EQMM, March-April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Happy birthday, dear Miriam,” said the dean, and he leaned forward to kiss her on either cheek.

  * * * *

  Perhaps it was the excitement or the Champagne or both, but Miriam couldn't sleep. It was almost two o'clock when she gave up and pushed back the single sheet that was all she'd been able to tolerate. She put on her dressing gown, padded into the sitting room, and switched on the light. Rain was spattering the window and buffeting the geraniums in their pots on the little balcony.

  The top-floor flat wasn't in the close, but it was near enough for a view of the cathedral. On sunny days, the massive structure looked as vast and improbable as Mont Blanc. Tonight it was like a black ocean liner floating in the dark. The floodlights were switched off at midnight and only a red warning light on the very summit of the spire remained.

  If Miriam craned her neck, she could see part of the top floor of the dean's house. The windows were dark tonight. In the months after Bill's death, when Miriam had found it hard to sleep, she had often seen a light there in the early hours. It was comforting to think of the dean working late on a sermon or reading some weighty theological tome and to know that she wasn't the only one awake.

  Miriam thought about that last tour. She had been certain that fourteen had gone up the tower and only thirteen had come down. Of course, feeling certain and being certain aren't the same thing. That's what Bill would have said. How infuriating he could be and how she missed him. If he were here now, he would be complaining about being woken up. “Stop fussing, woman.” She could hear him saying it. And yet when push came to shove, he would have been on her side, and in the end, wasn't that what marriage was about?

  The cathedral clock struck two. In her mind's eye Miriam saw the clogs turning and meshing together, the ropes growing taut, the pealing of the bell vibrating through the empty cathedral and floating out into the night air.

  And that was when she knew how the disappearing trick had been pulled off.

  She had already started to dial the dean's number when she asked herself what she thought she was doing. She couldn't ring him at this time of night and he had already been up the tower once. And suppose she did instigate another search, how would she feel if after all there was no one there?

  She went back to the window. If there was some real evidence, lights in the cathedral maybe . . . But she could see only the upper part from here. She bit her lip, considering. Well, why not, she wasn't going to get any sleep, that was for sure. She went into the bedroom and got dressed.

  She was about to leave when her eye fell on her bowling bag, open on the chest of drawers. Buoyed up by Champagne-induced optimism after the party, she had decided to polish her woods, thinking that maybe she could find a new partner and begin again. She picked up the nearest wood and cupped the familiar almost-spherical object in her hand. It wouldn't make much of a weapon, and if it came to self-defence, she couldn't see herself putting up much of a show. Still, there was something reassuring about its smooth weight in her palm. She slipped it into the pocket of her cagoule. It just fit.

  * * * *

  Miriam was no stranger to the close at night. After Bill had died, insomnia had often driven her out to stroll there alone, but she had never been there when the rain was pelting down and the wind was blowing so hard that her umbrella was turned inside out. Two of the spokes were actually broken, and she dumped it in the bin next to the kiosk that was occupied by the constable of the close. There was no one there at the moment—he must be on his tour of the close—but that would be her first port of call if she did see anything suspicious.

  She pulled up her hood and pushed her hands into her pockets to reassure herself that the wood was in one and her mobile phone in the other. She set off along one of the paths that dissected the grassy space around the cathedral. She didn't need a torch. Her feet knew the path and took her confidently forward. She reached the paved area outside the west front. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark now and the cathedral was no longer one black undifferentiated mass. She could distinguish window arches and the shadowy forms of saints in their niches. Out of the inky darkness of the porch a figure stepped forward. Her heart jolted and her hand shot up to her mouth. The beam of a torch light dazzled her.

  "Jeez, you nearly scared the pants off me,” said a laconic American voice. “That hood. Thought for a moment you were some kind of monastic ghost."

  "I scared the pants off you! What are you doing here?'

  "Same as you, I guess. Couldn't sleep. Look, you'd better come in out of the rain."

