by Kaye George
"Yeah, can you imagine being that stupid?" Kayley recognized the New York accent of one of the male thriller writers.
"Oh, I don't know if she's stupid. Just oblivious, I think." This was probably that chubby woman, a romance suspense author from the south.
"Whatever. Who would want her for an agent? She must have pissed off old Alice."
"Well, Alice is pretty pissy herself. But, I see what you mean."
"And that editor." This much louder voice was unrecognized, but just as annoying as the other two. "How can you let someone like Jolie get away from you like that? Haunted House hasn't even signed any new authors since Jolie started producing for them. That ship might just sink."
Kayley closed her eyes. The tears squeezed out. How could she ever hold her head up again in the writing community? She would cancel her panel tomorrow and leave.
She looked at Barb and mouthed, "We're through."
Barb took hold of her hands. "Sweetie, it's not the end of the world. There's always shomething you can do."
They stumbled out together.
***
At the bar, Nannette, wife of the deceased Brady, blinked back her tears.
Danforth patted her arm. Even with her eyes red and in her disheveled state she was pretty. "I'm so sorry," he said. "You must have loved your husband very much."
"Well, not when he went off with people like your wife." She spit her gum into a bar napkin.
"My ex-wife."
"I'm not going to cry anymore." Nannette wiped her eyes with another bar napkin. "It doesn't do any good. I'll get over it. I know she's responsible. But no one will ever prove it."
Danforth wondered if he should tell her she was probably right. That happened to a lot of men Alice hung around with. The cops had had their eye on her for a while, but nothing could ever be proved against her. Just that she'd been with them before they were found dead. It had taken law enforcement a long time to get wise to her, though, because no one missed any of them. Until now they'd all been unattached. She'd made a mistake with Brady Fox, though, Danforth thought. But could she be nailed for his death?
"I'm so tired," said Nannette. "But I don't think I can face my room. I haven't been back since…since they had me identify his body."
"Would you like me to come to your room with you?" He could see her consider that. He wasn't sure himself whether it was a proposition or not. Something about Nannette made him feel protective. He wanted to keep her safe.
She nodded. Danforth slapped a couple of bills on the bar and steered her to the elevators.
When they reached her room on the sixth floor she fumbled for her keycard, then stuck it in the slot. Nothing happened. The light stayed red. She tried again.
"Here, let me," said Danforth. But the light would not turn green. "Looks like you got a bad card."
Nannette fished a stick of gum from her purse and chomped it.
"I'll take it to the desk," he said.
"Oh, don't leave me alone."
He touched her cheek. Her skin was so soft.
"Come on down with me."
In the elevator he had an idea and punched 4.
"What are you doing?" asked Nannette.
"It's all right. I want to try something." She looked afraid. "I'll never hurt you, Nannette. I just want to see something. Your husband drank with my ex-wife. If one of them went to the other one's room at any point, the keys might have gotten switched. Let's see if this fits Alice's room."
The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. Danforth had been keeping track of Alice. In fact he had been following her from conference to conference, hoping to uncover some evidence the police could use against her. He knew her room was 413.
"I don't think this is a good idea," said Nannette. She chewed her gum faster.
"Why not? If this fits—"
"That's not legal, is it? To go into someone else's room?" He started down the carpeted hallway. It was late and the rooms were all quiet. Most of the occupants were probably asleep.
She grabbed his sleeve. "No, don't do that. Don't go into her room."
He still held the keycard. Nannette made a grab for it, but he slid it into the slot on the door to room 413. The light turned green.
"Just a minute." He pushed the door a few inches and looked inside. She wasn't far from the door. Danforth gave Nannette a curious look. Alice Jolie lay sprawled on the floor in an awkward position. He stepped to her and rolled her over to see if she could be revived.
***
This was something new, thought Kayley. An honest-to-god crime scene at a mystery conference. But she felt awful. Though she had sobered up as soon as the cop announced Alice was dead and that he would question her as soon as he finished with Alice's new agent and editor, a pounding headache was making it hard to hold her head up and keep her eyes open.
The police had commandeered the signing room. The overhead lights glared unnecessarily. Did they have to have all of them on?
"Tell me again when you last saw her."
"It was when, when she left the bar. Right after…"
"Right after?" His voice was growlly and echoed off the insides of her sore head.
"Right after she told me about her new contract."
"She changed agents, right?"
"I'm sure you already know that. Could you speak a little more softly please?"
"Don't go anywhere."
"I'm not sorry she's dead, but I didn't kill her."
