The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021

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

  “Come on in,” he said with a sigh.

  Before I accepted his invitation I went to the truck and got the cardboard box. He gave the carton a curious glance, then ushered me into a living room paneled in knotty pine. He shooed away a gray long-haired cat from a wood-framed chair and told me to take a seat.

  He sat on a sofa, picked the cat up, and stroked its head.

  “This is Gus,” he said. “Gotta keep him inside because coyotes come through the yard once in a while, but he doesn’t seem to mind being a house cat.”

  Gus looked as if he didn’t mind anything. I glanced around the living room. There was art on every wall, most of it prints of waterfowl. Wooden decoys were scattered on shelves and tables around the room.

  “Quite the collection,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Murphy said. Then he crossed his arms and gazed at me. “How can I help you?”

  “My client is a rich guy named Ruskin. He bought a Crowell decoy called the preening merganser from Orloff, and paid a lot of money for it, but the law took your former boss off to the clink before he could make good. Then Orloff died in prison and his house burned down, along with the decoy.”

  Murphy nodded. “I already talked to the cops. What does your client want to know that isn’t in the record?”

  “He thinks maybe the merganser didn’t burn up.”

  Murphy scoffed. “That’s because he didn’t see the fire.”

  “You did?” I remembered from the file that Murphy told the interviewer he lost his job when Orloff was arrested and hadn’t been back to the house since it was sealed.

  “I didn’t see the actual fire,” he said, catching himself. “I saw the TV stuff and came by the house later. It went up quick, like it had been set.”

  “The investigation didn’t say anything about arson.”

  “A guy like Orloff would know people who could do a smart job. Everything had been reduced to cinders. Everything. I don’t know where Ruskin would get the idea that the bird wasn’t burned up.”

  “From this.” I opened the carton, extracted the plastic case, and set it on the coffee table. “Made in China. Ruskin saw an ad in a magazine and ordered this Crowell reproduction.”

  “Chinese are pretty clever at copying stuff,” he said.

  “Ruskin says a copy this good could only have been made from the original. Which means the authentic Crowell didn’t burn up.”

  “Orloff could have had the fake made before the real bird got burned.”

  “That’s not what the record shows. The repro was made after the house fire.”

  He shrugged. “Can I take a look?”

  I handed him the encased bird model. He ran his fingers over the plastic surface of the box.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Probably the same place you got the one you gave to the museum.”

  “You stopped by the museum?”

  I pointed to a photo of the Crowell workshop that hung over the fireplace mantle.

  “They moved the decoy to the woodworking barn,” I said.

  His hand stopped stroking the box. “No kidding. Why did they do that?” He sounded almost startled.

  “Thought it would add to the workshop’s authenticity. The lady at the museum said you were a bird carver.”

  “I carved most of the birds in the house, but I’m no Elmer Crowell. I’ve taken a few courses and have the tools.”

  “That makes you an expert compared to me. How does the mail order repro stack up against the original?”

  “Technically, it’s very good, but it doesn’t have the soul you’d see in a Crowell. I figured I’d never own a real one, so I bought the reproduction. I must have seen the same ad as Ruskin. I ordered one just to see what they’d done.”

  He put the box down on the coffee table, which is when I noticed the blurry blue tattoo on his forearm. I could still make out the eagle, globe, and anchor of the Marine insignia. That explained the military buzz cut of his white hair.

  “Semper fi,” I said, and pushed my sleeve up to show him a smaller version of the EGA on the top of my arm near the shoulder.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Where’d you serve?”

  “Up by the border mostly. You?”

  “I spent a lot of time around Pleiku. Got a Purple Heart. What about you?”

  I shook my head. “Only wounds I got were psychological. Worst one was when a village got shelled after I told everyone they were safe. Now I think real hard before I make a promise.”

  A knowing smile came to his lips. “Sometimes you don’t see the forest for the trees.”

