The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021

by The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021

  “Maybe it’s your cooking that’s running them off,” Mitch said. Their eyes met through the window and both chuckled. Might as well, Mitch thought. It was either that or cry. The White House had been losing business for months.

  “You know the problem, don’t you?” Danny looked at him and pointed a spatula. “It’s that new restaurant down the street.”

  “It’s not just that,” Mitch said. “Everything around here’s going downhill, everything except crime. Those places that got robbed the other day, and the murders, right here on this block? Nothing like that used to happen here. A cop friend of mine—Nick Posey, remember him? He told me last week a mobster from Chicago’s in the area now, came here to stay.”

  “Came here how? Retired?”

  “Retired, fired, on the run, I don’t know. Posey just said he’s here.”

  Danny frowned at the sizzling burger. “You mean, like, an assassin? An enforcer?”

  “Beats me. He could’ve kept their books, for all I know. An accountant, like Duvall in The Godfather.”

  “Duvall was a consigliere. An advisor. Not an accountant.”

  “Who cares?” Mitch said. “They’re still crooks.”

  “I hear you. The neighborhood’s going bad.” Danny stood up straight, rolled his shoulders tiredly, and leaned over to adjust the heat on the grill. “Is that what you been building down in the basement? A bulletproof room where we can go hide when the bad guys take over?”

  Robbie Stanton, the kid they’d hired to help out in the kitchen, stuck his head around the corner with a mop in his hand and said, “What bad guys?”

  Danny shot him a get-back-to-work look and Robbie vanished as fast as he’d appeared.

  “We don’t need a hideout,” Mitch said to Danny. “We just need to leave. And what I’ve been working on in the basement is none of your business.”

  “The hell it’s not. It’s my house. If I recall, you’re living there rent free.”

  “Biggest mistake I ever made,” Mitch mumbled. “After working with you all day, it’s not easy being around you at night too.”

  “You love it and you know you do,” Danny said, both of them grinning now. He fell silent a moment and when he spoke again his voice was serious. “This new resident you heard about, this mafia dude. You don’t think he’s that guy we been seeing, do you?”

  Mitch knew whom he meant. For almost a week now, a thin man in his forties with dark eyes and dark clothes and a black baseball cap had been stopping in between seven thirty and eight. He never ate anything, never stayed more than a few minutes, never spoke at all except to order a cup of coffee, which he drank in silence in one of the corner booths. He was definitely spooky, but Mitch hadn’t given him much thought—probably since the man’s recent appearance in their lives had coincided with that of Mary Del Rio. A new regular, Mary had a way of occupying Mitch’s attention. She was also the reason for all those hours he’d been spending with his woodworking tools in the basement. But that was another matter. Now Mitch found himself wondering if Danny was right: could their mysterious customer be the Chicago guy Officer Posey had told him about?

  But why would anyone connected with organized crime be interested in Mitch and Danny White? They weren’t wealthy—they never even had much cash on hand except around Thursday or Friday, before the Saturday morning run to the bank to deposit the week’s proceeds. Mitch supposed he and his brother could be considered potential sources for “protection” money. He’d heard of that happening elsewhere. Again, though, the White House wasn’t doing a booming business—surely someone who stopped in every night could see that extortion payments from this place wouldn’t be reliable. No, probably the biggest threat was getting caught in the crossfire if someone tried to whack the guy.

  “If whoever Posey was talking about is retired,” Mitch said, “our Mystery Man coffee-drinker looks a little young for that.”

  Danny snorted. “I don’t think age matters in that line of work. It’s not like they get a gold watch and a pension.”

  “I still doubt it’s the same guy. Anyway, it seems like he’s a no-show tonight—it’s almost eight.”

  “Maybe he’s home watching Goodfellas,” Danny said. He flipped the burger, squirted something on it, and stirred the onions around. They smelled good. Danny’s cooking always smelled good. As Mitch watched, Danny took a long look around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time and said, “So if we move . . . where you figure we should go?”