She watched him interrogate Barb. It looked like he suspected her, too. Was it possible he thought they did it together?
***
Danforth shifted in his seat.
"I'm not sorry she's dead."
"That's what everyone has said so far," said the policeman with the five o'clock shadow that looked like it needed shaving every hour. Danforth wondered if he was a werewolf. "Were you out of the hotel at all yesterday? Last night or this morning?"
"No, I've been inside since the conference started."
"That's not what the desk clerk says."
The cop waited. Danforth fell into the silence. "Oh, I did step out last night for a moment." Damn, that's what the cop wanted him to do, fill the empty spaces. "I just needed a breath of air." There, he was doing it again. Now he would shut up.
Another detective approached and drew Bluebeard aside. After a brief conversation the grilling resumed. "And where have you been tonight?"
"I've been with, um, with…"
"Yeah? Nannette Fox? The wife of the dead guy? Did you help her?"
"What? Help her what?"
"Her chewing gum was found underneath the body. It looks like Nannette Fox killed Alice Jolie."
"But I—" He thought he'd scraped it all up. He must have missed some.
***
Isabel still had her maid uniform on. It came in very handy. Especially the passkey in the pocket. The more she thought about the smell in Alice's room, the harder she thought. She took the elevator up to four and stood outside 413. There was no way she could go in now. The crime scene tape sealed the door and they would surely be able to tell if she entered.
Nannette Fox had admitted bashing in the head of Alice. But how had Alice Jolie managed to kill Nannette's husband, Brady? And why did the room smell of werewolf?
Isabel closed her eyes and pictured the room: king bed, dresser, desk, door to the—Wait! There was an adjoining room. The bolt had been thrown, the door locked from Alice's side. But what about the other room?
Isabel opened the next door room, 411. The stench assaulted her. Her eyes adjusted to the dark quickly and her heart sank at what she saw.
A large collapsible cage occupied much of the floor space. And inside, curled in the corner, was a very angry werewolf. He snarled at Isabel and his fangs glistened with blood, Brady Fox's blood, Isabel felt sure.
She got busy. This guy needed a retransformation.
SWAMP BABY
Steven Metze
The calmness of the oversized
shack didn’t do anything to ease Quinton’s anxiety. Still, it beat the constant white noise of the eerie trees outside, constantly rustling without a hint of a breeze. In fact, the atmosphere pressed down so still and stifling that he felt if he didn’t move he might die breathing back in his own air.
"Should I be afraid of you or the other way ‘round?"
He jumped at the woman’s voice and for an instant considered rushing back out into the swamp. He searched around for movement. There. He’d missed her the first glance around the rustic interior, confusing the patterns of her clothes with all the quilts hanging from the walls.
"I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!" Quinton held his hands out with palms pushing back the space between them. "I’m just really lost and…"
She eased up out of her dark wood rocking chair. Plump, closer to his parents’ age than his grandparents’, but just barely. "And you think I might care enough to let you in my house?"
Quinton gestured to the door. "Well, I knocked and you didn’t answer."
"Am I required to answer?"
"Of course!" He swallowed. "I mean…yeah."
"Really?" She moved towards an old black kettle hovering over a fire in the fireplace and pushed it more towards the area above the flames. Her flesh had a strange pull on her eyelids, cheeks, and shoulders, like gravity gripped at her out of spite rather than habit. "You’d answer at this time of night? In a place like this?"
"Well… maybe…" He took a breath, straightened his posture and wiped his hands on his greasy blue jeans. "Don’t you have a peephole or something?"
"Irrelevant. You’re breaking and entering."
"No! Okay, I entered, but I didn’t break anything!"
Now in the kitchen, she reached up and pulled down an old-style ceramic jar that looked like it had been painted by a five-year-old. "Did you force the door open?"
He didn’t step forward, didn’t step backwards, didn’t shut the door. "I guess a little."
She pulled a cookie from the jar, a big fat one, and bit down with yellowed teeth. "That would be the breaking part."
Quinton sighed. "Look! I just want to get out of here."
She waved the cookie for emphasis. "Then why are we still talking?"
"I need help. I’m lost." He paused. "At night." She took another bite. "In a swamp."
Another bite, then her eyes lit up. "You came here on a dare, didn’t you?" She pointed first at his face and then up and down his soiled uniform. "You and your other scout friends just couldn’t stand not knowing what was in here, hm?"
"I don’t have any scout friends, okay? That’s why I’m lost."
"That doesn’t follow."
