AHMM, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Wyoming Territory was cool in November but beautiful to behold, with great rocky hills and scraggly trees. The sky was clear and blue and the sun shone happily as the stagecoach rolled to a stop some forty-five minutes out of town.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Callaghan,” the driver said, “but this is as far as you and your friends go."

  "What are you talking about?” Patrick asked. “We paid for passage to River Rock."

  But Corey already understood. Apparently everyone aboard had known what was going to happen. None of the three businessmen would meet his eyes.

  "Will you take Miss Parson on out of here?” Corey asked.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Callaghan, I have my orders,” the driver said.

  Corey looked to the businessmen. “Are you just going to sit there? A woman's in danger."

  The three men squirmed. One of them finally muttered: “It's the Russel Gang, doggone it!"

  "It's all right, Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Parson said. She showed no fear at all. “I'd much rather walk with two men like you and Mr. O'Sullivan than ride with these cowards."

  She reached past Corey and opened the door. “Driver, get our bags off the top of the coach and I expect you to refund our fares."

  "Russel didn't say anything about—"

  "Do it!"

  The driver swallowed and began to retrieve their bags.

  Corey stepped out of the coach and helped Miss Parson to the ground. She held her head high. Nothing in her demeanor suggested this was any place but where she wanted to be.

  Patrick got out of the coach as the driver dropped his and Corey's duffles down beside them. He thought better about dropping Miss Parson's carpetbag and handed it to Patrick.

  "And our fares!” Miss Parson insisted, as he began to settle back in his seat.

  "But I don't have them on me!” the driver whined. “Your fares are back in the station."

  "Then pay me yourself,” Miss Parson ordered. “I may be murdered out here, but I'll be damned before I let myself be robbed by a two-bit coward of a thief!"

  The driver stared at her for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Corey. It was clear that he had heard what had happened at the boarding house. He began to search his pockets. “I don't know how much I have on me."

  "Will this do?” one of the businessmen asked, flipping a golden double eagle out of the window at them. It was worth far more than they had paid for their ride.

  "Driver, get us out of here!” the businessman ordered.

  The stagecoach driver picked up his reins and the coach lurched on its way.

  Corey, Patrick, and Miss Parson stood for a moment staring at each other as the dust from the coach drifted past them. Finally, Corey reached down and picked up his duffel and Miss Parson's bag. “No reason to make this easy for them,” he said. “Let's hit the trail."

  The hoots and howls of approaching riders distracted Corey's friends from answering his suggestion.

  The Russel Gang was riding toward them.

  * * * *

  Corey put down the bag and turned to face the newcomers. Neither he, Patrick, nor Miss Parson carried a gun, so they were at a distinct disadvantage in any hostile encounter with the gang. Four of the five men held pistols or rifles. All sported bruises from the two earlier fights.

  Jack Russel had his arm in a sling and his free hand gripped the reins of his horse. He led his men in a galloping circle around the travelers that ended with him facing Corey and his men spread out to fence Patrick and Miss Parson in.

  "Isn't this nice,” Russel slurred, clearly having trouble speaking with his bruised jaw. “'Magine meeting you out here."

  "Shoot us if you want to,” Patrick said, “but don't make us listen to you speak through that mouth."

  "Mr. O'Sullivan,” Miss Parson said. “This probably isn't the best time to further anger them."

  "Who's trying to anger anyone?” Patrick asked. “That jaw is so swollen it hurts my ears just to listen to him rasp."

  "I'll make you hurt!” Russel growled, dropping his reins to draw his pistol. It was clearly awkward for him to get it out of the off-side holster and firmly into his hand.

  "That's why I told you to shoot us,” Patrick said again. “It's the only way you'll be able to hurt us. After all, my Corey has already beaten the lot of you once and some of you twice. Hell, even an old man like me beat one of you, so it's not like we're scared of another man-to-man fight."

  Jack Russel's purple face was growing even darker. “Tom,” he grunted. “Kill him if he speaks again."

  The outlaw to Russel's left dismounted and stepped forward, covering the three with his rifle.

