EQMM, January 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Dell Magazines

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  January 2007

  Vol. 129, No. 1. Whole No. 785

  Dell Magazines

  475 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  Edition Copyright © 2006 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications

  Ellery Queen is a registered trademark of the Estate of Ellery Queen. All rights reserved worldwide.

  All stories in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine are fiction. Any similarities are coincidental.

  ISSN 0013-6328 published monthly except for double-issues of March/April and September/October.

  Cover illustration by Barry Waldman.

  CONTENTS

  FICTION

  The Case of the Dead Wait BY PETER LOVESEY

  Garbo's Knees BY TERENCE FAHERTY

  Candy Cane Wars BY JAMES POWELL

  The Theft of the Five-Pound Note BY EDWARD D. HOCH

  With the Rich, a Little Patience BY JOHN VAN KIRK

  Fingers to the Bone BY ANDREW TAYLOR

  Stone Cold Christmas BY DOUG ALLYN

  Out of Bounds BY TERRY BARBIERI

  POETRY

  Careers BY BARBARA MAYOR

  REVIEWS

  The Jury Box BY JON L. BREEN

  PASSPORT TO CRIME

  Goodbye, Friends BY LOUIS SANDERS

  DEPARTMENT OF FIRST STORIES

  The Royals of San Marco High BY JODI TAMARA HARRISON

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  THE CASE OF THE DEAD WAIT by Peter Lovesey

  THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  GARBO'S KNEES by Terence Faherty

  CANDY CANE WARS by James Powell

  THE THEFT OF THE FIVE-POUND by Edward D. Hoch

  WITH THE RICH, A LITTLE PATIENCE by John Van Kirk

  FINGERS TO THE BONE by Andrew Taylor

  THE ROYALS OF SAN MARCO HIGH by Jodi Tamara Harrison

  GOODBYE, FRIENDS by Louis Sanders

  OUT OF BOUNDS by Terry Barbieri

  CAREERS by Barbara Mayor

  NEXT ISSUE...

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  THE CASE OF THE DEAD WAIT by Peter Lovesey

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  Art by Mark Evan Walker

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  The Rosemary and Thyme series, to which this new Peter Lovesey story belongs, has been adapted for TV in the U.K., with Felicity Kendal and Pam Ferris in the starring roles. In its first successful season, the show drew in seven million viewers with each episode. (It's available in the U.S. on DVD.) Fans of Peter Lovesey's other popular series, the Peter Diamond mysteries, won't want to miss two new titles from Soho: The Circle and The Secret Hangman.

  1.

  Christmas at home wasn't ever in Laura Thyme's plans. Where was home? She'd hurled a large stone through the front window of her last one. Her two-timing cradle-snatcher of a husband Nick had blighted all the nice memories of that place. She tried to think of herself these days as a free spirit. Tried, because deep inside she hadn't entirely got the man out of her system. He still had the capacity to hurt.

  Well, she was sure of one thing. She wouldn't dump herself on either of her grown-up children. They would have plans of their own, and quite right, too. If Matthew or Helena looked forward to pulling anything on Christmas Day it wasn't a cracker with their mum. They really were free spirits, long past the stage when Laura made it her business to know who they were sleeping with.

  As for Rosemary—her gardening oppo, Dr. Rosemary Boxer, the ex-academic with the happy knack of finding wealthy clients with ailing plants—she'd be the perfect company for a festive lunch, but she had an elderly mum living alone. Last weekend Rosemary had called to wish Laura a merrier time than she was expecting for herself.

  The result: Laura was house-sitting.

  She was alone in The Withers, a large Jacobean house in Wiltshire. Two of her oldest and richest friends, Jane and Michael Eadington, were having three weeks in the Canaries. A call at the end of November had set it up. “We're in such trouble, Laura. You know we've got these silly orchids that are Mike's latest hobby? Our daughter Maeve—the model—was going to look after them and now she's got a chance to do a series of shows with Calvin Klein in New York. Could you, would you, will you, please, be our fairy godmother?"

