EQMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She slapped the newspaper down on her husband's lap. “Looks like you're going to be having a lot more free time, dear. Maybe you can finally start going to a gym. This makes you look like Chris Farley. Except you're quite a bit older—and I don't think even he ever made such a total ass of himself."

  Jordan looked at the photograph the way a condemned man might view a firing squad. Ennis was afraid he'd begin weeping again.

  His wife paced back and forth in front of the TV. “Well, congratulations. You're now a laughingstock. I'm a laughingstock. They were whispering just now at JB's. Alana Winnett and that friend of hers. Laughing! At me! How could you have done this to us?"

  Her voice had risen an octave. Her husband leaned forward in the recliner. “Look, Madge, I told you..."

  She pointed a finger. “Shut up. You told me what? Somebody set you up. Oh yes, right. How is that possible, Melvin? Unless you were someplace you shouldn't have been. At Westy's, with that bimbo assistant of yours? I think you're lying. I think you're drinking again. And I think you're going to tell me the truth now!"

  "No! You've got to believe me. I swear...” Jordan's voice withered under his wife's gaze.

  A taut silence ensued. On the TV, the narrator was describing Napoleon's death in exile. Ennis spoke first.

  "You mentioned a bimbo?"

  Stone-Jordan's red face got redder. “This isn't any of your business. Unless you're going to arrest this idiot for something else, I'm going to ask you to leave."

  Ennis shrugged. “Well then."

  Mel Jordan gave him a pleading look as he turned to go. Ennis returned a slight smile. “I guess I'll see you in court. If you'd like to talk about any of that beforehand, you have my number."

  * * * *

  Ennis's cell phone rang before he got back to town.

  "Sorry about that,” Jordan said. “This is a tough time for her."

  "No doubt."

  "I'm outside; I have to make this quick. The point is, I really think I'm a victim here."

  "So you said."

  "Look, this has to be just between you and me, okay? There's a girl. A woman. We, uh, we went out that night. Just to talk. She's been having trouble with her boyfriend."

  Ennis could hear the mayor take a deep breath.

  "John, I'm ashamed to say this, but she offered me a joint. And I took it. Just to put her at ease, you know. I don't do drugs. Not for many years now. But she was so fragile, she needed a shoulder, a friend. We smoked it together. And then she got kind of upset and insisted I let her off, and ... well, the next thing I know, I'm at the hospital. People giving me strange looks."

  "You might have mentioned this earlier."

  "You saw my wife. I wasn't thinking clearly."

  "Who's the woman?"

  There was a long pause.

  "Maria Knutsen. She's, uh, been working as my assistant. An intern from the community college down in Kalispell, just doing it for credit."

  "So she slipped you some reefer laced with PCP?"

  "No. Oh God, I can't imagine that. She was smoking it too. She has this ex-boyfriend. I think that's where she got it."

  "Who's the boyfriend?"

  "That's why I called. I finally made myself look at this picture in the paper. This horrible picture of me. Then I noticed who took it: Jerry Bork. I'm almost positive that's the boyfriend's name. The guy she's been having trouble with."

  "So it's a love triangle: the mayor, the boyfriend, and the barely legal intern."

  "You don't need to take that tone. You never made a mistake? Yes, she's young. She's sweet and naive, and it started out I just wanted to help her through a rough patch. But she's smart, John, and funny, she laughs so easily. And so, I don't know, caring. An angel, really. Just this angel who came into my life. I never thought..."

  Ennis had begun to roll his eyes, but the mayor didn't finish the sentence.

  "The PCP thing is kind of worrisome,” Ennis said. “I'll talk to her."

  "It's not her. I can't believe she meant me harm. It's the boyfriend. Has to be. He sounds like the jealous type. He's made threats."

  Ennis thinking: older men and younger women. These things rarely ended well.

  "I'll have a talk with him too."

  * * * *

  Maria Knutsen did not fit the common perception of “bimbo,” as Margaret Stone-Jordan had put it. She was young, yes, but in other particulars mostly ordinary. She was about five-two, with a roundish face framed by sensibly short brown hair. Not obese, but hardly petite. She wore a snug maroon sweater and hip-hugging pants topped by a slight bulge of pink flesh. She was clutching a file folder stuffed with papers when Ennis caught up to her outside the town hall.