  Murphy seemed more relaxed. He told me that after the Marines he had married and gone into the postal service like a lot of vets, retired early after his wife got a bad disease that eventually killed her, and started a small company keeping an eye on summer houses when their owners weren’t around. That’s how he met Orloff, and went to work for him as a full-time caretaker until the time his boss got arrested.

  “Did he cheat you?” I asked.

  “He owed me a month’s salary. They say he only went after big accounts. But he stiffed little guys like me. He even cheated a fund for handicapped kids that didn’t know he was handling its money. He was like somebody’s uncle, people trusted him right to the end.”

  “Speaking of the end, this looks like a dead one,” I said. I gave him my business card. “Let me know if you remember anything else.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Come by to see me anytime. I don’t go out much and stay up late. Maybe I’ll hear something from the bird carver crowd. You never know.”

  “That’s right,” I said, getting up from the couch to shake hands. “You never do.”

  The investigative report said the fake decoys had been mailed from Harwich. I stopped by the post office, went up to the desk, and asked the postal clerk what the cheapest rate would be for sending out a box like the one in my hands.

  “Depends on weight, of course. Parcel post is the cheapest, but it’s also the slowest,” she said.

  “I was talking to a friend named Mike Murphy. He’s got a PO box here and sends out a lot of packages, but I don’t remember what rate he used.”

  “We’ve got a few Murphys. I don’t recall anyone doing a lot of shipping.”

  “I’ll talk to him and get back to you.”

  I remembered that there was more than one post office in town. I got back in my truck and drove a few miles to the pint-sized West Harwich post office. I went through the same routine with the postmistress, and this time I struck gold.

  “Mike uses straight parcel post to send boxes that look just like that,” she said. “Haven’t seen him for a while, though. Not since he closed his box.”

  “I’ll tell Mike you miss seeing him,” I said.

  Twenty minutes later I drove down the potholed dirt driveway that leads to the converted boathouse I call home. Chez Socarides was part of an old estate when I bought it and rebuilt it into a year-round residence. The place is still just short of ramshackle, but it’s got a million-dollar water view of a big bay and distant barrier beach.

  My cat Kojak ambushed me as soon as I stepped inside. I poured him some dry food, grabbed the phone, went out on the deck, and tucked the box with the fake bird under a chair. Then I dialed the number for Ruskin. He answered right away.

  I told him about my talk with Mike Murphy, his connection with Orloff, and the visit to the post office.

  “Do you suspect Murphy knows more about my decoy than what he’s saying?”

  “Yes, I do, which is why I want to go back to talk to him again.”

  “When you do, tell him he’d better say where it is, or else.”

  “Or else what, Mr. Ruskin?”

  “I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

  I didn’t like what I was imagining. Ruskin was suggesting that I threaten Murphy.

  “I don’t work that way, Mr. Ruskin.”

  “Well, I do,” he said. �
�And I have found my methods extremely persuasive.”

  “I can tear up your check or send it back to you, Mr. Ruskin. Your call.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Ruskin laughed.

  “No need to do either. You don’t think I’m serious. I’ve decided to offer a reward.”

  I should have been suspicious at Ruskin’s fast turnaround. But I was put off by his conciliatory change of tone.

  “It’s worth a try. How much of a reward?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about ten thousand dollars?”

  “That will definitely get his interest. I’ll go see Murphy tomorrow and make the offer.”

  “Yes,” Ruskin said, after a pause. “That should work.”

  He hung up. I went back into the house and came out onto the deck with a can of Cape Cod Red beer. I popped the top and took a slurp, thinking about my conversation with Ruskin. He said his rash suggestion to lean on Murphy was a joke, but I wasn’t so sure. I sipped my beer, letting my mind zone out as the late afternoon sun painted the bay and beach in autumn pastels.

  After the beer can went dry, I went back into the house. I pulled together a Greek salad for dinner, then worked a few hours on some paperwork for the charter operation. The figures looked so good that I decided to call my family in the morning to tell them about my accounting.

