AHMM, March 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Then maybe you ought to send the guy back to obedience school.” She pointed a forefinger at her captor. “Now, without further crap, tell me why you people have abducted me."

  "First things first.” Natalie extracted a small red notebook from the hip pocket of her jeans. “Do you have any food allergies? Are there any medications that you have to take regularly? Any medical problems we ought to be aware of so—"

  "Wait, I'm sure as heck not going to fill out a questionnaire for you."

  "It's for your own good, Casey,” Thaxter's vanishing wife assured her. “You'll be staying with us for the next few days, and we both want your stay to be as pleasant as possible. As you know, I'm a blue ribbon chef, and I'll be preparing your—"

  "You can drop a menu off later, Natalie. Right now, please, explain to me why I was kidnapped and brought here. Wherever here is."

  "Oh, this is Chip's cottage in Beverly Glen. He could do with a lot more furniture, but basically it's—"

  "No, I want to know why."

  "You have to keep in mind that Chip, because of all he's suffered at the hands of Hollywood, has a short fuse,” Natalie said. “When you showed up at the memorabilia shop asking about a Groucho Marx postcard ... Well, the poor guy panicked."

  Casey, rubbing her jaw again, asked, “You and this middle-aged juvenile cooked up this goofy scam?"

  "I provided, as you might imagine, Casey, most of the thinking and planning,” the cookbook author said. “About three or four months ago, we—Burt and I—agreed that our marriage was heading for trouble and decided to see a marriage counselor."

  "I remember Burt's telling us about that. Didn't help, apparently."

  "One of the topics we discussed at our second session was guilt,” Natalie continued. “Burt admitted that he'd been feeling guilty for years because he stole the idea for Dickie Danger, Boy Detective from Hank Batsford."

  "So you decided you could make use of his guilt."

  "I was certain I could get alimony if I just divorced him,” Natalie said. “But, hell, that meant all kinds of legal rigmarole, and a long wait before I saw a penny. Threatening Burt with exposure was obviously a quicker way to my goal."

  "Why are you so anxious about money? I thought your cookbooks were bestsellers."

  "Only the first one, Creative Meatballs, even earned back its advance,” she said. “My latest, The Gourmet's Guide to Lettuce, shipped less than a thousand copies."

  "Burt must've told you quite a bit about Hank and the show."

  "He did, but only once. That was on the way back from the counselor's. He's not bright in some ways, Casey, and he kept the file folder full of all the material Hank provided him and copies of all the memos he'd written to him in an unlocked drawer of his filing cabinet. Not smart."

  "He has an unfortunate tendency to trust his wives."

  "One afternoon while Burt was doing voice tracks at SpareyArts, I slipped into his home office, extracted a lot of the Dickie Danger material, made photocopies, and put the stuff back. Used the machine he has right next to his desk.” She smiled. “What I had, I figured, was worth between two hundred and fifty thousand and five hundred thousand dollars to him. He may feel guilty about stealing Hank's ideas, but he sure doesn't want all that to hit the fan."

  "That's what all this is about, huh? To get money out of your husband."

  "A perfectly good motive,” Natalie said. “Our problem was that we couldn't directly approach my husband."

  "So you brought Hank back to life."

  "Exactly, Casey. I did research on Hank Batsford and confirmed what Burt had said. The poor guy was believed dead, but nobody had ever found his body.” She smiled again. “He's only got one relative—lady named Sara Batsford Quinn who lives in Glendale. She even has a Web site devoted to his memory."

  "Obviously she doesn't know anything about his involvement with Dickie Danger."

  "No, but she sure posted a lot of information about Hank and his life,” said Natalie. “Plus more samples of his handwriting and lettering styles."

  "You forged the postcard?"

  "Sure, that wasn't a problem. You seem to have to forgotten that I minored in art at USC."

  "What's your next move?"

  "Already been taken. We sent Burt a letter explaining how much it'll cost him to hush us up—to hush Hank up, that is. We included some samples of the stuff I swiped. He'll, of course, think that Hank had kept his own copies somewhere and retrieved them now,” she explained. “Obviously, we have to keep you quiet here, Casey, until we collect our dough and depart."