  She stepped into the porch. The American held the torch so that it illuminated both their faces. The strong light exaggerated his features, giving him deeply shadowed eyes and flared nostrils.

  "I don't think we introduced ourselves. I'm Tom, Tom Leverens.” He thrust out a hand. His clasp was firm and his hand felt dry and warm in hers.

  "I'm Miriam. And I think you'd better switch the torch off. If there is something going on..."

  "Yeah, yeah, okay.” There was a click and his face vanished. “If I'd had my wits about me, I'd actually have counted heads, but—well, my mind was elsewhere. I've been planning this trip for years—it would have been our fortieth wedding anniversary—me and Louise. She passed away last year, and, well, I wasn't going to come, but the kids thought I needed a break. Tell the truth, I thought one of them might come with me, but Jeannie's expecting her second and Martha got offered this internship...."

  This homely litany was reassuring. He was a solid presence in the dark beside her and she was conscious of an aftershave or cologne that smelt of lime.

  "Hey,” he said, “you don't want to hear all that. Thing is, I know when someone might have slipped away."

  "Me too."

  "The clock striking, right?"

  She nodded, forgetting that he couldn't see her. “No one would have heard him going back down the stairs. There'd be plenty of time to hide in the roof space above the clerestory."

  "But why?” he said. “For a bet? To steal something? All the valuable stuff must be in the chapter house. That chalice..."

  "St. Edmund's chalice. That's what I'm afraid of. All the security is all aimed at keeping people out of the building, but once you're in there..."

  "I've already been round the building looking for lights, but what say we do another circuit?"

  As they stepped out of the porch, Tom took her arm and tucked it in his. It was a long time since a man had done that, but it felt natural. They fell into step with Miriam leading the way. The rain had slackened, but the sky was still overcast. They kept close to the cathedral, moving out to skirt flying buttresses, staring up at the windows, straining their eyes against the darkness. It wasn't until they were rounding the east end that something occurred to Miriam. She pulled Tom in against the wall.

  "You said you'd already done a circuit,” she whispered. “Did you see the constable?"

  "Didn't see a soul."

  "He wasn't in his kiosk when I passed it, so where is he?"

  "Maybe he's there now."

  They looked across the close towards the kiosk. But an avenue of mature beeches blocked the view. They saw a light glinting through the leaves, nothing more.

  "We'd better see,” Tom said.

  They set off across the broad expanse of lawn. The wind pushed Miriam's hair back from her face and made her eyes water. From time to time, she glanced back and it was when they had almost reached the shelter of the beeches that she thought she saw something moving on the tower.

  "What's that?"

  Tom's arm stiffened in hers and he said, “What—I can't see—"

  Something was dangling from one of the windows of the clock room like a spider letting itself down from a web.

  "We'd better call the police.” Miriam pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket.

  "I don't think so.” Tom's hand closed round her wrist and he didn't sound like James Stewart anymore. “I'd hate to hurt you, Miriam, so I think we'll just stand
here and let my confederate make his escape."

  The night exploded into dazzling whiteness. The cathedral sprang out of the darkness. The floodlights had been switched on.

  Tom released Miriam. He turned on his heels. The next moment she heard the thudding of his feet on the paved path between the beeches.

  A figure in track-suit bottoms and a sweater emerged from the porch door. Was it another member of the gang? No, it was the dean. He was looking up at the tower. In the stark light she saw a young man with a rucksack on his back hanging ten feet from the ground. The rope on which he was descending had snagged on a gargoyle. In an effort to free it, he was bouncing himself off the wall with his feet.

  The dean was sprinting towards him. Without pausing to think, Miriam set off too.