  My eyes were tired from looking at numbers. I had another beer, then I stretched out on the couch and fell asleep. The chirp of my phone woke me up. I groped for the phone, stuck it in my ear, and came out with a groggy “hello.” I heard a wet gargle on the other end and a second later the phone went dead. The caller ID said Mike Murphy had called. I hit the redial button and got a busy signal.

  The phone’s time display said it was after midnight.

  I splashed cold water on my face and headed for the door.

  Murphy’s house was in darkness. I parked in the driveway behind the Toyota Camry, went up to the front door, and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time. No one came to the door. I rang the doorbell. No one answered the ring, but something brushed up against my leg.

  I looked down at Murphy’s cat, Gus. Funny. Murphy said Gus stayed indoors because of the danger from coyotes.

  I tried the knob. The door was unlocked. As I opened the door Gus scuttled past me into the darkness. I stepped inside and called Murphy’s name. No answer. I tried again. This time I heard a low moan. I felt for the wall switch and flicked on the lights.

  Murphy was stretched out on the couch, one arm dangling limply toward the floor. The lower part of his face looked as if it had been smeared with ketchup.

  I snatched a phone from the floor next to the couch and called 911. I said I was Mike’s neighbor and that he needed medical help. Then I knelt next to Murphy. I put my face close to his, and said, “You’re going to be okay, Mike. Rescue squad is on its way.”

  He opened his mouth and I got a knot in the pit of my stomach when I saw that his beautiful Irish smile had been ruined. Something or someone had hit him in the jaw with a force powerful enough to knock out his front teeth. There were bruises on his left cheek. I guessed he’d been worked over with a blackjack.

  Anger welled in my chest.

  “Who did this to you, Mike?”

  He tried to talk. The best he could manage was a wet gurgle similar to the one I had heard over the phone. I asked him again. This time he said what sounded like goats. I tried again. The same answer. His dazed eyes looked past my shoulder. I turned and saw he had fixed his gaze on the fireplace photo of the Crowell barn. Then, mercifully, he passed out.

  I had done all I could for Mike. I didn’t want to explain to the police who I was and why I was there. I went outside, got in the pickup, drove half a block and parked where I could see the house. Minutes later, I saw the flashing lights of an ambulance coming down the street.

  It was clear to me who’d worked Mike over. Ruskin made no secret that he would crack heads if necessary to get his hands on the decoy. Thanks to my big fat Greek mouth, he knew Murphy held the key to its whereabouts. I had handed Mike on a platter to a dangerous man.

  Maybe I should tell the cops what I knew. Lousy idea. Ruskin had the money to hire a team of lawyers who would say that there was no evidence. And Ruskin had the perfect alibi. He never left the house because of his acute allergies, poor guy.

  I watched the rescue squad bring Mike out on a stretcher and put him in the ambulance. I followed the ambulance to the hospital emergency entrance. I waited outside a few minutes, but there was nothing I could do while Mike was in the ER, so I drove home.

  When I drove up to my house I saw I had company. A black Cadillac was parked in front. I pulled up next to the car and got out of the truck. The caddy’s door opened and a tall man emerged from the car. His silver hair was combed back from a broad forehead. He had a sharp-jawed face with a chin like a shelf. He stood there with his arms folded.

  “Ruskin sent me,” he said. He had an accent that was neither English nor Irish. I figured him for Australian.

  The black running suit didn’t hide his broad-shouldered physique any better than the white coverall did when I first saw him in the trophy room. “You’re his valet. Dudley.”

  If he was surprised I knew his name he didn’t show it. His expression looked as if it had been carved in ice.

  “Yeah, that’s me. How’d you know my name?”

  “Ruskin’s butler.”

  “He talks too much.”

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without your hazmat outfit.”

