AHMM, July/August 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  AHMM, July/August 2012

  by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Mystery/Crime

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

  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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  Cover by Stanley Martucci/Images.com

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  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: DETECTION ON THE DOUBLE by Linda Landrigan

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Fiction: THE BEST THING FOR THE LIVER by Janice Law

  Fiction: AUTUMN CHILL by John H. Dirckx

  Fiction: MARLEY'S RESCUE by John C. Boland

  Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

  Fiction: DEATH ON THE RANGE by Elaine Menge

  Fiction: ASSIGNMENT IN CLAY by Donald Moffitt

  Fiction: BURNING DAYLIGHT by David Edgerley Gates

  Fiction: TIGHTENING OF THE BOND by R. T. Lawton

  Fiction: GHOST NEGLIGENCE by John Shepphird

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Fiction: 364 DAYS by John R. Corrigan

  Black Orchid Novella Award: INNER FIRE by Jolie McLarren Swann

  Department: THE STORY THAT WON

  Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2012

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: DETECTION ON THE DOUBLE

  by Linda Landrigan

  The July/August summer double issue is always a treat to assemble because it offers twice the usual space. We have a top-notch lineup this time with, appropriately for the season, a number of stories involving travel. A short getaway to Saratoga for Madame Selina and her growing assistant “Nip” fails to get them away from the taint of murder in “The Best Thing for the Liver” by Janice Law. John C. Boland's intelligence agent Charles Marley travels to Casablanca to deal with the death of an ex-CIA agent in the multi-layered “Marley's Rescue.” David Edgerley Gates's “Burning Daylight” takes us to the beautiful environs of the American Southwest, where gangs and meth make for an explosive mix. And poor Dewey, the perpetually terrified bail bond agent, is sent on another dangerous errand by his boss, the mysterious Cletis Johnston, in “Tightening of the Bond” by R. T. Lawton.

  Meanwhile, Elaine Menge puts a deadly spin on a summer pastime in “Death on the Range.” Donald Moffitt brings back the Sumerian scribe Nabu-zir, whose discretion and perception make him a trusted amateur detective, only this time he is perhaps too close to the murder in “Assignment in Clay.” John H. Dirckx's Detective Sergeant Cyrus Auburn puzzles out an unexplained death that looks like murder in “Autumn Chill.” And John C. Corrigan writes about crime from the point of view of one left behind in his poignant “364 Days.”

  We are also pleased this issue to welcome John Shepphird, whose “Ghost Negligence” introduces us to Jack O'Shea, a con man turned private eye with a knack for detecting scams.

  The summer issue also features this year's Black Orchid Novella Award winner. The annual BONA contest is conducted in cooperation with The Wolfe Pack and honors original novellas in the classic Rex Stout/Nero Wolfe mold: detectives who rely on mental muscle to unravel complex puzzle mysteries. The program is now in its sixth year, and looking back at previous winners, we are pleased to report that Michael Nethercott, the second BONA winner, has landed a book contract with St. Martin's Press for a novel featuring the detecting duo from his prize-winning story, Lee Plunkett and his poetic and wise Irish friend Mr. O'Nelligan.

  This year's BONA winner rings some changes on the familiar Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin model, and it offers a special puzzle for AHMM readers, who are advised to carefully consider the winning author's byline, Jolie McLarren Swann. You may be as surprised as we were.

  —Linda Landrigan, Editor

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  Department: THE LINEUP

  John C. Boland's story “Marley's Revolution” (AHMM, June 2011) is a finalist for an Edgar Award. His novel The Man Who Knew Brecht was published by Perfect Crime in May 2011.

  John Corrigan is the author of the Jack Austin mystery series set on the PGA Tour. He is the English Department Chair at the Pomfret School in Pomfret, Connecticut, where he also coaches hockey.

  John H. Dirckx is a retired physician. His last story for AHMM, “Calculus for Blondes,” appeared in the January/February 2012 issue.

  David Edgerley Gates is a two-time finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Short Story. His last story for AHMM, “The Devil To Pay,” appeared in the April issue.

  Booked & Printed columnist Robert C. Hahn is the former mystery columnist for the Cincinnati Post.

  Janice Law's new volume of short stories, Blood in the Water and Other Secrets, is published by Wildside Press.

  A retired federal agent, R. T. Lawton has publishedtwenty-sixstories in AHMM since 2001. His collections of short stories, including Nine Deadly Tales, are available for Kindle from Amazon.com

  Elaine Menge makes her tenth appearance in AHMM with “Death on the Range.” Her story “Our Daughter Is in Heaven” was recently reprinted in AHMM's e-book anthology, Thirteen Tales of New American Gothic.

  Donald Moffitt is the author of The Juniper Theft and The Jovian, which is being reissued as an e-book by Gollancz, a science fiction imprint of Orion Publishing Group. He is at work on a mystery novel set in rural Maine.

  John Shepphird is the creative director of on-air promotion for TVG Network. He directed Jersey Shore Shark Attack for the Syfy Channel.

