EQMM, July 2007
Page 19
That was when Sheriff Lens walked over and lifted the sofa seat to check inside. Maybe he thought my idea was too crazy to be true. Maybe it didn't occur to him that if I was right the killer might be in there with Grace's gun. As the foldaway bed opened and he came into view, he pointed the gun at me and Annabel did the craziest thing she'd ever done. She launched herself at him like a fury, baby and all....
* * * *
Old Dr. Sam finished his story and his drink. Looking into his listener's eyes, he said, “You were born that night, Samantha, one week early."
"And the killer was...?"
"Our postman, Cally Forbes, of course. He was small like Grace Spring and able to hide in there easily. He'd even gotten out of bed early that morning to use our phone and call in sick. He couldn't just leave, though, because we'd have discovered the unbolted door and known he'd been hiding. He was the uncle of the girl killed in the accident, and he was convinced Grace had been driving. She started paying him money, maybe out of a guilty conscience, but finally she decided she'd have to kill him. She lured him here after we went to dinner and was waiting with the gun. Most postmen have strong arms and he got the gun away from her, strangling her in the process. Then he found the rope, tied it around her throat to cover the bruises, and lifted her up to that hook with the aid of my stepladder. He put that away and only realized at the last minute she'd have needed something to stand on. He placed the stool there, not realizing in the near-darkness that it was too low."
Samantha shook her head in wonder. “Mom could have killed herself jumping at him like that. She could have killed me!"
"I guess that's why we never told you about it till now. You want another scotch?"
She pushed the long dark hair from her beautiful eyes and smiled. “No, let's go join Mom and the grandkids."
(c)2007 by Edward D. Hoch
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"I'm sorry, did I startle you?"
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THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen
Our annual short-story round-up begins with two of the best single-author collections of recent years, one by a major figure in contemporary literature, the other by a writer unknown to me until her book arrived. Their stories are expertly crafted, deftly written, and psychologically complex, of-fering suspense, surprise, irony, and social observation, with a variety of backgrounds and viewpoint characters of various ages and stations in life, though not much detection in any conventional sense.
**** Joyce Carol Oates: The Female of the Species: Tales of Mystery and Suspense, Har-court/Penzler, $24 hardcover; $13 trade paper. Nine stories, three from EQMM and one from AHMM, demonstrate Oates's consummate mastery of character and narrative. From “So Help Me God,” a suspenseful account of a subtly abusive marriage, to “Angel of Mercy,” a chilling ghost story about the psychological pitfalls of a nursing career, every story offers something unusual and develops in unexpected ways. The hardcover was published in early 2006, the trade paperback in early 2007.
**** Jean Rae Baxter: A Twist of Malice, Seraphim, $19.95 Canadian, $17.95 U.S. Baxter has the storyteller's knack of gripping the reader throughout, and she brings her characters to life in economical strokes. “Catnappers,” about 11-year-old twin girl criminals; “Josie's Custom Catering,” a job-based James M. Cain-style triangle; and “A Wanton Disregard,” in which a grieving widow plots revenge on the negligent driver who killed her husband and child, illustrate the variety of situations and approaches. Some of the fourteen stories, all but five criminous, were first published in various Canadian journals and anthologies. The book was first published in Canada in late 2005.
*** Jeffery Deaver: More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II, Simon & Schuster, $24.95. Knowing master manipulator Deaver is out to mislead, the wise reader takes nothing at face value. Thus, you may guess part of the surprise some of the time, but he'll still fool you most of the time. Of these sixteen tales, three are new to print, five from EQMM, and two from AHMM. As evidence that this kind of trick construction works best at shorter lengths, the longest entry, “Locard's Principle,” a novelette-length original about Lincoln Rhyme, series sleuth of Deaver's novels, is much the weakest.
*** Michael Lister: Flesh and Blood and Other John Jordan Stories, Pottersville, $24.95. These seven stories featuring complex and engaging Florida prison chaplain Jordan represent various suspense and puzzle-spinning approaches, but the most memorable are centered on theological mysteries: a nun who is medically de-clared both pregnant and a virgin; a 10-year-old Hurricane Katrina refugee who claims to be Jesus Christ; and a consideration of the pros and cons of the Shroud of Turin. Margaret Coel, whose own novels feature a painfully chaste relationship somewhat similar to Jordan's with a prison coworker, provides an introduction.