  “What? Oh yeah. The spook suit. I put it on after I’ve been out of the house. Ruskin worries about bringing in bad stuff.”

  “I’d ask you in for a cup of tea, Dudley, but the place is a mess. What brings you by this time of night?”

  “Mr. Ruskin wanted me to tell you you’re off the case. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

  “Funny, he didn’t say anything about firing me when I talked to him a few hours ago. He suggested I offer a reward to a source who might be able to lead him to the decoy.”

  “Save your energy. You’re done.”

  “Does that mean he’s found the decoy?”

  “He knows where it is. You’re out of the picture.”

  “He paid me a lot of money to snoop around.”

  He sneered. “Don’t bother cashing the check. He’s going to put a stop payment on it.”

  “Mr. Ruskin is stiffing me?”

  “You didn’t find the bird. That was the deal. He had to take matters into his own hands. I’m here to pick up the fake bird.”

  “It’s a fake. What’s the hurry?”

  “Mr. Ruskin doesn’t like other people to have his property.”

  “People like Mike Murphy?”

  “Whaddya talking about?”

  “I told Ruskin that Murphy might know where the decoy was. A few hours later someone put him in the hospital.”

  Dudley smiled. “So?”

  “So maybe the police might like to know the connection between your boss and Murphy getting beat up.”

  “That would be stupid on your part.”

  “Tell Ruskin I’ll drop the duck off tomorrow. Maybe we can talk about my paycheck then. Thanks for coming by, Dud.”

  Calling him Dud was my first mistake. Turning away from a violent thug was my second. He moved in, and I saw him unfold his arms from across his chest a second before something hard slammed into the side of my head. My legs turned to rubber and I went over like a fallen oak.

  I didn’t even have the chance to yell, “Timber!”

  A groan woke me up, which wasn’t surprising because it was coming from my throat.

  I pushed myself onto my elbows, then onto my knees, got my legs under me, and staggered into the boathouse. The right side of my head was on fire. I had trouble focusing, but I saw that the inside of the house looked as if a bulldozer had gone through it. Only not as neat.

  I called Kojak’s name and sighed
with relief when he sauntered out of the bedroom. I splashed cold water on my face for the second time that night, put ice in a dish towel, and held it tenderly against my head where it helped numb the pain.

  I went out on the deck. The box was where I left it, behind the chair. The bird container was still inside.

  Dudley said his boss knew where to find the Crowell decoy. I stood on the deck and recalled my conversation with Murphy, and the startled look on his face when I told him his gift to the museum had been moved to the barn.

  I remembered, too, the way he had stared at the Crowell barn photo when I found him with his teeth smashed in. It was a deliberate gesture that must have caused him some pain but he did it anyhow.

  Sometimes you don’t see the forest for the trees.

  You can get so involved in the details, you can’t see the whole picture.

  Whether he intended to or not, Mike’s wry comment told me he had found a safe place for the original Crowell. Right in the open, where no one would suspect it to be.

  It was a short drive from my house to Brooks Academy. The black Cadillac was parked on a side road in the shadow of some trees.

  I dug a filleting knife out of its case, snuck over to the car, and stuck the blade into all four tires. The car slowly slumped onto its rims. About then, I heard the sound of an alarm from the workshop. Dudley was making his move. I got back in my truck and drove to the police station around a half mile away. I went in the front door and hurried up to the dispatcher’s desk.

  “I just went by Brooks Academy and heard an alarm going off,” I said. “There’s a car parked nearby. Looked kinda suspicious.”

  The dispatcher thanked me, and while she got on the phone I slipped out of the police station. I sat in my truck and saw a cruiser drive away from the station toward the museum. A minute later another patrol car raced past, going in the same direction.

  I waited ten minutes, then drove by the museum. Four cruisers with roof lights flashing were parked near the museum. Some police officers were talking to a tall man. He had his back to me so I couldn’t see his face, but his hair looked even more silvery in the harsh beam of headlights.