  Sorted.

  Even after discovering that the house had another resident—Wilbur, the rescue greyhound.

  She'd driven the Land Rover down there on Christmas Eve. For all its mechanical uncertainties, the ancient 4x4 was ideal transport for the country. She overheated only once, and the car didn't overheat at all. She was just in time to see the Eadingtons off. A quick introduction to the orchids, six trays of them in the conservatory under banks of fluorescent tubing. Hurried instructions about the central heating, persuading Wilbur to wear a coat for winter walks, and what to do in a power failure. Firm orders not to be in the least concerned if anything broke or went wrong. “It's all replaceable, darling. We're just so pleased to have you here. Treat it like your own home. Raid the freezer, watch the DVDs, drink the wine in the cellar, have an orgy if you want."

  For a few minutes after they'd driven up the lane Laura wondered if she'd done the right thing. The house seemed bigger than she remembered from the last visit. She'd never once set foot upstairs. The orchids were in flower, but didn't look pleased at being handed over to her care. Winter was supposed to be the flowering season, but some of them were wilting. Mike had talked about misting and humidity levels and feeding. She didn't want any casualties. She returned to the vast space the Eadingtons used as the living room.

  A sudden movement at the window gave her a wicked shock. The greyhound had emerged from behind the curtain, where he'd been sitting on the sill. Yes, a greyhound on a window sill. It was that kind of room, that kind of window, that kind of curtain. “I'm in charge now, Wilbur,” she told him, wagging a finger, “and if the two of us are going to survive you'd better not play any more tricks like that."

  Treat the place like your home, they'd said, so she took out her Christmas cards and started setting them up. The cards triggered mixed feelings. It was good to hear from old friends, but it could hurt when the envelopes came addressed to Nick and Laura with messages along the lines of “How are you two getting along? Give us a call and let's all meet up in 2007."

  Wilbur jumped back on his sill and knocked down most of the cards.

  "Making some kind of point, are we?” Laura said. But she moved them to the grand piano.

  When the doorbell rang a moment later, the rest of the cards dropped out of her hand. It was a chiming bell and her charming friends had set it to the opening bar of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” which can be pretty startling when you don't expect it. Wilbur barked, so she had to shut him in the conservatory first.

  A tall—six foot tall, at least—thin-faced woman with deep-set, accusing eyes was on the doorstep with a plate covered with a cloth. “And who the devil are you?” she said.

  Laura did her best to explain, but it didn't make much impact.

  "Where's young Maeve? She ought to be looking after the house,” the woman said.

  "Yes, but she's
dashed off to New York. A last-minute change of plans."

  "What do I do with these, then? I made them for the family.” She lifted the cloth briefly to reveal a batch of underdone mince pies.

  "I don't know,” Laura said; adding with tact, “They smell delicious. I'm sorry, but you didn't say who you are."

  "Gertrude Appleton from next-door. We always exchange mince pies at Yuletide. Have you made yours?"

  "I just arrived."

  That didn't count with Gertrude Appleton. She clicked her tongue and looked ready to stamp her foot as well. “I must have one of yours, or I'll get bad luck for a year."

  "Why?"

  "It's Wiltshire custom, isn't it? You eat a pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas, and every one has to be baked by a different friend. Then, if the Lord is merciful, you'll survive to see another Christmas. Bless my soul, there isn't anyone else I can ask."

  "You'd better step inside a moment,” Laura said, not wanting to panic this woman and playing for time while she thought about ways to resolve the problem.

  "No, I won't come in,” Gertrude Appleton said, and those fierce eyes were suddenly red at the edges and starting to water. “I don't know you from Adam. Couldn't call thee a friend."

  "Let's be friends. Why not? It's the season for it,” Laura said, dredging deep to sound convivial. “Listen, Gertrude, why don't I do some baking right now and make some pies for you?"

  "But you won't have mincemeat."