*** Amy Myers: Murder, ‘Orrible Murder, Crippen & Landru, $43 signed limited hardcover, $18 trade paper. Six of these seventeen by an expert in fairly clued semi-comic historical de-tection first appeared in EQMM. Victorian-era chef Auguste Did-ier appears in half a dozen (of which “Murder at the Soirée,” set at a temperance dinner, is especially amusing and clever); the goddess Aphrodite in four, chimney sweep Tom Wasp in three, Sherlock Holmes in one.
*** Dennis Lehane: Coronado:Stories, Morrow, $24.95. One of the most highly regarded contemporary writers of gritty hardboiled crime fiction presents five stories, four previously published, plus the full-length play of the title, complexly constructed and thematically ambitious, which expands on its short-story source, “Until Gwen.” The line between pretentiousness and profundity is sometimes difficult to locate, but Lehane's way with language and creation of unusual characters and situations can't be denied.
*** Faye Kellerman: The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights, Warner, $24.95. Series cop Peter Decker ap-pears in four strong stories, two of them new, twice with and twice without wife Rina Laz-arus. The other 13 entries, in-cluding one from EQMM, are enjoyable enough, but the au-thor's nonfictional memory of working in her father's deli, one of four non-criminous reflections on family life, may be the best piece in the book.
*** Max Allan Collins and Matthew V. Clemens: My Lolita Complex and Other Tales of Sex and Violence, Twilight Tales, $12.95. These nine stories, all from original anthologies, comprise a contemporary equivalent of the under-the-counter Spicy pulps of the 1930s and ‘40s. The collection begins and ends strongly with the Civil War historical “A Woman's Touch” and the title tale, and even stories written to order with dubious reasons for being (visits to the Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Hellboy universes, two pastiches about a newly married James Bond clone named John Sand) are accomplished with humor and solid professionalism.
*** Erle Stanley Gardner: The Casebook of Sidney Zoom, ed-ited and introduced by Bill Pronzini, Crippen & Landru, $29 hardcover, $19 trade paper. The adventures of edge-of-the-law righter of wrongs Zoom, if not quite as engaging as those about the slightly later Lester Leith, add to the evidence that Gardner was among the greatest of pulp fiction writers as well as among the most prolific. Since appearing in early-1930s issues of Detective Fiction Weekly, only one of these ten has been reprinted: “The First Stone” (retitled “The Case of the Scattered Rubies") in the March 1959 EQMM.
*** Donna Jo Napoli and Robert Furrow: Sly the Sleuth and the Food Mysteries, illustrated by Heather Maione, Dial, $16.99. Three cases for preteen suburban detective Sylvia (known as Sly) are unthreaten-ing and humorous neighborhood mysteries appropriate to the target audience of ages seven and up, but they have a sneaky complexity, including fairly laid clues, that lays the groundwork for appreciation of adult detection.
** Cindy Rosmus: Angel of Manslaughter, Black Petals, $10. Fifteen very short stories, all but two previously published in Hardboiled and various mostly small-circulation magazines, take erotic noir to the limit: pessimistic, chilling, sexually explicit, too dark and grim for most tastes, but done with undeniable skill.
Recommended on the basis of a sampling are two more v
olumes in Crippen & Landru's Lost Classics Series (both $29 hardcover, $19 trade paper): Rafael Sabatini's The Evidence of the Sword and Other Mysteries, pioneering historical mysteries edited and introduced by Jesse F. Knight; and Ellis Peters's The Trinity Cat and Other Mysteries, a variety of stories and novellas from the creator of Brother Cadfael, introduced by Martin Edwards, who edited the volume with the late Sue Feder.... Manjiri Prabhu's The Astral Alibi (Bantam, $6.99), about Pune, India, private eye Sonia Samarth, makes enjoyable reading if you can accept the use of astrology as a detection tool.... Two mixed collections of some criminous interest are James Sallis's Potato Tree (Host, $25 hardcover, $15 trade paper) and Nicholas Royle's Mortality (Serpent's Tail, $14.95).... Editor Peter Haining gathers and introduces Charles Dickens's detective stories in Hunted Down (Dufour/Peter Owen, $22.95), first published in Britain in 1996.