  "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

  She smiled uncertainly. “Um, I was just taking these over to the surveyor."

  "This won't take long."

  At Cafe Solaris across the street, Maria nervously stirred Sweet ‘N Low into her coffee.

  "I just feel terrible,” she said. “I feel responsible in some way. He's such a kind man, and sweet. I mean, I wouldn't have been more surprised if my own grandpa had done something like that."

  The age difference was about right, Ennis reflected.

  "Maria, if you gave him a doobie laced with PCP, I'd concur: You're definitely responsible in some small way."

  Her eyes grew wide. “What? I never ... who told you that? Did he tell you that? I don't believe it! That bastard! He was the one who wanted to. He was all over me...."

  Ennis couldn't suppress a grim smile. The sweet, avuncular Mel Jordan had morphed abruptly into a lecherous swine.

  "What did he tell you?” she demanded.

  "Take it easy. He didn't blame you specifically. He thought maybe your boyfriend had given you the stuff. Without mentioning the PCP."

  Maria's hands were shaking. “PCP? I don't know anything about PCP.” She stared at her cup, and then at Ennis. “Oh God. That could explain why I freaked out. After he dropped me off. I was so paranoid. Hysterical, practically. I thought it was just some kind of hormonal thing. I was just starting my period."

  It was more information than Ennis required. He rubbed his forehead.

  "Just tell me this: Did you get it from your boyfriend?"

  "Ex-boyfriend. Said he was willing to let bygones be bygones. Sold it to me at cost. That bastard! He could have gotten me killed!"

  The waitress was giving them odd looks.

  "Just to clarify, we're talking about Jerry Bork?"

  "He goes by Killa J now. He's got this rap thing going, wants to be a big gangbanger. Living in Podunkville, Montana. The idiot. He's the biggest mistake of my life. God, he went crazy when he found out about Mel and me, stalking me and calling my cell phone like every fifteen minutes. He's started carrying a gun, too. I hate his guts. I think you should put him in jail."

  "What about Mel Jordan?"

  "What? Oh, that. Like I said, he's sweet. He's old and everything, but I guess I was attracted to his power. His status.” She gave him a wistful smile. “Like Monica and President Clinton. Just a corny old story, huh?"

  "Have you met his wife?"

  She made a face. “I know, I know. My bad. It's not like I want to marry him or anything. I mean, we hooked up a few times, but you know, he is really old. Older than you. No offense. Anyway, I'm going back to school next week. I'm kind of sick of Worland."

  * * * *

  It was time for a talk with Jerry Bork, a.k.a. Killa J. Ennis stopped first at the Argus, but the publisher, Richard Cheney, only laughed.

  "He tell you he worked here? Strictly freelance. Sold me the one picture of the mayor. Not really in focus, but it did kind of capture the essence of the man. Then he pitched a story about Jordan downloading child porn at town hall, but I passed on that. Shaky sources."

  "He mention the name Killa J?"

  "Yeah, you believe that? He wanted that in his credit line. I told him no way; this isn't some goddamn Internet chat room. We didn't p
art on the best of terms. Strange kid. Got kind of a short fuse."

  "You know where I can find him?"

  "Know where Pine View Court is?"

  Ennis was familiar with it, having lived there for the past six years. Despite the common wisdom about small towns, he was acquainted with few of his neighbors.

  "He gave me a number, said I could reach him at this trailer. In case I ever wanted more dirt on the mayor, I guess. He's staying with the Mower boys."

  The Mower boys. Ennis was aware of them, too. A few times in the past year he'd been summoned to quell disturbances at the brothers’ ramshackle single-wide, located on the far side of the trailer court from his own mobile manse.

