AHMM, March 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2008 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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  Cover by Ablestock/Images.com

  CONTENTS

  Department: GUEST EDITORIAL: THE IMMORTAL SHERLOCK HOLMES by Leslie S. Klinger

  Fiction: HORSE FRIENDS by Scott Mackay

  Fiction: SET ‘EM UP, JOE by David Edgerley Gates

  Fiction: THE FINAL CATCH by Brendan DuBois

  Department: UNSOLVED Logic Puzzle by Robert V. Kesling

  Fiction: THE LENGTH OF A STRAW by R.T. Lawton

  Department: BOOKED AND PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Fiction: THE KILLING FARM by Doug Allyn

  Fiction: THE ROAD TO THE AIRPORT by Donna Thorland

  Fiction: DEATH ROW by Michael Z. Lewin

  Department: REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  Mystery Classic: THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle annotated by Leslie S. Klinger

  Department: COMING IN APRIL 2008

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  Department: GUEST EDITORIAL: THE IMMORTAL SHERLOCK HOLMES by Leslie S. Klinger

  It's proverbial that no one today reads the stories of Sherlock Holmes for the mystery element. After all, in one of them, the butler actually did it! Holmes's deductions are brilliant and his criminological techniques innovative, but the likes of Hercule Poirot and hundreds of others solve much more complex problems with much sparser clues, and modern investigations squeeze far more information from a crime scene than Holmes could even imagine. Why, then, do Holmes fans still number in the tens of thousands?

  In 1946, over sixty years ago, Edgar W. Smith, a vice president of General Motors and the editor of the Baker Street Journal, a fledgling publication by and for “Sherlockians” now in its sixty-first year, wrote an editorial that he titled “What is it that we love in Sherlock Holmes?” Smith considered several aspects of the Holmes canon.

  First, Smith suggested, “We love the time in which [Holmes] lived.” When Smith wrote these words, that golden era, when it was “always 1895,” was only a half century earlier, and well within the living memory of Smith (who was born in 1894) and the readers of the Journal who longed for the time of their youths. Today, it is an alien country, as mythical and foreign as the era of the Greek democracies, the Roman empire, the battlefields of Napoleon, or the court of Elizabeth I. While it may be true that we do love the era, we love it as we love the Old West or the countryside of Arthur's Camelot, only as it exists in our imaginations, not in our memories.

  To some, the Victorian era appears to have been a simpler time, with laudable national goals and higher social values. To the historian, however, it is the birthplace of every evil of the twentieth century, from terrorism to technology, brutal warfare, terrible genocides, the oppression of women and people of color, and the exploitation of the workers. Yet the late nineteenth century is also the fountainhead of countless movements to correct those very evils. The Sherlock Holmes stories are remarkable documents of those times, capturing with near-photographic accuracy virtually every aspect of the Victorian world.

  More importantly, in 1946, just as the world emerged from the cataclysms of war and the horrors of the Holocaust, Smith saw the detective as an emblem: “[Holmes] stands before us as a symbol,” he wrote, “a symbol ... of all that we are not but ever would be.... We see him as the fine expression of our urge to trample evil and to set aright the wrongs with which the world is plagued.... [He] is the personification of something in us that we have lost or never had. For it is not Sherlock Holmes who sits in Baker Street, comfortable, competent, and self-assured; it is we ourselves who are there, full of a tremendous capacity for wisdom, complacent in the presence of our humble Watson, conscious of a warm well-being and a timeless, imperishable content.... And the time and place and all the great events are near and dear to us not because our memories call them forth in pure nostalgia, but because they are a part of us today. That is the Sherlock Holmes we love—the Holmes implicit and eternal in ourselves."

  In 2000, on the occasion of the millennium dinner of the Baker Street Irregulars (an international group dedicated to keeping green the memory of the master), I toasted Sherlock Holmes and weighed Smith's words. As the new century began, I suggested, it was not Holmes's heroism that we treasured in our age of uncertainty. Instead, I proposed, the element of Holmes's character which burnt like a beacon over the years was his individuality. While some criticized Holmes as arrogant, cold, ruthless, high handed, misogynistic, unfeeling, and manipulative, I pointed out that he was single minded, driven in his pursuit of a case, without regard for the conventions of society or even the conventions of law. In our complex, restricted, regulated, rule-bound culture, I argued, he is what we dream to be and yet dare not to be: apart from the crowd. Edgar Smith's vision of the Great Detective was as hero, in an age that sorely needed heroes. Today, I said, we treasure Holmes as an individual, who seeks first and foremost to “do the right thing."

  But I think now that I failed to observe a third component—beyond the Victorian age, beyond the character of Holmes—that makes these stories immortal: the presence of John H. Watson, M.D. In 1944, Christopher Morley, the founder of the Baker Street Irregulars and a bookman for the ages, edited an anthology of Holmes stories and labeled it “A Textbook of Friendship.” In today's sophisticated marketplace for mystery, more important than the mysteries or the quirks of the Great Detective is the eternal partnership of Holmes and Watson.