  Mitch shrugged again. “You’re the one suggested it. You don’t have a place in mind?”

  “Somewhere down south. Someplace warm.”

  “How about a specific answer?”

  “Hawaii,” Danny said.

  “Why?”

  “You said you wanted a Pacific answer.”

  “A specific answer. Smartass.”

  “I’m thinking the Gulf Coast. They like food down there even better’n we do. But not Florida, with all the crowds and the overpricing—I been reading up on it.” As he talked, Danny drained a small basket of French fries and piled them into a white take-out box.

  “Where, then?” Mitch asked.

  “Biloxi.”

  “That’s what, Mississippi?”

  “Yeah. There’s thirty miles of white sand beach from there to Bay St. Louis. Casinos and fancy hotels, plus down-homey fishermen and country folks. Sort of a combination of ritzy and laid-back. Some crazy people there, for sure, but nothing like South Florida or California.”

  “What if they already got a White House?” Mitch asked. “Lots of places do.”

  “Then we’ll call it something else.”

  “Big waves down there? I like big waves.”

  “Nope. There’s a string of barrier islands. Not much surf.” Apparently satisfied, Danny scooped the burger and the onions onto a bun, piled on some lettuce, loaded the result into the box with the fries, and called, “Robbie? Bag this up and take it down the street to Joe Watson. Tell him he owes us for last night’s too.”

  The teenager, probably glad for something to do, propped his mop against the kitchen wall and hurried over.

  “Barrier?” Mitch said. “Against what?”

  “The ocean. The open sea.”

  “That didn’t help much against Katrina, did it? Or Camille.”

  Danny frowned. “Camille?”

  The bell dinged above the front door and Mitch rose from his stool, picked up a menu, and said, “I think you need to do some more reading.”

  Only then, on his way around the end of the counter, did he see who had just come in. She was taking a seat in a booth near the door. Mitch smiled at her and she smiled back.

  Mary Del Rio was probably, he figured, their only regular customer. She had short copper-colored hair, green eyes, and was about his age, late forties. For almost a month she’d been coming in several nights a week around this time, limping heavily and carrying a rolled-up newspaper under one arm. She usually ordered coffee and a sandwich and worked the daily crossword puzzle while she ate. The first few times she’d been quiet, but lately she’d opened up a bit, telling Mitch that she’d recently discovered that the White House—she loved the name—was right on her way as she walked home from her part-time job at the library. After hearing this, Mitch had solemnly agreed that shelving books all day sounded like hungry work and he was rewarded with a delightful laugh. They’d talked more and more each visit—she’d even mentioned her limp, the result of a recent but permanent injury, she said—and he’d begun looking forward to seeing her.

  Especially tonight.

  “Hey, Mary,” he said, handing her the menu. “Snowing out there yet?”

  “No, just cold.” She shrugged out of her coat. “Guess I should be used to it by now.”

  “You never get used to it,” Mitch said. “What’ll it be?”

  “BLT this time. Wheat bread, extra mayo.”

  “Comin’ up.” He paused. “Also . . . I have something for you.”

&nbs
p; “What is it?” She smiled.

  He hurried back to the cash register, gave Danny her order, and waited until his brother turned back to the fridge for the bacon and lettuce. Mitch quickly pulled a narrow four-foot-long box from under the counter and returned to Mary’s table. There he paused to glance furtively around the room, but the older couple was deep in conversation and the lone diner was studying his cell phone intently. Mary sat looking up at Mitch, clearly puzzled.

  Unceremoniously, he slid the box across her table. “For you.”

  She studied it a moment, then opened it. Inside was a handmade walking stick with a crook at the top and a rubber tip on the bottom. The word MARY had been carefully etched into the polished and gleaming wood on the top of the handle. She stared at it for a long moment, her fingers touching the letters of her name. When she raised her head to look at him, she had a huge grin on her face.