  "Miss Parson,” Russel said. “I'll say this once. You come with me and be my whore and I'll spare the lives of your friends."

  "All right,” Miss Parson said without hesitation, startling every man present with her answer.

  She stepped forward toward Russel, but Corey grabbed her wrist. “I'm sorry, Miss Parson, but I can't let you do this—not even if I thought they would keep their word."

  Miss Parson looked into Corey's eyes for a moment, then slapped his face before jerking back away from him, trying to slip from his grasp. The slap caught Corey by surprise and she succeeded in pulling him several steps closer to Tom.

  "Please, Mr. Callaghan,” she said. “There's no need for all of us to die."

  Tom's bruised face broke into a wide grin. “That's right, Callaghan, don't try and stop the lady from being a woman."

  Corey did not let go and Tom waved to the other gang members. “Come on, boys, let's give her a hand. Maybe Jack will share."

  All around the circle, men dismounted their horses and hurried to help Miss Parson pull free of Corey. Only Russel, himself, remained in the saddle.

  As the first man laid hold of him, Corey released his grip on Miss Parson, allowing her to throw herself into the path of Sam Taylor. Corey's left hand shot out and grabbed the barrel of Tom's rifle, pulling it easily out of the startled man's grip. Pivoting about and swinging the rifle like an axe, he brought the stock down on the shoulder of the final man, while Patrick darted in to punch the man touching Corey.

  Miss Parson grappled and clawed at Sam Taylor, trying to drag him down to the ground.

  Corey lunged for Tom, hoping that Russel was too poor of a left-handed shot to risk shooting into the brawl. Tom had recovered from his momentary surprise and met Corey's chin with a surprisingly strong right cross. It was completely unexpected. Corey had had such an easy time with these men on the previous two occasions that he had discarded the possibility that any of them really knew how to fight. But each of those times he had taken them by surprise. On this occasion, they were much more ready for him.

  Tom took advantage of the success of his first blow to land a second from the left. Then he stepped back and tried to draw his pistol.

  Corey was on him before the gun could clear leather, punching in combination with his right and left fists, showing Tom how he had beaten Sam Taylor.

  Corey left Tom laid out on his back and turned to help Miss Parson and Patrick. A gunshot cracked the air but as no one seemed to be hit, Corey ignored it. He raced past Patrick, who seemed to be holding his own and ran to help Miss Parson against Taylor.

  The outlaw saw what was coming just before Corey reached him. He left off struggling with Miss Parson and too late reached for his gun. With Miss Parson still hanging on to his right arm, Taylor could neither draw his weapon nor defend himself. Corey punched him hard in the neck—just below the chin—and hoped that he had killed the man. A final desperate twist out of the way on Taylor's part probably meant that he didn't.

  A second shot cut the air and Corey felt a stinging sensation burn across his cheek. He whirled about to find Jack Russel bearing down on him, no longer mounted, pistol straight out in front of him, left-hand thumb pulling back the hammer to fire again.

  He wasn't close enough for Corey to grab or bat the weapon. And he wasn't far enough away to miss.


  Corey stood frozen as the outlaw's finger tightened on the trigger, trying to guess which way he should leap.

  A third gunshot split the Wyoming air.

  Russel's eyes widened. His arm in the sling pawed at the patch of red spreading across his chest. Then the pistol fell from his hand and he dropped dead.

  Miss Parson coolly stuck her derringer back into the little pocket in her dress.

  * * * *

  "That was quite a strategy,” Corey complimented Miss Parson. “I was completely taken in. I really thought you were going off with him."

  They were sitting on the trail some three miles farther out of Perdition, having helped themselves to many of the outlaws supplies but deciding that none of them were skilled enough to ride the gang's horses. Besides, stealing horses was usually a hanging offense, and Corey had no doubt that Russel and his men had stolen those animals from somebody.

  "It wasn't a strategy,” Miss Parson told him. “While I thought the odds were slim that they would let you and Mr. O'Sullivan live, I deemed the chances better than if I stayed and made you fight for me.” It was by far the longest speech she had made since killing Jack Russel.