  The original “buddy movie” in text, these tales, from the pen of Dr. Watson, reveal that Holmes was not only a great brain but a great heart. Unconsciously, they also show the Good Doctor as intelligent, stout hearted, loyal, and utterly dependable. Watson is exactly what we all wish our friends—and ourselves—to be. This is not the Watson of the foolish Universal films, the boobus britannicus. After all, how could a man like Holmes have borne such a companion? Watson called Holmes “the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known,” but Holmes never had the chance to return the favor. If he had, he would have undoubtedly termed Watson “that finest of friends."

  In sum, I believe that the annals of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson contain three compelling elements for the modern reader: accurate depictions of the Victorian age, affectionate portraits of a solitary genius, and the comforting warmth of an enduring friendship. Modern mysteries may copy one or more of these, but to Watson's loyal readers, the real game is still afoot!

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Leslie S. Klinger

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: HORSE FRIENDS by Scott Mackay

  Everett's horse friends were only ever whispered about—now they were playing hardball.

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  As Lance Tedrow walked to his boss's office through the Superior Life bull pen, he knew Opal was watching him, trying to figure out why he was going to see Patrick when Patrick customarily caught up on his e-mails after lunch. Was this it, then, he wondered? Lance peered at Patrick through the glass. Was Patrick going to end their suspense? His bald head was bowed over his work. Had Minneapolis Corporate finally given Patrick word on the promotion? Was Lance going to win out over Opal?

  He entered Patrick's office. His boss looked up. “Shut the door."

  "Sure.” Lance closed the door.

  "Have a se
at."

  Lance obeyed.

  Patrick said, “Melvin Graham dropped by about the Osteen policy while you were out at lunch."

  Lance's shoulders tightened. “And?"

  "He left some materials.” Patrick pushed a manila folder across his desk. “Have a look."

  So. It wasn't about the promotion after all.

  Lance lifted the folder and opened it. He found photographs—views of charred wreckage.

  "Has he come to any conclusions, then?"

  "Look at photo three. It's the employee lunchroom at the Osteen Paper Plant. Or what's left of it. See the charring in the corner? Those are accelerant patterns. Photograph four shows a half-melted gas can. Graham found it under the collapsed receiving bay next to the employee lunchroom."

  The office felt suddenly warm. “So he's ruling arson?"

  "Yes. And if I were you, I'd make Everett understand pretty quickly that the discretion clause in subsection three is meant to favor the company, not the client. I know that's the first thing he's going to try."

  Lance looked at both photographs again. “I'll schedule a meeting with him this afternoon."

  Patrick nodded. “Everett's fairly housebound these days. Coronary troubles. You'll have to go up."

  "Sure."

  "Take a taxi chit. He makes people drink."

  "Okay."

  "Maybe I should let Opal go."

  The tone in Patrick's voice worried him. “No, it's all right. I'll handle it."

  "I know it's one of your own personal policies, but maybe Opal might break the news more dispassionately."

  "Don't worry, I'll be dispassionate."

  Patrick sat back, the corners of his lips tightening. He motioned at the photographs. “We have to be careful. We can't let our clients think we're processing this claim any differently, just because you nearly married Everett's daughter."

  "I haven't seen Vicki in years."

  Patrick's brow rose. “You haven't heard, then?"

  "Heard what?"

  "That she's back in town. She and Brian split up."

  Lance tried to hide the effect this news had on him, but hearing that Vicki and Brian had at last self-destructed—he'd always known Brian wasn't the man for her—and that she was now back home proved too much. His palms grew moist. Despite his settled life, his good job, and his marriage to Miss Duluth 1995, he was made uncomfortable with the prospect of Vicki Osteen back in town. Old emotions he thought he had long since buried surfaced, even as he desperately tried to contain them.

  "So she's living at the old place?” His voice edged a few tones higher. “With Everett?"

  "Yes. If she's there when you go, be professional. And dispassionate."

  "Have I ever let you down before?"

  But his throat had gone dry, his body rigid, and the air in the room had become nearly too thin to breathe.

  "Not yet. But there's always a first time."

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  Once the cab had dropped him off, Lance studied the Osteen house. Paint peeled from the eaves. A second-floor window, broken, had been repaired with cardboard and duct tape. An American flag hung from a pole, tattered, the fabric so worn he could see through it. A 1975 Cadillac Seville, rusted, undriven, its left front tire flat, stood in the drive, Mrs. Osteen's car from back when she had been alive. He walked up the drive, his boots crunching through the snow. He climbed the steps to the door, lifted the round brass knocker—one he had lifted many times before—and knocked.

  Vicki answered a few moments later. His heart contracted, and he had a brief flashback—waiting with his brother in a tux and purple bowtie in the corridor behind the sanctuary of the Duluth First United Methodist Church, telling his brother she would come, that the reason she was late was because she always fussed with her makeup. Today, she wore no makeup. The big red hair was gone. She was pale. Older. But still pretty. He struggled to get his emotions under control, forced himself to think of his wife, Lindsay, and to concentrate on the task ahead.

  "Hi, Vicki. I'm here to talk to your father about his policy."

  She was drying a plate with a dish towel, inspecting him, assessing him the way she might apples or oranges in a fruit store. “You've gained a little.” She touched her chin. “Particularly around here."

