Guess I might even miss her a little, too."

  "I'm sure you'll manage,” Chris replied, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice, knowing full well his old friend would most probably manage to arrive at Auckland airport with a stewardess from the flight on each arm. It had simply always been that way between them, right from when they'd first met as students. Dave Seabrook, the popular one; Chris Jones, the boring one. Chris often used to suspect his new friend merely used him as an obvious physical comparison, a weapon in his female charm-offensive—a war that nine times out of ten, the taller, more good-looking of the two inevitably won.

  But, Chris tried to convince himself, Dave was right about one thing. He had Mary and the kids—three healthy kids—which Dave didn't. Surely he must have been a little lonely at times, bored of the superficiality of the eternal bachelor life? Whereas with Mary and the kids, there was simply no time for boredom. Just the sheer effort of getting three teenagers to after-school clubs, friends’ houses, trips into town—together with the expense of keeping them fed, designer-clothed (Why was it kids refused to wear anything else these days?), and up to date with the latest mobile phones, computers, and music-players—left precious little time, money, or energy for anything else.

  Dave turned to go. “Give my love to Mary and the brood, mate."

  "Will do. Enjoy New Zealand."

  "Chris, it's business, remember?"

  "Like that's ever stopped you before."

  Dave smiled, began walking away. “Now, don't you go getting all jealous about me. Just you look after that beauty in your garage. I've only had her three weeks, but already she's the love of my life."

  "And there was me thinking it was just a rather sad penis-extension for a lonely middle-aged man."

  Dave good-naturedly flicked an obscene gesture, then stopped, hurried back. “Listen, Chris, you're not going to..."

  "What?"

  "Take it for a spin, or anything?"

  "Me?” Chris tried to sound shocked, as if the thought had never occurred.

  Dave shrugged. “It's just that insurance on these things is a nightmare. I'm the only named driver. And frankly, mate, even if I added you to the policy, well...” His gaze drifted to Chris's less-than-impressive vehicle.

  "Well, what?"

  "Chances are you'd spill the thing before you'd got it out of the drive. She's a wild beast, and it takes quite a driver to tame her."

  "Dave?"

  "What?"

  "Why don't you sod off to the airport?"

  * * * *

  "What do y
ou mean, it isn't a ‘problem'?” Mary Jones sighed as her husband showed her the latest gleaming arrival. She was tired, it had been a long Saturday of shopping, visiting her mother in the rest home, and endlessly ferrying the kids from A to B and God knows how many other places—then to come back home to this, some ridiculous little sports car now occupying half of the double garage? Of course it was a problem—and a damn big one at that.

  Chris sensed the weary irritation. “It's just till Dave gets back. Eight months at the most."

  "Eight months?” Mary gasped, rubbing her forehead. “And what the hell have you done with all Mum's stuff?"

  "Moved it."

  "Where, Chris?” She had her arms outstretched. “Where on earth have you managed to move a lifetime of my mother's possessions?"

  "Just sort of ... put them around the place."

  It was true, ever since he'd had the call from his old friend that morning, Chris had been shuttling boxes of his mother-in-law's clutter back and forth from the garage to the house in order to make way for the car. Mostly, he'd managed to stack them in the hallway and landing areas, the result being a series of small walkways enclosed by waist-high boxes permitting, at best, awkward single-file access to bedrooms, bathrooms, and living areas.

  "Oh God,” Mary moaned, when confronted with the maze beginning just outside her kitchen.

  "Everything will be fine, my love,” Chris insisted. He went for the hug, but she stepped back, almost fell over a box. He didn't feel now was the time to tell her about the one or two small “breakages” he'd had on the way. She's tired, that's all, she'll soon come round.

  "How long have you known about this?"

  "Dave rang just after you left this morning."

  "And you didn't think to tell me?"

  "I didn't see it as a problem, love.” He tried to ignore the sarcastic laugh, offer a titbit of something more substantial to soften the blow. “He's going to pay us."