  Casey stood up. “How much do you weigh?"

  Burt's unfaithful wife frowned, puzzled. “What's that got to do with—"

  "I figure about ninety-five to a hundred, since you're on the skinny side and only about five foot one,” said Casey. “Myself, being taller and better nourished, weigh in at one twenty-five."

  "Your point isn't getting across to—"

  "And it doesn't look as though you have a gun on your person."

  "I'm a blackmailer maybe, but that sort of work doesn't require a gun."

  "Even though I didn't complete that karate course, I think I can toss you on your fanny and get out of here,” she announced, and moved toward the other woman.

  * * * *

  "Damned shame the Mercedes is in the shop,” complained Burt Thaxter as he guided his last year's Saab up above Sunset into Beverly Glen. “This Saab really needs a tune-up."

  The afternoon rain had grown heavier as they climbed higher into the hills.

  "You do have a permit to carry a pistol?” inquired Wes from the passenger seat.

  "I'm not some gun-nut vigilante. Of course I do."

  Wes said, “I agree with you that Natalie is probably with Chip Dunbarton. Tell me, though, how come you know that?"

  "I haven't,” the voice man said, “been entirely honest with you and Casey."

  "Oh, so?"

  "I've employed other private eyes to—"

  "We're not private eyes."

  "What I'm getting at, Wes, is that around two months ago I hired an outfit with very impressive offices just off Rodeo Drive. The decor was—"

  "Hired them for what?"

  "To follow Nat, especially when she tried one of her great escapes.” He turned onto a narrow side street. “Whether she was gone for a few hours or a few days, it was always that aging juvenile's place up here in Beverly Glen that she spent her time at."

  "Why didn't you use these same detectives for this latest mess?"

  "Now don't be offended, Wes,” Burt said, adjusting his voice so that it conveyed contriteness. “But frankly, this outfit charges too much. If you're a celebrity like me, they think they can—"

  "So you asked us to help out because we work cheap?"

  "Hell, you work for nothing. Can't beat that price.” The actor turned the car onto an even narrower lane.

  "All very flattering. A real agency can have a slogan like ‘We never sleep.’ Case and I can advertise, ‘We never charge.'''

  "You've done pretty well thus far. I'm tempted to give you some kind of honorarium,” Thaxter said. “You both have been a great help. You deduced that the stuff sent to me by the blackmailer had traces of Natalie's perfume all over it. My own sense of smell isn't all that—"

  "She's definitely behind all this. That sandalwood scent made it even clearer."

  Thaxter slowed the Saab. “We'll be confronting the pair of them soon. The cottage is just around the next turn,” he said. “I'll drive on by and park under that stand of pepper trees up yonder. Then we can sneak back and surprise—"

  "The front door is hanging open,” Wes noticed as they passed.

  "Oh, that's always a bad sign.” The actor slowed the car. “Whenever Dickie Danger spies an open door on a house, he's pretty darn sure that something criminal has happened within. I remember in The Case of the Ghost Mansion, for instance, where he found the body of old Mrs. Phelps sprawled on the—"

  "Stop
the car right here, Burt. We'll go look inside."

  "Good, yes.” Hitting the brake, he parked the car at the curb.

  They moved cautiously through the rainy afternoon and up the flagstone path to Dunbarton's open front door. “Dickie Danger almost always finds a body in situations like this,” Thaxter said quietly.

  "If we find one this time, we're going to call the cops."

  "But perhaps, as often happens to Dickie, the killer's cut the phone lines?"

  "Then it's a good thing I have my cell phone in my coat pocket."

  Less than ten seconds later, his cell phone chimed.

  "Keep that damn thing quiet,” urged Thaxter. “It's difficult to sneak up on somebody if you're ringing chimes."

  "Yes?” Wes said into his phone.

  "Can you come over here right away, dear?” asked his wife.

  "Where ... our place?"

  "No, actually I happen to be on Ellison Lane in Beverly Glen."