  Corey tried for a moment to imagine life knowing he had left Miss Parson to the likes of Jack Russel. He shook his head. It was just too terrible. He couldn't imagine it. “Well, it worked anyway,” he said, “and I'm awfully glad it did."

  "You could have both been killed,” Miss Parson whispered, clearly as haunted by the thought as Corey was of leaving her with Russel.

  "Well, you saved us,” Corey said, “or maybe we all saved each other."

  They sat in silence for a while, watching a hawk glide on the wind.

  "Wait a minute,” Patrick said. “Why didn't you tell us you carry a derringer?"

  Miss Parson shrugged. “Holdout weapons are much more effective if no one knows about them."

  "But all the trouble we've been in and you've never drawn it."

  "Are you certain?” Miss Parson asked, almost allowing her lips to smile. “What you really mean is: ‘All the trouble we've been in and I've never fired it.’”

  Patrick thought about that for a minute. “I guess that's so."

  Corey got to his feet and picked up his duffel and Miss Parson's bag. “We've got a long walk ahead of us, I suggest we get going."

  Patrick and Miss Parson rose as well.

  "A little holdout gun,” Patrick muttered. “Who would have guessed?"

  "The West can be very dangerous for a woman on her own,” Miss Parson said. “I haven't always been fortunate enough to travel with two good friends."

  Copyright (c) 2008 Gilbert M. Stack

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Foul play is never more interesting than when the mystery author gets a dose of his or her own medicine, as is the case with three novels we visit this month. These books by seasoned novelists Karen Joy Fowler, Heather Graham, and Karen Hanson Stuyck also explore the complicated relationships between writers, their works, and their fans.

  In a delightful departure for the author of The Jane Austen Book Club, Karen Joy Fowler introduces mystery novelist A. B. Early in Wit's End (Putnam, $24.95). This is no conventional murder mystery. There are mysteries to be solved, secrets to be uncovered, and even a possible murder to be revealed, but what drives this story is young Rima Lanisell's desire to learn more about her deceased father and his relationship to her godmother, Addison Early.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Invited by Addison to come to California and stay in her seaside home, “Wit's End,” Rima is challenged to penetrate the very private author's wall of secrecy. Rima must garner clues from Addison's books—intriguingly, in one of them, Rima's father was incoporated as a character who murders his wife and becomes the arch nemesis of Addison's hero, the detective Maxwell Lane. More revelations come from Rima's explorations in the attic, which holds correspondence written to both Addison and Maxwell Lane, and by tracking the history of a cult named Holy City that had both a real existence in her father's life and a fictional existence in Addison's novels.

  As with all of Fowler's novels, from her first, Sarah Canary (1991), to the present one, her sly wit and finely drawn characters are the chief attraction. Wit's End allows her to examine the relationships between an author and her characters, an author and her fans, fictional characters and readers, and between reality and the twists an author applies to transform it to fiction. Fowler aptly demonstrates that “fan” and “fanatic” derive from the same root. Whether you conclude that this novel does or does not belong in the mystery genre, it succeeds as a novel and as fine entertainment.

  Heather Graham's The Death Dealer (MIRA, $24.95) constructs a tale of murder, ghosts and romance around one of the most mysterious and romantic figures in crime fiction—Edgar Allan Poe. A sequel to her novel, The Dead Room (2007), it again features P.I. Joe Connolly and Genevieve O'Brien, a social worker from a privileged background, dedicated to helping New York's prostitutes.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  The murder of Thorne Bigelow, president of the New York Poe Society and author of what many considered the definitive biography of Edgar Allan Poe, has caused a sensation. His death was administered by poisoned wine, and the killer left a note reading “Quoth the raven: die."