  The gargoyle gave way. The young man fell heavily to the ground. Miriam prayed that he had twisted an ankle, but the next moment he was on his feet. The dean was closing in on him. The young man slipped off his rucksack. For a moment Miriam thought he was going to drop it and run. Instead he gripped it by both straps and swung it at the dean. The dean swerved and the rucksack hit him only a glancing blow, but it was enough to send him spinning out of control. He fell awkwardly on his side. The young man was off, sprinting towards the west front.

  In the distance there was the wail of a siren. Over by the constable's lodge flashing lights appeared and there was the sound of a car screeching to a halt. The dean was getting to his feet, but he wasn't going to be in time. Once the youth had reached the other side of the close and the bridge into the water meadows, he could lose himself in the darkness. Even if Miriam could intercept him, what then? He was young and fit and desperate and she was sixty.

  She pulled the wood out of her pocket, drew back her arm, and bent forward in one fluid movement. The wood seemed to flow out of her hand and float across the shaven grass. Time slowed down. The wood reached the path at the precise point where its curved trajectory met that of the fleeing youth. The sole of his right foot made contact with the ball as if the two of them had always been destined to meet. His arms flailed, he wobbled, he teetered. For a moment it seemed that he was going to regain his balance. Then he was down with a crash that knocked the wind out of him.

  * * * *

  "Ouch,” said the dean.

  "Sorry,” said Miriam, “but it's a nasty graze and it should be disinfected."

  She put the top back on the tube of antiseptic cream. The dean rolled down his sleeve. They were in the kitchen in his house and there was a bottle of brandy on the table between them.

  "I should be the one worrying about you,” the dean said. “You must have had an awful shock when that scoundrel turned on you."

  "He'll get his just deserts."

  Tom Leverens and the driver who was waiting for him had been stopped as they tried to leave the market square.

  "You're sure you're all right? Delayed shock can be nasty thing.” He took one of her hands in both of his and squeezed it.

  "Something I've been meaning to ask you,” she said. “What were you doing in the close at that time of night? How did you know something was wrong?"

  "I didn't, but I know you, Miriam, and you were certain you'd left someone up in the tower. When I went up to bed, I saw that there was a light on in your flat and I guessed that you were still worrying about it."

  "In my flat?"

  "You can just see it from my bedroom window.” Could it be? Was the dean blushing? “I tried to ring you, but there wasn't any answer. I couldn't raise the constable of the close, either. I went out and found the poor fellow trussed up by the wall of the bishop's palace. That was when I called the police."

  "Thank goodness you were working late!"

  "Actually, I wasn't working. I was reading a detective story.” Now the dean was definitely blushing.

  He wasn't looking at her, but he was still holding her hand.

  Hunting for the first-aid kit, Miriam had noticed tins of soup for one in the cupboard. It struck her that a person could be busy and important, yet still come home to an empty house.

  She cleared her throat.

  "Tell me, Jim,” she said, “have you ever thought of taking up bowls?"

  Copyright © 2010 Christine Poulson

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  Black Mask: THE WIDOW'S GARDEN by Bruce Rubenstein

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Bruce Rubenstein is a specialist in true-cime writing. His 2006 book Greed, Rage, and Love Gone Wrong: Murder in Minnesota recounts ten of his state's most famous murder cases and covers several periods in Minnesota history. His twenty-five-year background in that field, which entails meticulous research, has paid off richly in his fiction, which makes readers feel they've stepped right back in time, as in this story set just after the end of Prohibition.

  Every spring the widow Cavanaugh invites me to her garden party, every spring I attend, and every year I swear it's the last time. It's not my kind of party. No pig's knuckles, no sauerkraut, nary a bent copper, gangster, or floozy to be seen. There's supposed to be some hooch in the punch, but I doubt it.

  The high point of the evening comes when the widow, Francine is her name, reads a “poim” she's composed for the occasion. A little coterie of admirers gathers round while she stands next to the garden fairy and emotes.