  "What a happy coincidence, my love, so am I."

  The door opened wider and Casey, borrowed cell phone in hand, looked out into the gray day. “However did you find me?"

  "Clever detective work,” Wes said. “I sensed you were in—"

  "Actually, Casey,” put in Thaxter, “we had absolutely no idea you were here. Wes had a hunch that Natalie was behind the plot to extort money from me, and I guessed she might be with her lover. Is she?"

  "Both of them are here, yes. Natalie is in an upstairs bedroom, tied up with some bedsheets I ripped up,” she explained. “I used some simple karate on her and decked her. Looks like I'm having the last laugh, Wes, since you told me I was dippy for ever studying marital—"

  "Martial,” he corrected. “Where's Chip?"

  "Flat on his backside in the parlor.” She pointed over her slim shoulder with her thumb. “He tried to grab me as I was sneaking out the front door here."

  "You used karate on him too?"

  Casey shook her head. “No, him I hit on the skull with a brass lamp I grabbed up off the mail table."

  Her husband crossed the threshold. “Looks very much like Natalie and Chip are the ones who posed as Hank Batsford."

  "No doubt about that,” said Casey, moving along the hallway. “Natalie admitted all that before I knocked her cold."

  Wes stepped into the parlor to look at Chip Dunbarton. The thin actor was sprawled on the imitation Persian carpet. “You're quite formidable.” He put an appreciative arm around Casey's waist.

  "That's because I was really and truly ticked off,” she told him. “He socked me in the memory shop."

  "That's a painful place to be socked.” He glanced around. “Where'd Burt get to?"

  "He went upstairs to look for Natalie."

  "He can't be thinking of getting back together with her?"

  "Doesn't matter,” said Casey. “I intend to charge both Natalie and Chip with kidnapping."

  * * * *

  It was a week and a half later that Burt Thaxter dropped in at Wes's office at SpareyArts. He had a copy of his latest Dickie Danger, Boy Detective in his hand. “I hate to screw up your working day, Wes,” said the voice man. “But since I had to come in today to record two Dickie sound tracks, I thought I'd impose on you and ask if you can help on—"

  "Are you and Natalie still back together?” He pushed back from his drawing board, looked up at his actor friend.

  "Yes, we are. I'm aware that extortion and adultery—well, either one is sufficient reason for divorce. Yet Natalie has promised me that she will be faithful from here on out."

  "And what has Chip promised?” Wes asked, leaving his chair.

  "He has, as I understand, embarked for Europe, where he hopes to get employment in some quickie movies financed by people who are looking for new ways to launder their money,” he said. “And, Wes, I want to thank you both for not having either of them arrested for kidnapping Casey."

  "Since you immediately took her back, it would've made for an even more difficult marriage. Casey couldn't charge just one of them, so that left Chip out as well,” Wes said. “She also got to thinking that she didn't want to suffer through all the rigmarole of going to the police and then to court."

  "I appreciate that, as does Natalie,” the actor said. “She's not mad at Casey for using karate on her and trussing her up like a—"

  "Since the recording session is commencing in fifteen minutes, you'd better—"

  "I have another problem, Wes, and I was wondering if you and—"

  "Does this have to do with Hank's sister, Sara Batsford Quinn?"

  Burt did a frowning take. “It does, sure, but how in the—"

  "You can thank Casey for that."

  "She's in contact with that woman? Is she a partner in this latest attempt to extort money from me?"

  "Nope, not at all. But Case did go out to Glendale a few days ago to turn over all that material that Natalie had copied from your files, Burt."

  "But she returned all those photocopies to me the next day."

  "After she'd made photocopies of the photocopies."

  "You mean Casey gave that material to his sister? The woman told me she found the stuff in an old trunk she'd just gotten out of storage."

  Nodding, Wes said, “Casey coached her. Though reformed, my wife is still very good at constructing lies and falsehoods."

  "But why? Is it because the honorarium I sent you was too small? I mean, five hundred dollars is still a handsome sum."