  "I'm positive all the ingredients must be in the kitchen. Jane adores cooking, as you know."

  Gertrude raised her chin in a self-righteous way. “Mine was made with the puddings four weeks ago, the week after Stir-up Sunday."

  "Stirrup what?"

  "Stir-up Sunday. Haven't you heard of that? The last Sunday before Advent. That's when you make your puddings and mince, after the collect for the day: ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy people.’”

  This was getting more and more weird.

  "In that case, Jane may have made hers already,” Laura said. “I'll check. One way or another, you'll get a mince pie from me, Gertrude. Depend upon it."

  "Take these, then.” Gertrude thrust the plate towards her. “You'll need some for the waits."

  Laura had a mental picture of old-fashioned kitchen scales, with her mince pie being weighed against Gertrude's and found wanting.

  "The carollers. They come round every Christmas Eve, and they always want a bite to eat and mulled wine, too, the boozy lot. I must be off. I have seasonal jobs to do. There's greenfly and aphids in the greenhouse."

  "You're a gardener?” Laura said with interest.

  "Ha!” She tossed her head. “Am I a gardener? I wouldn't bother to go on without my garden. It's the saving of me."

  "I do some gardening, too. What are you going to do about the aphids—spray them?"

  Gertrude looked shocked. “I don't hold with chemicals. No, I'll smoke the varmints out, like I always do."

  "Fumigation? Effective, I expect, though I've never tried it,” Laura said.

  "I've got these magical smoke things, like little strips of brown paper. Had them for years. Just close up all the windows and seal the cracks and set light to they strips. Let it blaze for a while, and then I stamp it out so they can smoulder. Soon as the smoke appears I'm out of there quicker than hell would scorch a feather and shut the door behind me. When I go in again, there's not a greenfly left to say it ever happened."

  Laura refrained from mentioning that the magical smoke things undoubtedly contained chemicals of some kind. “Good luck with it, then. And I won't forget the mince pies. Which direction do you live?"

  She was glad to have a task, although she could think of better ones than this. After closing the door she carried the plate to Jane's enormous kitchen, plonked it on the table, and checked the walk-in larder for jars of mincemeat.

  No joy. If you were planning to spend Christmas in Lanzarote, she reflected, you wouldn't feel obliged to make mincemeat. Even on Stir-up Sunday.

  She checked the freezer. Well stocked, but not with seasonal items.

  She thought of the supermarket in Bradford on Avon. A bought mince pie wouldn't suffice, of course. Those eyes like calculators would spot a Mr. Kipling at fifty paces. The pastry, at the very least, would have to look homemade.

  Then Laura had her inspiration. She'd save herself the toil, tears, and sweat by recycling some of Gertrude's own mince pies and simply making new lids for them. She picked a sharp knife and prised the lid off one. A neat dissection. The trick would be to spread a little jam over the mincemeat to seal the replacement.

  She found all the ingredients she needed and switched on the oven.

  When the phone on the wall rang she was up to her elbows in flour.

  "You'll just have to leave a message after the tone,” she said to it.

  "This is Calvin Klein's office in New York. Mr Klein was hoping to speak to Maeve about the trip. We'll call back."

  Laura said, “Calvin Klein! I could be speaking to Calvin Klein and I'm sifting ruddy pastry?"

  She was adding the egg yolk and water when the phone went again. This time she grabbed it with a floury hand. In a come-hitherish tone she said, “Hi, how can I be of service?"

  "Laura?"

  She knew that voice and it wasn't Calvin Klein's. “You! I thought you were someone else. Oh, never mind. It's good to hear from you."

  "It's a miracle,” Rosemary said. “I used one of those directory-enquiry numbers and I'm sure it was someone in Calcutta, but she seemed to know the Eadingtons. You're installed in deepest Wilts, then?"

  "'In deepest’ sums it up. I haven't been here an hour and I'm already making pastry for the locals. What's with you?"