  * * * *

  As usual, the Mower residence looked like the site of a recent plane crash. Two pit bulls in a chain-link dog run watched Ennis drive up. They barked and hurled themselves against the fencing as he mounted the sagging steps. Explosive bass notes from inside rattled the aluminum siding and reverberated in the deputy's guts. Also, somebody was shouting profanities in rough accompaniment to the beat. It sounded a lot like every rap tune Ennis had ever heard.

  Ennis hammered on the door, to no effect. He pounded harder, and this time kept at it until the music and the shouting suddenly ceased. The dogs were going berserk. He kept a nervous eye on them as he waited. At the window to his right, a curtain moved.

  "Sheriff,” he called. “Open up."

  Given the din made by the dogs, Ennis realized later that he'd been lucky to hear the metallic clack on the other side of the door: the unmistakable sound of a pistol round being chambered. He was already moving left when the two loud pops came, and two holes appeared in the aluminum door.

  Ennis jumped from the porch and landed atop the dog run. The frenzied creatures snapped at him through the chain link as it sagged under his weight. The trailer door exploded outward and the artist formerly known as Jerry Bork came out shooting, wearing the Seahawks jersey and a look of pure madness.

  Ennis heard one round thrum past his head. One of the pit bulls screamed and fell, biting at a wound in its side. With an inarticulate cry, Bork leapt from the porch and stumbled into a sprint down the gravel lane toward the highway. Ennis rolled off the chain-link, grabbing for his own gun. One side of the fencing had come loose and the second dog began dragging itself beneath it, trembling with rage. Ennis racked a round. It was a moment of threat assessment: Bork or the dog? But the pit bull was no longer interested in him. It set off after the fleeing blond mohawk at a dead run, bleeding from two long scratches along its back. Little puffs of dust erupted from its blurring paws on the gravel.

  Ennis kept the Glock pointed skyward as he brought up the rear, panting hard. Bork looked around in time to see the dog in mid-leap. He yelped as the pit bull brought him down. His gun went flying.

  * * * *

  Ennis spotted Mel Jordan walking along Highway 37 toward town. He powered the window down as he eased up alongside.

  "Need a ride?"

  "What do you think? I'm getting hypothermia out here."

  The mayor climbed in. He seemed to have lost some weight in the past week.

  "Car broke down?"

  "No. Madge moved out, took the Lexus. Before leaving, she set fire to the Mustang."

  "Sorry to hear it."

  "Yeah, had the original 289. New paint. I loved that little pony. Well, easy come, easy go, right?"

  "How's things with Maria?"

  "That didn't work out either. Women."

  Ennis drove on awhile in silence. They passed one of Leonard Strange's new signs tilting along the barrow ditch: “Strange for a Change."

  "Looks like Leonard got another campaign manager. You still in the race?"

  The mayor snorted. “What else am I going to do? Work at the mill?"

  "How you doing in the polls?"

  "According to Chuck, Leonard got a bounce from my troubles, but lost most of it over continuing concerns about his choice of campaign managers. Speaking of Chuck, why don't you swing in here for a second?"

  He emerged from the Town Pump a few minutes later carrying two corn dogs. He handed one to Ennis.

  "Here. I never apologized for going berserk in the park."

  "I thought you were a vegan."

  "That was then. My feeling now is, life's too short. So what's the word on that Bork kid?"

  "Still in the hospital. I guess the pit bull was not a huge fan of hip-hop. When he heals up he's going away for a while. Besides the attempted homicide, that trailer was jam-packed with crap—reefer, ecstasy, PCP, you name it."

  "Couldn't help sampling it himself, huh? Little scheme to take me down kind of backfired. Serves him right."

  "Yeah, well. I hear he's looking on the bright side. Figures the scars and the prison time will give him some street cred. You know, as a rapper."

  Jordan shook his head. “Kids today. Strange days, huh, Ennis?"

  The deputy looked at the mayor, but he was now focused on applying mustard to the corn dog. Jordan took a bite and closed his eyes. The expression of transcendental bliss reminded Ennis of the night on the picnic table. He lifted his own corn dog in a sort of a toast as he pulled out onto the highway.

  "Strange days indeed,” he said.