  Although the police are investigating the murder, Genevieve insists on hiring Joe to look into the matter as well. Her chief concern is for the welfare of her mother, Eileen, who is also a member of the society, the members of which are called Ravens. Further killings and attempted killings, each with a link to one or more of Poe's stories, terrorize the Ravens. Aiding in Joe's investigation—or complicating it, at least—are two ghosts, Joe's cousin Matt and his fiancee and Genevieve's friend Leslie, characters from the earlier novel who “stayed on” to protect Genevieve and Joe.

  As the suspicion switches from one Raven to another, Graham manages to take the investigation (and the reader) on a tour of some of the more important cities and places in Poe's tragic life. A fast-placed blend of suspense, romance, murder and some helpful ghosts, the prolific Graham knows exactly what her readers want and delivers it with a light but assured touch.

  * * * *

  Karen Hanson Stuyck takes a very different approach, although once again a fan(atic) plays a key role. In A Novel Way to Die (Five Star, $25.95), mystery novelist Katherine March of Austin, Texas, dies of an apparent heart attack just before a scheduled Christmas visit to Houston to see her daughter Molly, a criminology professor, and her family.

  An autopsy, however, reveals that March died of an injected overdose of an anti-anxiety drug—a technique the author had used in one of her novels. More surprising discoveries follow and Molly's assumptions turn to accident or suicide before she gets even an inkling of foul play.

  Once murder is on the table as an option, plenty of suspects emerge, including March's ex-husband (Molly's dad) and his wife who were in financial difficulties; March's dear friend Helen who inherited a cool million from her friend's death; an aggressive fan who wrote a thesis on March's novels but who wanted even more from the author; March's long-time literary agent whom she was ready to dump; and even March's sister Charlotte and their aged mother, who were alienated from the novelist.

  Despite her profession, Molly has never dealt with a crime with such personal aspects. And she has other concerns to deal with as well—a trial separation from her wandering husband and the effect it's having on two children, ages ten and twelve.

  Stuyck, who has published four other mystery novels and short stories in magazines such as Redbook and Cosmopolitan, has a relaxed, confident style that lends itself nicely to this family-oriented murder mystery. Molly Patterson isn't likely to join the ranks of investigators like Kinsey Millhone or V.I. Warshawski, but when her loved ones's lives are at stake and her mother's kill

  * * * *

  Tokyo's gritty Shinjuku
district in 1990. Yakuza gangsters strike with impunity. The corrupt local police force turns a blind eye. The population lives in fear. Here, a lone, young cop, Samejima, pursues his prey, alienated from his own police force and feared by criminals for his uncompromising methods. He is the Shinjuku Shark (Vertical, $14.95).

  Published in Japan in 1990, this first installment of a wildly popular crime series won several mystery awards and launched Arimasa Osawa as one of Japan's most acclaimed mystery writers. Now, thanks to a recent translation by Andrew Clare, American readers can dive headlong into the Shinjuku Shark's world.

  In the series debut, Samejima pursues a mysterious gunsmith whose illegal wares could supply a yakuza gang war. When a lone serial killer turns his murderous attention to police officers, shooting one member of the force each week, the pace of Samejima's investigation intensifies to satisfying effect. Through his pursuit, readers get a clear view of Shinjuku's underworld and the intriguing characters who populate it; yakuza gangsters, effete bar owners, ineffectual bureaucrats, one quietly devastated cop who turns heroic, and Samejima's own spunky girlfriend Sho, the smart-mouthed lead singer of a popular local band. (The faint of heart should be warned about graphically described torture Samejima endures at the hands of a diabolical crook.)

  Osawa devotes several chapters to the creepy point of view of a mysterious young man named Ed, who follows the murders on the news, envying the killer's notoriety. This wannabe criminal provides scary insight into the thoughts of a self-styled villain and some nice foreshadowing for future installments of the Shinjuku Shark series.

  There are moments in the book when the pace feels a bit slow, as in the beginning, when Samejima's strained relationship with the police force is flatly explained as connected to a department employee's suicide. Perhaps some of these missteps may be attributed to the challenges of Japanese-to-English translation, but there are more than enough captivating scenes to keep readers of any language glued to the plot.—Laurel Fantauzzo