EQMM, March-April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I think so, yeah. You figure Jorge's got something to do with this?"

  "Maybe. But I still don't understand the connection with a gas station."

  There was the unmistakable sound of bedsprings as Robinson bounced his big body from the bed. “Let's go find out."

  "Now?!"

  "Why not? You got something better to do tonight?"

  * * * *

  "What part of town is this?” Siders asked as the big white police cruiser moved through the light drizzle, the windshield wipers cutting a window in the hot night. It was almost four in the morning now.

  "Upper Darby,” Robinson said. He looked strange in his hastily thrown-on civilian clothes. “It used to be lah-di-dah but now it's mostly my kinda folks."

  "But we drove past the Scofield mansion just minutes ago. That Main Line still looks like old money."

  A tired Robinson smile. “Welcome to big-city America. The rich nuzzling the poor."

  "Yeah. Like in New York."

  Robinson looked over at him. “What do you think of this Stark woman?"

  "Really think?” He paused. “Why'd she leave early today?"

  Robinson shrugged. “Said she had some appointments back at her place. She gives these readings."

  "Does that answer your question?"

  "What was my question?” Laughing: “Oh yeah. So you don't think she's got too much spin on her crystal ball."

  They drove a few minutes more, then they slowed, the rain strengthening.

  "The gas station's near here?” Siders asked.

  "Well, I know it's on Cobb's Creek Parkway where we are, so—yeah!” He pointed. “Right up there on the right. See it?"

  He pulled up beside one of the four pumps in front of an old, decaying structure with its adjoining mechanic's garage. Through the gray scrim of rain, Siders could see the small, faded, brick building was dark, looking long abandoned. He also saw the unlit “76” sign on the roof.

  "What do you think we're going to find?” Robinson asked. “The little girl? Her body?"

  "I don't know. And don't say I'm supposed to know because I'm a psychic!"

  They got out, Robinson with a big black golf umbrella that Siders was sure wasn't police issue, probably his own. He followed the big detective around the corner of the gas station, the rain pleasantly cool on his face.

  "Any vibes?” Robinson asked.

  "No."

  Robinson knocked on a boarded-up window, listened. Kept listening. Nothing. Slowly moved down to the attached mechanic's garage, hammered hard on its door. “Allison!” he yelled. “Allison!” He waited.

  No answer.

  There were just trash cans and a Dumpster in the rear, the rain pooling on the heaped trash.

  Robinson gestured expansively at the dark field sprawling away behind the little structure. “Anything out there ringing your chimes?"

  There was something, something not yet emerging as an image, but a tremor, just a little tug. “Maybe..."

  Robinson's face suddenly eclipsed his view of the dark field, beads of rain glistening on his prominent cheekbones. “What do you feel? What?"

  "Maybe . . . something."

  Robinson turned, swung back toward the gas station, the umbrella over his head again like a big, scalloped awning.

  Siders hurried after him. “Where are you going?"

  "I have to round up my team and get back here right away."

  * * * *

  He woke at nine, his stomach sore, no appetite. He had picked up some toilet articles last night so he could at least shave, use deodorant. Of course the phone rang while he was in the shower—

  Robinson. “You got any Champagne in your motel's courtesy bar?"

  "They don't have courtesy bars here.” He was suddenly plunged back to the gas station last night, the remnants of shower water on his face and hair like the rain.

  Robinson's voice darkened. “We found the little girl. A pretty crude grave in that field, not that far back from the gas station."

  "My God,” Siders murmured. “Who do you think—?"

  "Jorge. Who else? We just routed him out of his nice warm bed. Trust me, we'll be on him all day like a bad smell."

  "Should—should I stay put?"

  "For now, yeah. But if we get a confession, well, you'll be the star. You're going to have the media all over you like a worse bad smell. You up for that, Siders?"

  He was nervously toweling his hair. “Does Mrs. Stark know what's happening?"

  Robinson laughed. “Who knows? But I wouldn't trust her crystal ball."