  “You told me,” he said, “that you don’t use a walking stick because you haven’t found one you liked. Well, you might not like this one either, but . . . who knows? It’s a little heavy, but it’s balanced and solid.”

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered. She reached up and took his hand. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Mitch lightly squeezed her fingers. “Say you’ll give it a try.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the gray-suited man rise from his table. “Be right back,” Mitch said. He picked up the empty box and headed for his post at the cash register.

  When the diner had paid and left, Mitch glanced at Danny, who—always watching—grinned and rolled his eyes. Then Mitch poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the countertop and took it to Mary Del Rio’s table. She was still examining the cane, turning it over and over in her hands.

  “What a kind and wonderful thing for you to do,” she said quietly.

  He smiled and put down her cup and saucer. “My pleasure. I like to make things, and I wanted to give it to you now because . . . well, we might not be here long, my brother and me.”

  She blinked. “You’re closing?”

  “Moving.” He sat down across from her and told her what he knew so far, about their plans, and when he described them aloud he realized they sounded a little half-baked. “Nothing’s definite yet,” he added.

  “Biloxi’s a good place,” she said. “I have a sister in Mobile.”

  “How far away is that?”

  “Different state, but just fifty or sixty miles. And it’s bah-LUCK-see, not bah-LOCK-see. Say it wrong and they’ll run you out of town.”

  He laughed. “Good to know. I just found out what a barrier island is.”

  “They weren’t much of a barrier to the last few hurricanes.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He paused. “But I think I’d rather get blown away by a storm than by a hopped-up teenager with a gun. Or a gangster.”

  “Gangster?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind. I’ve been listening to too many rumors. What I do know, though, is that it isn’t as safe around here as it used to be.” He leaned forward, holding her gaze. “I’d hate for you to stop coming here, whether Danny and I own the place anymore or not, but walking home from work after dark . . . well, that might not be a great idea.”

  She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “You’re a good man, Mitch White—”

  “That’s what I keep telling my brother.”

  “—but I go where I want, and when I want. Okay?”

  He smiled again. “Okay.” He hesitated, then almost said something more, but didn’t. He liked that she was brave, and stubborn. She reminded him of Emily. He felt the beginnings of tears in his own eyes. He could hardly believe she’d been gone three years now.

  The scrape of chairs snapped Mitch out of his thoughts. The elderly couple had finished and were rising to leave. “Your sandwich’ll be ready in a minute,” he said to Mary, as he stood up to go back to the counter—and she surprised him by standing also.

  “I’m headed to the ladies’ room first. Besides, I want to try out the cane.”

  Two minutes later, after Mitch had tucked the old folks’ cash payment into the drawer of the register and watched them shuffle out into the night, he heard his brother set a plate down with a clatter in the service window behind him and say, “One BLT for the pretty lady.”

  As Mitch picked up the plate, he and Danny exchanged a look, and Mitch couldn’t help smiling. She was pretty. Later, he wouldn’t be able to remember why he hadn’t heard the dinging of the bell above the front door, though it was probably because the old couple had only just exited.

  Mitch turned back to the counter—and straight into the barrel of a gun.

  The bill of the baseball cap was pushed back a bit, and he saw Mystery Man’s face clearly for the first time. If eyes could look cold and soulless, this man’s did. Mitch felt a chill run down his spine. Behind him, on the kitchen side of the window, he could hear his brother humming a tune. Danny hadn’t yet seen what was happening.

  The man waved the pistol—a heavy revolver—at the window and said, “Get him out here. And put that down.”

  Mitch set the sandwich plate down on the countertop, turned, caught Danny’s eye, and waved him out front. He was careful not to look at the hallway that led to the restrooms.

  If the gunman didn’t know Mary Del Rio was here, Mitch wanted to keep it that way.

  Danny could now see the man on the other side of the counter, could see the gun and the look on Mitch’s face, and didn’t ask questions. A moment later the two brothers were standing side by side, staring at the dark stranger.

  “I know tomorrow is deposit day,” the man said. “I also know how much business you’ve done this week. Hand it over.”