  He struggled to stay on track. “I think he's expecting me."

  "I hope the news is good."

  He didn't answer. Instead, he attempted to normalize things with small talk. “Are you keeping well?"

  The green eyes were the same, and they stared at him unapologetically. “You know about me and Brian?"

  He nodded. “Is it final?"

  He heard movement downstairs, Osteen emerging from his den. “Vick, is someone at the door?"

  "It's Lance Tedrow, Dad. He's come about the settlement."

  "Let's not let all the cold air in.” Osteen's voice sounded rough, phlegmy. “Send him down."

  Vicki said in a softer voice, “He's been working himself up since your call."

  "It's really great to see you, Vicki.” Because he had to say something to make sure she understood he still remembered everything.

  She looked away. “You better not keep him waiting."

  She moved aside.

  He advanced into the hall and took off his rubber boots, unzipping them with a noise that made the cat look up from the couch. Vicki shut the door behind him. He pulled off his coat, opened the closet, was about to hang it up, but she stopped him and said, “Here, I'll take that."

  He surrendered his coat. It was all so formal. Not that he had expected anything remarkable, but this seemed sad, and even tragic, that after everything they had gone through together it amounted to nothing more than Vicki taking his coat and hanging it in the closet for him as a generic courtesy.

  "Thanks.” He walked to the top of the stairs.

  Osteen, a short, rotund man with hair slicked back and a face as red as a cooked King Crab, stared at him in a studied pose of indifference. The scotch in his hand was a triple.

  "Lance, good of you to come. Vick, maybe you could bring snacks."

  Vicki went to get snacks. Lance watched her go. Things hadn't changed: Osteen spoke, Vicki jumped.

  Lance gripped the banister and went downstairs. He saw a painting of Risky Business, Osteen's Thoroughbred, now dead these many years, on the wall. At the bottom of the stairs, Osteen took his elbow and ushered him into the den.

  The TV was still there, the exact same Sony Trinitron from sixteen years ago. He couldn't count the number of late movies he'd watched on that TV with Vicki. The furniture was the same too: black leather, now scuffed, the upholstery on the recliner in particularly bad shape.

  "Let me get you something,” said Osteen.

  "Thanks,” said Lance.

  He sat on the edge of the couch, put his briefcase on the table, and took out the manila folder with the photographs. He struggled to collect his thoughts. He wasn't going to let Vicki ruin his promotion, not after everything else she had ruined. He was going to stay professional. And dispassionate.

  Once he had his drink, they talked briefly about the weather—all the snow. Then about the Minnesota Vikings. And at last about Vicki and Brian's split. “She finally came to her senses,” said Osteen. “I always told her the guy wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer."

  Lance couldn't help fishing for information. “They're getting a divorce?"

  "She hasn't told me yet."

  "And he's still in Rochester?"

  "As far as I know.” Osteen motioned at the manila folder. “Is that the settlement?"

  Lance looked out the sliding glass door where he saw the dog, Hercules—a Rottweiler—staring back. “About the settlement.” He glanced around the room. Framed photographs of Osteen and Risky Business hung on the walls: Saratoga Springs, Churchill Downs, Hoosier Park. “There's going to be a delay.” He opened the folder, took out photograph three, and slid it across the table to Osteen.

  Osteen lifted it, squint
ed, then put on his glasses. “What am I looking at?"

  "Accelerant patterns.” He offered photograph four, the gas can. “And I think this shot speaks for itself."

  Osteen's nostrils flared as he looked at photograph four. Hercules pawed the door. The snow came down harder. The dog whimpered a few times.

  Osteen glanced up at Lance as if Lance had personally betrayed him. “So you're telling me it was arson?"

  "That's the investigator's preliminary ruling."

  "Who would want to burn down Osteen Paper?"

  "That's what he's trying to find out."

  "What about my settlement money?"

  "I'm sorry, Everett, but if you look at the contractual language in your policy, you'll see that we can't release it until the police have completed their investigation."

  Osteen's blue eyes bulged. “I thought the company had the discretion to release the money when it saw fit. It says so in subsection three."

  Lance sighed. “That clause is meant to favor the company, Everett, not the client."

  "Yes, but can't you help us?” Osteen's voice grew apprehensive. “For Christ's sake, Lance, you nearly married Vicki."

  His shoulders tightened. “Everett, I appreciate that I have some personal history with the Osteen family, but we have to set that aside right now. We're dealing strictly with your policy."

  "Yes, but I've got bills. I've got debts."

  He heard Vicki come down the half flight of stairs to the den."

  Osteen quickly collected the two photos and handed them back to Lance. How could he forget? Vicki was Osteen's angel. Osteen tried to shelter Vicki from the big bad world any way he could.

  He reluctantly took the photographs, put them in the manila folder, then his briefcase, sullenly cooperating with Osteen's attempt to hide the truth from his daughter. Vicki entered with a plate of crackers, cheese, and pickles. Lance glanced furtively, wondering about her and Brian. She looked tired, worried. She placed the food on the table. Osteen stared straight ahead.

  Vicki peered at Lance. “Is everything all right?"