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CAMOUFLAGE by Alanna Knight
A novelist with sixty published titles, as well as a distinguished short-story writer, playwright, and biographer, Alanna Knight hails from Edinburgh, Scotland. Her fiction includes Gothic and historical pieces; as a biographer she is especially noted for her works on Robert Louis Stevenson. Fans of her crime fiction will be glad to see the latest from Allison & Busby, The Inspector's Daughter.
Charlie negotiated the car round the suburban estate bordering the racecourse in search of a suitably inconspicuous parking place.
As always, that first glimpse of his destination with its shrill buzz of animation set his adrenalin pumping. Elation, fierce and strange, seized him. His body grew firmer, stronger, tense as a hurdler crouched on the starting line, ready for the demands soon to be made upon it.
His mind now stretched beyond the poolroom or the television screen and took on an extra sense of perception, so that when he climbed out of the car in the quiet tree-lined street, he was immediately aware of being watched.
Cautiously, he turned. A youngster, perhaps eleven or twelve, small and thin, with a bland freckled face, was writing down his car number in a small notebook, his expression one of eager triumph.
"Nice Rolls, mister,” he said cheerfully, “bit old-fashioned, but I collect car numbers. Been waiting for a ‘72 for weeks. Saw a ‘73 and a ‘74 yesterday, had to let them go. Just my luck. Be months before I get them now.” A sigh, and looking from Charlie to the car and back again, he frowned. “Your car, mister, is it?"
"I'm breaking it in for a friend,” said Charlie sarcastically, restraining the impulse to sudden violence. Keep calm, unobtrusive. Don't do anything that'll make you remembered.
"You don't look the Rolls type, mister,” said the lad, eyeing Charlie's shabby clothes with disarming frankness.
"Piss off!” said Charlie. Not looking the Rolls type was one of the keys to Charlie's professional success, for as nature protects her wild creatures with the boon of camouflage, the ability to blend and merge, becoming one with their surroundings when danger threatens, she had seen fit to do as much for Charlie, by making him inconspicuous.
Everything about him was ordinary to such a degree that his exact age was by no means certain, thirty-five or fifty would have fitted, his features forgettable, his body medium-sized, medium height, so ordinary that no one would give him a second glance.
Charlie was the archetypal one of a crowd. Not for him the pleasures of scientific progress, cyberspace, the Internet, mobiles—such things spelt danger—an ordinary telephone used cautiously was as far as he would go.
Only one thing would have given his profession away to the discerning eye of a clever detective: his hands. Beautiful hands. Long, slender, of amazing flexibility, with fine, tapering fingers. The hands of a surgeon, a musician—or a pickpocket!
True, most people would despise such an occupation, but to Charlie, who had been discovered as an eight-year-old prodigy by a latter-day Fagin more than half a century ago, his job was a profession, an art in which he took tremendous pride, despite a sometimes capricious income. No wife, sex a commodity he could buy. No bank account for Charlie. A loose floorboard and a home safe in the modest terrace house where he was born sixty years ago. His only vanity was to travel in style. The car was his own, another piece of camouflage, since no one would ever associate a vintage Rolls with a common pickpocket.
"You still here, mister?” The lad had pocketed his notebook and was walking round the car touching it with an air of reverence. “Don't make them like this these days,” he said. But Charlie wasn't listening, that notebook containing the registration number filled him with vague unease. Then he had an inspiration, the solution.
"Like to sit at the wheel, see what it feels like?"
"Wouldn't I just, mister!” The boy's homely face was transformed.
"Hop in, then!” The bait had been swallowed, and helping the lad open the door, Charlie deftly removed the notebook from his pocket.
Tolerating a few moments of “zoom, zoom” admiration, he said sharply: “That's enough. You'll make me late."
"Goin’ to the races?"
In answer Charlie locked the door and slung his raincoat over his arm.
The lad grinned, pointing to a cloudless blue sky. “You won't be needing that. Ain't goin’ to rain today."
"I might feel the cold,” snapped Charlie impatiently.
"You a stranger here, mister?"
"No. Why?"
"Just wondered. The punters use the car park at the course, and it's free, too."