  The winner of our annual Black Orchid Novella Award is Jolie McLarren Swann, a k a James Lincoln Warren. Mr. Warren's first published mystery story, “The Dioscuri Deception,” was published in AHMM in March 1998.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  Fiction: THE BEST THING FOR THE LIVER

  by Janice Law

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  Art by Linda Weatherly

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  You could have knocked me over with a feather when Madame Selina said, “I think we need a vacation, Nip.”

  Back on the farm, you worked till you died, and the Orphan Home had no holiday notions, either. Of course, Madame Selina took Sundays off, and she'd made at least one visit to Newport that I knew of, but that was partly business and partly for her health. But a holiday for me was so wonderfully exotic that the cat not only caught my tongue but swallowed it whole.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I've never had a vacation,” I said.

  “New things enlarge the mind. We leave on the morning boat.”

  That was quick. Later when I was polishing up the boots and helping Maddie with the rush of packing, I wondered if our departure had anything to do with a recent adventure involving a Tammany politico and a big street contract. Madame Selina certainly didn't look flustered, but that meant nothing. Though she could throw a fit that would loosen your hair, as a normal thing she was calm as a clam and any thing she gave away could safely have been written up in the evening newspapers.

  Our tickets were booked as Mrs. Hiram Bickerstaff and Nip Tompkins, nephew. I saw them, for I was sent to pick them up. No
w, I'm Nip Tompkins for certain, but far as I know, I was never Madame Selina's nephew, and she was only Mrs. Bickerstaff on certain special occasions. Maybe this really was to be that new thing, a vacation.

  Certainly nothing could have been more festive than our departure up the Hudson on a fine, coal-fired side wheeler. We stood at the rail to watch the gulls and admire the wooded Palisades across the river and spy on the busy traffic of fishing boats and coasters. I'd have been happy to ruin any number of ward heelers for a trip like this.

  “What are we to do in Saratoga?” I asked, for I still envisioned work of some sort.

  “Why we'll enjoy ourselves. We'll eat at my old friend George's restaurant; we'll watch the races; we'll sit on the veranda and enjoy the carriage parade. You deserve some fun, Nip, you've been an invaluable assistant.”

  She smiled. I should say that Madame Selina has a wonderful smile. It is not just her direct connection with Aurelius, that is Marcus Aurelius, late emperor of the Romans, that has made her the foremost medium in New York City. She has charm and good sense, and I was a lucky boy to be her assistant.

  But that thought momentarily dampened the thrill of the steamboat. Thanks to three meals a day of Hilda's good cooking, I'd begun to grow. My efforts in the cabinet, where I produced the “ectoplasm” and other effects that make Madame Selina's trances so impressive, required me to fit into a very small space.

  I was beginning to worry that one day Mrs. Hiram Bickerstaff would pay another visit to the Orphans Home and select another “likely boy” no more than five feet tall. To prevent this calamity, I worked hard at all my errands, and I dare say I could find my way around the city as well as any and quicker than most.

  “There's another steamboat,” said Madame Selina.

  “Will we race them?” I asked, my worries instantly forgotten.

  “I surely hope not,” she said. “How many of the dear departed have left us via blown boilers and riverboat racing?”

  I couldn't argue with that when, just the previous week, Madame had made contact with a young lady who'd gone down on the Cerebus. It took a full trance and all our effects to get Aurelius to speak. So maybe it was Aurelius who needed a vacation, and our trip had nothing to do with street contracts and Tammany Hall.

  We landed at Schenectady and took the train on to the Springs. I was familiar with the omnibuses and the fast carriages of the city, but the train was great beyond anything. We sat on plush seats, refreshments available, and zoomed past fields and villages at thirty-five miles an hour.

  At first the speed made me dizzy with everything flowing together. But before long, I got the knack of high speed looking, and though Madame complained of the smoke and cinders, I stuck my head out the window to feel the breeze. This was traveling!

  You'd sure be envious, if I described all that happened before we got to the block-long Union Hotel with its three-story porches and its enormous interior garden with lights and flowers and fountains and gazebos. Not to mention the big dining room that could sit a thousand at once and boasted one hundred colored waiters with their noses in the air and big trays on their shoulders to bring on the food.

  And such food! I got the hang of a vacation pretty quick when I saw the bill of fare. Madame was as good as her word. We ate, we admired the shops; we visited the track and enjoyed the bands that played afternoons and evenings. We watched the swells and the fancy ladies parade in their carriages.

  About the only thing I didn't care for were the actual springs, though Madame Selina was enthusiastic. “Mineral water is the best thing for the liver,” she said. So every morning started with a promenade around the pavilions. At the springs she favored, dipper boys or girls poured glasses of water Pa would have questioned for a horse, never mind the gentry.

  But maybe mineral water is an acquired taste. I saw a girl just about my age drinking the waters. She was thin and so pale that her cheeks had a curious bluish tint, but she was very prettily dressed, and she wrinkled up her nose and made faces at the water just like me. I waved at her one day and after that she tried to say hello, but any time I approached, her guardians drew her away.