  (c)2007 by David A. Knadler

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  ENTER COFFIN (RIGHT) by Gwendoline Butler

  Gwendoline Butler has been a highly regarded author of crime fiction for more than fifty years; she first appeared in this maga-zine in 1968. She is com-monly credited as the inventor of the women's police procedural, for a series starring police-woman Charmian Daniels, written under her well-known pseudonym Jenny Melville. For her return to EQMM, Ms. Butler has chosen her popular series character Inspector Coffin.

  "No,” said Coffin firmly, or as firmly as he could when dealing with his wife. “I am not an actor and I will not act again.—My Lord, the carriage awaits."

  "You don't have to act, my love,” said Stella, “just walk on the stage."

  "Carrying a flag."

  "Well yes, you do carry a flag."

  "The Union Jack, I suppose."

  "You couldn't carry the Union Jack as King Arthur."

  "Oh, it's Arthur, is it?"

  Their eyes met and they started to laugh.

  They were sitting in the living room of their home in the tower block that overlooked the church-converted-to-a-theatre where Stella acted when she was not making a television series or a film. The dog sat across Coffin's feet; the cat lay on Stella's lap.

  Stella was putting on a charity show in aid of children in need of a better education. It was to be hoped they would be grateful, Coffin thought, especially as the reason they were not getting the best education they could was because they were deaf. Some, he thought, might have preferred deafness.

  She had been allocated two or three hundred pounds, which she had spent on a few professional performers and musicians, and now she needed another man, and the only one who could be pressed into a part and not paid was a husband.

  "Will I have to wear a wig?"

  "Not unless you want to."

  "And go on stage?"

  "Of course.” Stella said. “Come to the theatre and walk on the stage. Practice."

  "Make it lunchtime. This du Croy murder is filling my book. The Austrian ambassador is coming in. He's taken an interest in the case—du Croy claimed to be a count of some sort. I'll give you a sandwich and drink in the Prince of Wales pub opposite the theatre."

  George du Croy was a banker and an attractive homosexual. Coffin thought that one of his lovers had strangled him. Du Croy had promised some money to Stella for one of her productions, which she would miss.

  Both Stella and Coffin knew how George du Croy conducted his life, but they knew it from different sides. Stella had watched George work his way through several young actors, while Coffin knew that du Croy had also attracted one distinguished police detective, although Coffin had never been sure
who had seduced whom.

  "Wonder if he was ever married,” said Stella.

  Coffin did not answer for a while, finally saying: “Not his style."

  Stella thought of all the actors she had known whose style it had not been either but who had found it convenient to have a wife—the so-called “lavender marriage."

  "I thought you were that way yourself when I first met you."

  "But you made it your business to find out,” said Coffin drily. “I always wondered what it was that started you off."

  "I have to admit it was partly that woman that kept writing books about you.... I thought she might get me some publicity."

  "And did she?"

  "Not a lot."

  "Lunch,” said Coffin firmly. “And I mustn't be late."

  "The Austrian ambassador, I suppose."

  "I have other crimes, other murders to worry me, too.” There always were such in the Second City of London; it was criminous and violent as well as having a beauty of its own as it looked down on the Thames. It was an old part of London that had made ready to repel the Armada and later had welcomed the victory of Trafalgar.

  * * * *

  Stella was at the Prince of Wales before Coffin. She was sitting by a window with her fluffy white peke on her lap. He raised his head when he saw Coffin and let a low, soft noise come from his throat.

  "He doesn't like me,” said Coffin. He put down the smoked salmon and the white wine.

  "No, he's just saying hello."

  "That was a growl. He doesn't like me...."

  "Did you buy him a sandwich?"

  "No, I did not."

  "I think that's what he wants ... not smoked salmon, though, but ham or cheese..."

  "No mustard, I suppose?” said Coffin.

  The Prince of Wales was popular with the local theatre crowd, a small group of whom were sitting near the bar. They were talking intensely. Perhaps performers always did, Coffin thought.

  "They're going at each other,” said Coffin.

  Stella shrugged. She knew them all, of course, not well, but when you had been acting as long as she had, you could put a name to most faces. Besides which, this group had been in several recent productions.