  "A change of plans, actually. Mother forgot to tell me. When I got here she was all packed up to leave. You know she does competitions? She won a trip for two to the Bahamas, courtesy of Cadbury, or Kellogg's, or someone."

  "How marvellous! But what are you going to wear? I bet you didn't pack your bikini."

  "Oh, she isn't taking me,” Rosemary said, as if that went without saying. “You know what Mother's like. She's taking some old gent called Mr. Pinkerton from the Tai Chi group. I'm high and dry, Laura. I was wondering if—well—if there's a spare bed in this stately pile you're looking after."

  Laura took a step back and there was a yelp from Wilbur, who had got too close. “That wasn't me. Do I have a spare bed? Dozens. That's brilliant."

  "I could get a train to Bath tonight."

  "You've made my Christmas. I'll be waiting on the platform."

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  She had fitted the fresh lids on those pies, twelve of them, and very appetizing they looked. She'd used a beaten-egg glaze that gave them a lovely amber finish to leave no doubt that they were different from Gertrude Appleton's insipid-looking offerings. Rosemary was due on a late train at 10:50, so it was likely that the carollers would get their treats. Would eleven pies be enough? She needed to put one aside, of course, for Gertrude, to help her survival plan. If twelve or more carollers came, Laura told herself, it was a sure bet that some wouldn't want another pie if they'd been eating them all around the village. The mulled wine simmering in a saucepan was another matter.

  About eight-thirty, Wilbur howled and Laura heard muted singing. She shut Wilbur in the kitchen and opened the front door. She needn't have worried about the catering. A mere four men stood under a lantern. Three wore cardboard-and-tinsel crowns and were giving an uneven rendering of “We Three Kings.” The fourth, holding up the lantern, was the vicar, unless his collar was from a carnival shop, like the crowns. He looked too young to be a clergyman. Just like policemen, Laura thought.

  When they started on the solo verses, Melchior's reedy voice almost faded away. For a fat man he was producing a very thin sound. Caspar, with “Frankincense to offer have I,” was marginally better, and Balthazar, “Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume,” lost the tune altogether. She was thankf
ul when they got to the last chorus. She popped a two-pound coin into the box and invited them inside.

  "Muddy feet,” said the vicar. “We'd better not."

  Melchior had already taken a step forward and needed restraining by his companions. Too much mulled wine already, Laura suspected. But she still fetched the tray from the kitchen with the jug of wine and the pies.

  "I may have over-catered here. I was expecting more of you,” she said as she invited them to help themselves. The man who'd sung the part of Caspar handed round the plate of mince pies, but it was obvious that they'd eaten well already. Only Melchior took one. The wine was more popular.

  "We would have had two shepherds as well,” Balthazar said, “but one didn't show up and the other dropped out at Long Farm."

  "It's quite a trek,” the vicar said.

  "He was legless,” Balthazar said.

  "You don't live here, do you?” Caspar asked Laura. “You're not a burglar, by any chance?"

  "Giving us mulled wine and the finest mince pie I've had all night? You must be joking,” Melchior said to his friend.

  A slightly dodgy mince pie, Laura almost confessed. They seemed likable men, even if their singing wasn't up to much. She introduced herself and explained about the housesitting. They told her their names but she soon forgot them. They were the vicar and Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar tonight, and she'd probably never see them again, so why think of them as anything else?

  "What do you do when you're not housesitting?” the tuneless one, Balthazar, asked.

  "Gardening, mainly."

  "So do I. Not a lot of gardening to be done this time of year,” little Caspar said.

  "You're wrong about that,” Laura said. “There are no end of jobs. I'll be out there tomorrow."

  "Cutting some holly and mistletoe?” the vicar said.

  "Good suggestion. The house could do with some, as you see."

  "Christmas roses? You've got some in the front."

  "If you mean the Helleborus niger, they're not such good specimens. The ones you buy in florists come so much taller and whiter, thanks to forcing,” Laura said, thinking Rosemary would have been proud of that bit of expertise.