  * * * *

  Siders hung out in Robinson's office in the precinct house where he knew they were grilling Jorge. In the early afternoon Robinson came into his office. He looked beat but quietly jubilant, his necktie loose, his sweaty shirt collar open.

  "Did you break him down?” Siders asked.

  Robinson dug a Pepsi out of the fridge, sat down. “Took some work, but yeah, we broke him—like this bottle—if it wasn't plastic. He killed her all right. Where're my manners—you want a Pepsi?"

  He wearily related how Jorge had driven the girl from the house that afternoon. She was in a bad emotional state, having heard her father threaten to kill her mother that morning. She ordered Jorge to drive her to New York. He said he couldn't and she exploded, said she would accuse him of trying to rape her. Jorge lost it. They struggled in the car and before he knew it he had strangled her. He panicked—where could he get rid of the body? And then he remembered the field behind the gas station where he used to work.

  "You got a written confession?” Siders asked.

  "Ink's still wet.” He looked relaxed now, his legs, with their size-twelve shoes, up on the desk. “You're going to be the media's lover boy. You want the department to set up the interviews?"

  "Yeah, fine. My motel. I'd appreciate it, Lieutenant.

  "Make sure you've got plenty of drinks."

  "You put me in a cheap motel. I told you I don't even have a courtesy bar."

  Robinson frowned. “The media without a courtesy bar?"

  Siders grinned: “Trust me, they'll manage."

  The following morning was a noisy carnival with Philly TV, the local papers, even CNN from New York in his little room. He finally managed to shoo them out and was spread-eagled, exhausted, on the bed when there was an authoritative knock on the door. “Who is it?” he called.

  "Robinson,” came the gruff, slightly muffled reply.

  "It's open."

  An unusually dour Robinson took his time coming in. He gave the room a quick once-over, an obviously ingrained cop habit. “I'm going to have to put you in custody, Siders."

  He nodded, slowly sitting up on the bed. Even a psychic knew you couldn't rain-check the inevitable. But what the hell had gone wrong?

  "New York homicide got a tip, went to your apartment. Found your wife, bludgeoned to death."

  He came closer, looking more disappointed than angry or accusatory. “They got the prints off the weapon and they'll be comparing them with yours. Neighbors say they heard the fights you had with her, very violent fights, your threats to kill her."

  Siders nodded again. He slumped down on the bed. There was no adrenaline left in the well, everything was depleted, gone. He had thought he would get back to New York, figure out how to dispose of her body. Just like Jorge, he thought grimly. “You—you said they acted on a tip."

  "Mrs. Stark. She called them in New York, said she had a vibe. They called me to check on her. I told them she was credible, we were using her on this Schofield thing."

  Siders put his face in his hands. He heard the rain start again at the window, whispering, something else conspiring against him.

  Robinson was trying to salvage his good humor. “Amazing,” he said. “I mean how she repaired that damn crack in her crystal ball."

  Copyright © 2010 William Link

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: A TOUR OF THE TOWER by Christine Poulson

/>   Department of First Stories: THE ADVENTURE OF THE SCARLET THORN by Paul W. Nash

  * * * *

  Art by Jason Eckhardt

  * * * *

  Christine Poulson was an academic who taught the History of Art and hadwritten widely on 19th-century art and literature before she penned her first crime novel. Not surprising then that from her imagination there emerged a Cambridge professor, Cassandra James, who starred in two books available in the U.S.:Murder is Academic and Stage Fright, both from St. Martin's. Her new story takes us to a site we'd expect to appeal to an art historian, a medieval cathedral.

  The five o'clock tour was the last of the day.

  Sadly, for Miriam it was to be the last one ever.

  The grey-haired American—in his sixties, Miriam judged, around her own age—had been the first to arrive. He was wearing a cream linen jacket: good material and very nicely cut. Miriam's working life had been spent in the menswear department of a big store and even now she couldn't help noticing what people were wearing. She glanced down at her chocolate- brown linen shirt and trousers: a devil to iron but worth it.