  Her poem always begins with flowers bursting forth in the spring, then cuts to a few stanzas that may or may not be about love bursting forth within her brief marriage. Frankly, I find this embarrassing. I've learned over the years to take it in out of earshot; at a distance it can be charming. She doesn't recite until dusk has fallen. There is always a faint scent of flowers on the breeze. Tiny colored lights are strung through the shrubbery, and along the stone walls that separate her huge backyard from those of her Summit Avenue neighbors. I remember one evening, it might've been last year, when a bright quarter-moon gleamed off the milky glass wings of the garden fairy and cast a pale glow over Francine's little heart-shaped face.

  She's gained a pound or two since we met, but she's still a fey creature. You almost expect her to float away like a balloon when her “poim” is finished. Instead she curtsies, then flits amongst her lady friends for praise and hugs, along with the occasional limp handshake from some frail-looking young fellows who are keeping the gals company.

  About then I hear someone in the nearby bushes clear his throat. That will be her father, Arthur Brandon, who offers me a slug of scotch from his flask. The two of us hang in the background and reminisce for a while. He's always a little apprehensive around me, but he needs someone to share a nip with on these occasions and I'm glad to oblige.

  Arthur called me the summer of 1934. He said he had a case he wanted me to pursue, and asked me to come to his office for the lowdown.

  I guessed what he had in mind. His son-in-law had been snatched three years earlier. There'd been several other high-profile kidnappings around that time, all wealthy men or their relatives. The difference was, they'd been returned to their families after the ransom was delivered. Frank Cavanaugh was never seen again.

  Arthur was a surprise, considering his legendary status. I'd always pictured him as a gimlet-eyed miser, well-organized and ruthlessly efficient. He was nothing of the sort. He was a husky, balding fellow seated behind a huge, cluttered desk, vest unbuttoned, tie loosened, and some stubble under his jaw that he'd missed when he shaved that morning. He mumbled to himself as he rooted around among the documents strewn over his desk. Eventually he found a key, unlocked the top drawer, and pulled out a bottle. I guess he knew my reputation as well as I knew his.

  There were two lines outside Arthur's bank when the 1930 panic got rolling, one for the run that all banks were suffering, and one made up of people who'd heard that Arthur played his cards right before Black Tuesday, and had plenty of liquid assets. They wanted in. From then on Arthur was banker to the elite in St. Paul.

  We had a few nips. He showed me a picture of his late wife an
d told me his daughter was just like her. Sweet and guileless. “I'm going to tell you something I didn't tell the police,” he said, when we got down to cases. “I marked those bills, most of them, at least. In indelible ink, just a tiny curlicue under the Federal Reserve seal. Took me all night. Here, look."

  He picked up a magnifying glass and showed me the mark on a century note that he laid on the desk for my perusal. “I gave them four hundred of these, McDonough. Forty thousand dollars, and it didn't buy my daughter's husband back. You heard what they did with him, didn't you? She has nightmares about it."

  Couldn't blame her for that. Her husband had fallen into the hands of amateurs.

  The Barker-Karpis gang had snatched Bill Hamm, the brewery magnate, and the banker Edward Bremer. They'd demanded $100,000 for Hamm, $200,000 for Bremer, and got every nickel. The hostages had been slapped around some, but were in reasonably good shape when they were released.

  Cavanaugh's kidnappers had demanded a relative pittance, the mark of the novice as far as the bulls were concerned. That was borne out by something they'd discovered a few months later, which made its way into the newspapers. A car thief who'd been collared over in Minneapolis gave the coppers some information in return for leniency. He told them that awhile back he'd been hired to steal a getaway bucket by a man who wore a mask when they met. They'd made a deal for a few bucks on the spot, more when a big payoff came through. During negotiations, the masked man let it slip that the car was for the Cavanaugh snatch.

  A few weeks later the masked man came around to pay. He told the buggy bandit that the scheme had been to stash Cavanaugh in an apartment until the ransom was in hand, but the palooka in charge of that arrangement failed to pay the rent, resulting in some last minute make-do.