  “Her aunt and uncle, I believe,” said Madame Selina, for she missed very little and was always encouraging me to “be alert and notice everything.”

  “Edith is the heiress of the van Boord fortune. Her guardians have brought her here for her health,” she explained

  Nip Tompkins, late of the Orphan Home, was not considered a suitable companion. Pity. But mineral water, even with snobbery, was a small price to pay for the delights of the town. We had carriage rides, too, because although she was Mrs. Hiram Bickerstaff and encumbered with a nephew, Madame was still recognized. She had grateful clients all over Saratoga Springs and nearly every day she had to explain that she was “resting,” that the trip was for her health, that no séances were on tap.

  The clients consoled themselves by driving us hither and yon in their carriages. That is how we came to eat at George LaLune's, where we were greeted as old friends and where we discovered that Aurelius would have to go back to work after all.

  Where to start? I'm tempted to begin with the roast oysters and the woodcock in sauce, but Madame Selina always says it's best to get right to the heart of a matter. In this case, the heart of the matter was that the heiress of the van Boord fortune was at the next table over. She gave me a shy smile, as if she didn't give a toss about the Orphan House, which would have lightened my heart if she hadn't looked paler than ever. Even her hair, which had been thick and dark, now looked lank and thin.

  I was glad to see that they had switched her treatment from spring water to the tasty dishes emerging from the kitchen. Though on closer inspection, I noticed that her aunt was still plying her with water which she poured, not from one of the restaurant's pitchers, but from a bottle of her own.

  More of the wretched minerals, I reckoned. I stole looks at Edith all through dinner, and I couldn't help noticing that she seemed to be in pain. When we had reached the dessert stage and were tucking into pineapple and fancy cakes, she gave a little cry and stood up, knocking over her glass and literally falling against my chair.

  I jumped up and caught her arm. She'd splashed water all over herself and she started frantically drying her blouse and skirt. I took out my handkerchief and tried to help, but, in an instant, her uncle picked her up bodily and carried her from the restaurant.

  I was left holding her handkerchief and my own, both soaked. When I started to follow them to return hers, Madame Selina caught my arm and shook her head. Then she did an odd thing. She emptied her water glass, dropped in both handkerchiefs and put the glass into the vast carpet satchel that she carried everywhere.

  The next morning, Madame Selina looked in at the chemist's before we began our usual round of the springs. Although I checked every pavilion, neither Edith van Boord nor her guardians were in sight. Back at the hotel, when Madame Selina sent up her card with good wishes for Edith's recovery, there was no response.

  Still, I'm not sure anything would have happened if her restaurant friend had not sent a frantic summons. We met George LaLune on the veranda. He was a Mohawk with a long, stern face and wind-burned skin, who had put all his wives to work in the restaurant and found a genius of mixed blood to do the cooking.

  Like Madame Selina, Mr. LaLune believed in getting right to the point. “The van Boords have accused the restaurant of poisoning their niece with a bad oyster.”

  “The oysters were exquisite,” Madame Selina said.

  “Of course. But it will be all around the Springs by this evening.”

  “Or before. I do believe I heard something as I came down the corridor.”

  “Such a rumor could ruin us.”

  “It is nonsense,” Madame Selina said. “Dangerous nonsense.”

  “I need your help.”

  “What can I do? To prove a negative is impossible and all the delicious oysters were eaten.”

  “The world is full of spi
rits,” LaLune said.

  Madame Selina laid her hand on his arm and nodded in agreement.

  “You might summon one for me,” he said, “and demand the truth.”

  Madame leaned back in her chair and sighed. “A good plan, but I cannot give you an answer until later. We must have the truth, but we will still need evidence, and even the spirits can only do so much.”

  LaLune raised his large, bony hands in a gesture of despair.

  “I have some thoughts,” said Madame Selina. “I will send you a message later. And if we can have a séance, where should it be? And when?”

  “Here, tonight,” said LaLune. “Where all the rumors live.”

  Madame Selina nodded. “In the Rose Salon then. We must get the Rose Salon, for there will be a crowd for certain.”

  As soon as LaLune left, she clapped her hands and sent me for writing paper, drafted a message, and dispatched me to the telegraph office. All of which told me that once again Aurelius needed help. You'd think a man who had managed the Roman Empire and was immortal to boot would never be needing assistance from such as Nip Tompkins.

  Well, you'd be wrong. The Emperor was temperamental, and, worse, he didn't keep up with things. He was particularly weak on the stocks and bonds that were a big concern of Madame's clients, and the ins and outs of Tammany Hall would have baffled him without the assistance of various politicos and journalists.

  I waited at the busy telegraph office and paid for a long message. Madame was gone when I got back, and she didn't tap on the door of my room until just before dinner, when she stuck her head in and said, “Look lively, Nip. We have work to do.”

  When she opened her big satchel, I saw what looked to be the yellow paper of a telegram, but she said nothing about that and took out her purse. I was to hire a carriage and collect George LaLune and two other men. “George expects a message and I have spoken with the others. We begin at nine o'clock in the Rose Salon.”