  Mitch’s mind was whirling. As his trembling hands took out the stacks of bills, he found himself wishing fervently that he’d paid more attention to this guy. But how could he have suspected, much less prevented, something like this?

  “Now,” the gunman said, pocketing the loot, “as for you two—”

  He never finished the sentence. Mitch heard a WHOP like a palm slapping a tabletop and saw the man’s cap fly off and his eyes roll backward. He teetered there for a second, his face slack and shoulders slumped, and then fell forward across the counter and lay still.

  Only then could Mitch see what had happened. Standing behind the man was Mary Del Rio, her walking stick high over her left shoulder and her upper body twisted in a follow-through like a batter after a home-run swing. Slowly she lowered the cane, switched ends so she was holding the crook, and looked at the brothers. “You guys okay?” she asked.

  Mitch’s brain couldn’t seem to form words. Danny, whose mouth was hanging open, finally said, “Lady, you ’bout knocked his head off.”

  “I was trying to,” she said, looking down at the gunman. Sprawled facedown across the counter with his head and arms hanging off one side and his legs off the other, he looked like a drunk cowboy flung over a horse’s back to be carried home to the bunkhouse.

  “I better call the cops,” Danny said. As he hurried to the phone, Mary hobbled around the counter to stand beside Mitch and leaned forward to examine the man’s face.

  “How long you think it’ll take ’em to get here?” she asked.

  Mitch swallowed. “The police? Maybe ten minutes. There’s a station two blocks away.” Then, as the thought occurred to him, he said, “What if he wakes up before then?”

  She was studying the guy as if in deep thought. Finally, she straightened up again. “You know that thing on an alarm clock that you push so you can sleep a little longer?”

  “The snooze button?” Mitch said.

  “Yeah.” Calmly, she gripped the cane with both hands as before, stepped forward, and bashed the guy in the head again. “That should do it.”

  Both she and Mitch stood there a minute, staring at him.

  “Is he still alive?” Mitch asked, when he found his voice.

  “Probably.” Mary Del Rio, leaning once more on the cane, raised
her head and looked him in the eye. “Listen to me, Mitch.” When he’d focused on her, she said, “You listening?”

  He nodded.

  “I wasn’t here tonight,” she said. “While this jerk was robbing you and Danny, some guy off the street you never saw before came in and hit him in the back of the head with a baseball bat. Understand?” She paused. “If you tell the truth, I could lose my job.”

  Mitch blinked several times, not quite following, but suddenly a more urgent thought occurred to him. “You could lose more than that. If this stranger is who I think he might be . . . Yeah. You weren’t here. That’s a good idea.”

  “Make sure Danny understands too. Make up a description of your rescuer, get together on it, and stick to it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She sighed then and gently touched his cheek with her palm. Her hand was warm and steady. “Go south,” she said. “Get out of here. And don’t forget me.”

  “I won’t,” he said.

  He watched dazedly as she used the cane to walk to the door, pausing only long enough to retrieve her coat and purse and newspaper from her booth. Then she was gone.

  Officer Nicholas Posey arrived in twelve minutes to find the robber still unconscious and still in possession of the contents of the café’s cash drawer. Mitch and Danny, faithful watchers of all the CSI shows—even the reruns—had been understandably reluctant to touch the guy, but they had no trouble convincing Posey to dig the stolen money from the guy’s pants pockets and return it to them. It wasn’t as if there was no further evidence against him. The White brothers presented a believable, if entirely false, account and Posey could find no reason to question it. As unlikely as it might seem, an anonymous Good Samaritan had swooped in at exactly the right time, or, from the head-battered robber’s perspective, the wrong time.

  After the perpetrator had been carted off to the hospital, from where he would eventually be carted off to jail, Officer Posey allowed himself to be persuaded to sample a slice of Danny White’s apple pie and—in return—to answer a few questions. The first was the most obvious:

  “Was he the guy you told me about?” Mitch asked.