That was a poser. Difficult to explain the advantages of a quiet place for a quick getaway. “Don't like crowds,” mumbled Charlie and walked briskly towards the course. The lad trotted at his side. “You ask lots of questions, don't you?"
An apologetic grin. “Way to get information.” At the entrance, he stopped, asked wistfully: “Don't suppose you could lend me a quid, mister?"
"Certainly not! Who do you think—"
"Me dad was supposed to be meeting me,” the lad interrupted and gave a helpless shrug. “He's not here."
"Tell me another,” said Charlie, but the pressing need to get rid of his unwanted companion made him withdraw a folded pound note from his pocket. “Now clear off."
* * * *
He had missed the first race but it wasn't until after the third that he ever made a strike. Might as well fleece ‘em for a cool thousand bucks than their first modest winnings, was his motto.
Unhurriedly he studied the layout of the tote and the bookies. Nothing escaped him, for he was now in that state of alert readiness where every small detail was significant, where he could tell by the punter's expression whether he expected big winnings—a regular or an amateur having a first flutter. The latter Charlie dismissed contemptuously; only the ones with strident beginner's luck were considered worthy of his attention.
Their third race over, Charlie marked down his victim, a man who had won on the last two races and was now collecting rich pickings.
It was his time and he pounced.
As the man turned, pocketing his wallet, Charlie crashed headlong into him. Mutual apologies, and as they disentangled, the man's wallet rested safely with the car key and the lad's notebook in Charlie's pocket, shielded by the raincoat from any rival hands.
As he hurried towards the exit, the tension inside him subsided and he surrendered momentarily to the heady feeling of victory once again. He was almost safely outside when commotion within announced that his victim was aware of the missing wallet. As he quickened his pace, his arm was seized.
For a moment, his face tightened in panic and the instinctive desire for flight.
"Hi, mister. Hoped I'd see you again. Any success on the gee-gees?"
"So-so,” said Charlie, relief overcoming his annoyance at the lad's reappearance. “I suppose you've come to repay me?"
"That's it, mister. Met me dad inside. Here's your quid—thanks for the loan."
Charlie was taken aback. He had never expected to see lad or pound note again. As he thrust it into his pocket
, the lad held out his hand.
"That's a fiver I gave you. All me dad had, he'll be wanting his change."
Charlie looked at it, scowled, and swinging his raincoat over his shoulder, he took out his wallet and counted out four pounds.
"Ta, mister. Cheers!” The lad was swallowed by the emerging crowd as Charlie hurried in the opposite direction, to the street where the Rolls waited. Reaching it, feeling triumphant and reassured, he put his hand into his pocket.
No key. The key wasn't there. It had to be! Heart thumping, frantically he began turning out his pockets. As he did so, something else struck him and the beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
Not only the key was missing. So was the punter's stolen wallet. And the boy's notebook.
As realization dawned on him, he swore, shaking with blind murderous fury. He knew he would never recognize the lad again.
That damned brat—one of his own kind!
(c)2007 by Alanna Knight
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NEXT ISSUE...
Girl's Best Friend by JUDITH CUTLER
Making Amends by JEFFERY DEAVER
The Good Daughter by MELODIE JOHNSON HOWE
Makin’ Up and Breakin’ Up by JEREMIAH HEALY
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ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Vol. 130, No. 1. Whole No. 791, July 2007. USPS 523-610, ISSN 0013-6328. Dell GST: R123054108. Published monthly except for combined March/April and September/October double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. 1 year subscription $43.90 in U.S.A. and possessions, $53.90 elsewhere, payable in advance and in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Call 800-220-7443 with questions about your subscription. Subscription orders and mail regarding subscriptions should be sent to Ellery Queen, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Editorial Offices, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N.Y. 10016. Executive Offices 6 Prowitt St., Norwalk, CT 06855-1220. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and at additional mailing offices. (c) 2007 Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention and the Pan American Copyright convention. ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE® is the registered trademark of Ellery Queen. Submissions must be accompanied by self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts. POSTMASTER: Send Change of Address to Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855-1220. In Canada return to Quebecor St. Jean, 800 Blvd. Industrial, St. Jean, Quebec J3B 8G4. For back issues, send your check for $5.00 (U.S. funds) to Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Suite SM-100, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855-1220. Please specify the issue you are ordering. Add $2 per copy for delivery outside the U.S.