  She stole another glance at the American. He was talking to a middle-aged couple (matching red anoraks) and their teenage son (hooded blue sweatshirt). There was also an older couple: a T-shirt that he really shouldn't be wearing with a paunch like that and a pale blue cotton sweater for her. The Australian couple in their twenties (chinos and a short skirt with high-heeled sling-backs) looked like newlyweds. There were a couple of French girls (cropped top and shift dress), who were probably from the local language school. The two young men, a tall blond (ancient Fruit of the Loom T-shirt) and a shorter, shaggy-haired youth (blue waterproof), were campers, she guessed, judging by their wrinkled clothes.

  The group was a typical mix of nationalities and ages and Miriam had seen hundreds like them in her time as a cathedral guide. She was already leading them across the nave to the locker room when two latecomers, a middle-aged woman in a cream raincoat and a stocky young man in a blue anorak, came hurrying up. That made fourteen—fortunately. She didn't like having thirteen in a group. After rucksacks and umbrellas had been placed in lockers, Miriam asked for a volunteer to stay at the back of the group so that she could be sure that no one was left behind. The American raised his hand and she smiled her thanks. She'd guessed it would be him. He'd probably ask the best questions, too. She led the way to a door in the corner of the locker room. From there a spiral staircase wound up through the wall of the west front.

  "It's a long climb,” she warned.

  One by one they followed Miriam through the narrow entrance. The staircase was lit by electric lights that threw a shifting pattern of shadows onto the walls. The group toiled up the steep stone steps, hollowed by generations of feet. When they were almost at the top Miriam made her usual comment to the people behind her.

  "It's just when you think you can't go any further that you get there!"

  She had timed it just right. They emerged onto the narrow gallery as the choir came in for evensong. There were exclamations and gasps of surprise when people realised how high they were. To Miriam's mind this was the best view of the cathedral. There was a lump in her throat as she watched the white and crimson robes moving in stately procession down the nave.

  When she had heard about the new regulation, she had gone to see the dean, but he had explained to her that his hands were tied: “ . . . new rules . . . insurance company . . . no one over sixty."

  "It's not fair, I know,” he said, smiling at her, “when one feels as fit as one ever did."

  And that was kind, because she knew for a fact that he was a good three years younger than she was and he was in good shape. He might be a Very Reverend, but he was also a keen sportsman who coached a cricket team and ran half-marathons to raise money for charity.

  His cropped hair and natural tonsure gave him a monastic look. He had asked her to call him Jim, but she really couldn't bring herself to be so familiar, and after that she tried to avoid calling him anything.

  The dean was right. It really wasn't fair and Miriam was as fit as she had ever been. Even after this climb, she was scarcely out of breath, unlike the woman in the red anorak who was leaning on the parapet and breathing heavily. The stocky young man in the blue anorak was suffering too: beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead.

  When everyone had had time to recover, she led them up the next flight of stairs to the space over the clerestory. Her voice seemed to run on independently of her, weaving in the history of the cathedral with little jokes and anecdotes.

  "Pardon me,” said the American, “but this render on the walls, what would that be?” He had an “aw-shucks” kind of voice that made her think of James Stewart.

  "That's pumice stone covered with lime wash,” she told him, thinking she'd been right about his asking the best questions.

  "You really know your stuff,” he said admiringly.

  She did. It was scarcely an exaggeration to say that she knew every inch of the building. At nights when she couldn't sleep, she explored the place in her imagination, roaming the vast dark spaces of the nave and the glorious soaring transept, wandering through the tranquil cloister and the chapter house, where the treasures of the cathedral were displayed. There were some wonderful things in there—early printed books, embroidered altarcloths and vestments, silver plate, and most precious of all, St. Edmund's silver-gilt chalice. It had escaped being melted down during the Reformation, when the bishop had buried it in the garden of the palace.

  The cathedral was the only thing that had kept her going after Bill died so soon after they had retired here from London. But perhaps she shouldn't have let it become her whole life. Maybe she should take up bowls again. She and Bill used to play at competition level. . . .