  "Casey has a strong sense of justice. She believes that Hank's next of kin ought to have a share of the profits you've been making off of your boy detective. Especially now that there's talk of a full-length theatrical Dickie Danger, Boy Detective movie."

  "How the hell did she find that out?"

  "I told her.” Wes pointed at the door. “Go record, Burt. Casey tells me that Mrs. Quinn is a pleasant woman, and you're likely to work out an amicable settlement with her."

  Scowling, Thaxter walked to the door, slapping the rolled up script against his right leg. “I have to admit I'm very disappointed in you two,” he said over his shoulder. “Fact is, I'm not going to recommend you to any of my friends."

  "I appreciate that,” said Wes.

  Copyright (c) 2006 Ron Goulart

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.

  ZKS JMXP KRI ZCU KATIXSI VUATIY, RTI KS JUZ SBSXF VSTTF UH MZ, RTI YKS AZZSXPF IMYRVVSRXSI. RTI YLUZPRTI FRXI LUAPIT'Z HMTI KSX.

  —PUXI IATYRTF

  CIPHER ANSWER:A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  FIRST BLOOD by EDWARD D. HOCH

  If the cactus forest of Arizona had impressed Annie Sears on her drive from El Paso to San Diego, she was almost as impressed with the line of giant wind turbines atop a hill where cattle grazed. Somehow they seemed to symbolize this new megacity, already the seventh largest in the country and almost twice the size of San Francisco.

  "You know, we have a much larger department than El Paso,” Chief Williams told her the first day she reported for duty.

  "Of course.” She'd dressed conservatively for their first meeting, deciding on a white blouse and gray cotton suit for this warm June morning. Her long hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she'd kept her makeup to a bare minimum.

  "We do have some of the same problems, though, with illegal border crossings that add to the crime statistics. I need all the help I can get."

  She shifted uneasily in her chair, hoping they hadn't hired her away from the El Paso department merely to chase illegals across the desert. “I've been wanting a chance on a big-city force,” she told him. “I hope I've found it here."

  "Your record speaks very well for you, Ms. Sears.” He pressed a button on his desk. “I'm going to assign
you to work with Sergeant Reynolds in Homicide. I think you'll find him to be a good teacher."

  Annie wasn't really looking for a teacher, just a partner who knew his way around the city until she got her bearings. But the door opened and there was Sergeant Reynolds extending his hand. “Call me Josh,” he suggested with a wry smile. He was a good decade older than her, probably around forty, with dark hair and a strong jaw line. “Good to have you aboard, Annie."

  He showed her around the squad room and took her down to the forensic lab. Along the way, she met over a dozen people whose names became a blur in her memory. She guessed she'd sort them all out eventually. Reynolds assigned her an empty desk just outside his own cubicle and handed her the badge and holstered pistol he'd picked up from the captain.

  "You're one of us now,” he said. “You'll want to put in some time on the range with the weapon, just to familiarize yourself with it. You should carry it even when you're off duty.” Over coffee he explained the workings of the department and the geography of the city. “City Hall, the courthouses, and the Metro Correction Center are all here within an area of a few blocks. Unfortunately, police headquarters is a dozen blocks to the east."

  He showed her the map on one wall. “This is all San Diego?” she asked.

  He laughed. “It's a big city. Some people call it the birthplace of California. Most of our work will be downtown.” As if on cue, the phone on his desk rang. He answered it with a brusque “Reynolds, Homicide.” When he hung up, he reached in a drawer for his service automatic. “Your first case, sooner than I expected."

  "What is it?"

  "Robbery and shooting at the Essex Jewelers in Emerald Plaza. Let's go."

  The time was 11:25.

  * * * *

  Emerald Plaza, Reynolds explained as they drove west on Broadway, was barely ten years old. It consisted of three hexagonal towers topped with emerald neon rings, with a hundred-foot-high atrium featuring a huge chandelier made of emerald green panels. Essex Jewelers had offices high up in one of the towers. “They're not looking for walk-in business. They buy gold and diamonds from estates and sell it to wealthy buyers in Beverly Hills or Miami Beach."