  Someone coughed. She came to herself and realised that everyone was looking at her.

  "This way,” she said brightly and led the way across a gangplank to a room at the base of the tower that housed the working of the medieval clock. This was the first place on the tour where one could get a view of the close and the surrounding landscape. Pewter-grey clouds were massing over the water meadows. Miriam pointed out the bishop's palace through the rain-flecked window. She noticed for the thousandth time that the crevices of the windowsill were clogged with the desiccated corpses of dozens of butterflies. She had been meaning for ages to bring up a little battery-operated vacuum cleaner and now she never would.

  I'm looking at things for the last time, she thought, and that's almost like looking for the first time. She was struck all over again by how strange it was to be up here, like seeing behind the scenes at the theatre.

  An open wooden staircase, like a piece of scaffolding, wound up around the inside of the tower. They climbed it and emerged into the bell chamber. Miriam had timed this to coincide with the chiming of the hour at six o'clock. The group ranged themselves on wooden benches or leaned against the wall and waited. The sound, when it came, was stupendous. It swelled to fill the whole space and got into your head. It was impossible to speak, scarcely even to think.

  When the reverberations had faded away, it was time for the final climb up to the walkway that ran around the base of the spire. Today, the view was literally breathtaking. When you tried to speak, the wind whipped the words out of your mouth. The Australian girl didn't want to go out, and in those heels, no wonder. The metal rails were chest-high, but it felt as if the wind was about to lift you off your feet.

  All that was left now was to retrace their steps. She kept up her flow of patter—it wouldn't do to shortchange the visitors—but when the door at the foot of the spiral staircase thudded shut behind her, it had such a final sound that she felt like crying.

  She got a grip on herself. Her last task was to count heads before the group dispersed. She counted thirteen. She frowned—must have missed one—and asked everyone to stand still so that she could count again. She did count again —and again—but it still came t
o thirteen.

  Someone was missing.

  "Did you count them in the clock room on the way down?” asked the dean.

  It had been the rule ever since a visitor had got stranded on the walkway around the foot of the spire. Miriam blushed to the roots of her hair. She had clean forgotten. The guide hadn't realised that he was still out there and had bolted the door. The poor chap had been trapped for hours.

  The American had been adamant that no one had been left behind. No, he hadn't actually counted them, but he had been the last to leave every room and each time he had checked that it really was empty. Miriam had felt a momentary doubt, but she clung to the knowledge that there had been three dark young men on the way up and only two when they reached the bottom. The trouble was that they were all dark and stocky and they all had been wearing something blue. No one else thought there was anyone missing.

  It was just her luck that the dean should have been hanging around to witness her discomfiture. Not that he was censorious, far from it, but his kindness only made her feel worse.

  "I'll go back,” she said.

  "You most certainly won't,” said the dean. “I've been in my office all day. I could do with the exercise. I'll be there and back before you know it."

  Miriam could only submit. She took a seat at the end of a pew. The other guides were drifting into the nave one by one. Miriam glimpsed one of the posher ones, a woman who was a leading light in the local pony club. She was pleasant enough, but Miriam never felt comfortable with her. She was whispering something to one of the others. From the corner of her eye Miriam saw them glance at her and look away. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her.

  It seemed to take hours, but couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes before the dean emerged from the locker room. As he walked briskly towards her, the skirts of his cassock flicking out behind him, he smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

  "All clear. There's no one up there,” he said. “And there's nothing left in the lockers, either."

  Miriam felt a surge of relief. She got to her feet and the smiling dean took charge of her. Chatting at her side, his hand under her elbow, he steered her towards the cathedral cafe. She was surprised to see that the little gathering of guides had swelled to a crowd. The door was opening, there were balloons, and someone was holding a bottle of Champagne. The dean released her and held up his arms like a conductor readying an orchestra. He brought them down and there was a ragged but enthusiastic chorus of “For She's a Jolly Good Fellow."