"Yes…what?" He stammered while he deciphered what she’d meant. "Look, if I had friends, I wouldn’t be by myself. I might have a map. Or a compass. Or I wouldn’t have to sneak out into the woods away from the porta potties to take a whiz because people keep banging on the walls or dumping them over or taking pictures of me pissing on trees and emailing them to freakin’ everybody in school."
She went for a second cookie. "So you’re a loser?"
Quinton glanced once back out at the void he knew held the swamp. He felt defeated somehow. "I guess."
She moved around the corner and rested against it. "Say it."
He narrowed his eyes and balled his fists. At last he exhaled, long and slow. "Okay, yeah, I’m a loser."
She smiled. "In that case you can stay." And then, holding out the jar, "Cookie?"
Quinton hesitated, uncertain what had just changed.
"Chocolate chip, homemade, from scratch." She waved the container like she thought movement might somehow make the food more enticing for her guest. "Aren’t going to get a better offer than that."
He took a step forward, stopped, and then went back to close the door behind him. The room warmed with the woman’s smile, and somehow the idea of eating cookies on a quilt by a fire seemed the only option that made any sense to him.
"Take two, they’re small," the woman said as he pulled the first one out. Almost an inch thick and as wide as pancakes, they were far from small, but he accepted a second one anyway. "Have a seat." She gestured to a pile of threadbare throw pillows overflowing off a sagging couch with wooden legs that ended in carved bird talons.
He eased down into the cushions, launching a small swirl of dust, then took in more of his surroundings. Based on the furniture struggling for dominance along the walls, this room seemed to serve as the living room, dining room, sewing room, den and library. The fireplace dominated the area, with the kitchen nook on one side and wooden table in a darkened alcove Quinton couldn’t quite make out on the other. A single flimsy-looking door led into what Quinton assumed held a bedroom and hopefully a bathroom of some sort. Were it not for two lamps with leopard-patterned shades and what appeared to be a first-generation microwave tucked in the wall near the sink, there would have been no indication that the house was wired for electricity at all.
"I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for losers." The woman raised the iron lid to the pot hanging over the fire and lifted up what looked like a small cage filled with leaves. After she eased it back down into the pot, a strange mix of smells wafted past Quinton. It made his mouth water and his stomach turn at the same time. Some instinct brought the cookie up and into his mouth. "Attracted them every since I was a kid."
Quinton wanted to say something clever in response, but only grunted through the soft crumbs and bittersweet chunks of chocolate.
"Let me guess." She put a thoughtful finger to her strange sagging chin. "You get picked on in a way that isn’t overtly physical. They don’t shove you in lockers or stick your head in the toilet. You’re not quite scrawny enough for that."
Quinton watched her, trying to reveal as little as possible about himself as she studied him in return.
"They make fun of your clothing idiosyncrasies," she continued, and then pointed at his ankles. "Like those black socks you’ve got poking out of your boots." He strained not to look down. "But they also play tricks on you when you can’t immediately retaliate. Right?"
Quinton sighed. "Usually it’s my bunk." He recalled sliding into cold wet sheets and hoping it was just water. Then he remembered the wet washcloth soaring across the darkness at some point every night and hitting him in the face. That was last year, before Max Early and his lackeys really started getting creative. What sort of punk-ass chump named his kid Max anyway?
"Yeah, I thought so. You have a good idea who does whatever they do, and certainly who laughs at it, but you don’t actually see them do it, right? And if you confront them, they all deny it."
"They aren’t even clever about it," Quinton said. "Just stupid stuff like smearing pudding on my towel while I’m in the shower. I practically throw away each toothbrush as soon as I use it and buy a new one because I’m afraid what they do with them between brushings."
"Yeah and I bet you fantasize all the time of ways to get back at them." She closed her eyes and seemed to watch something in her own imagination. "I doubt you’d be so banal as to go with guns. I’d guess superpowers, or martial arts…possibly some incredible use of supreme technology."
Quinton pulled his head back. He didn’t like the idea of sharing those thoughts with anyone. Or for sure not a woman he just met. "Maybe," was all he managed.
"Ah." She opened her eyes. "I get it. No need to expand on your darker side. I agree, best kept hidden." She grabbed a spice jar from a rack near the fireplace and sprinkled it into the cast iron pot. "I apologize if I delved too deeply there. I do that sometimes on the rare occasions when I get guests."
"No problem," he lied. The chemistry of the room changed again, some of the warmth seeping out with the awkward pause that followed.
"Of course," she said at last, "I grew up on a steamboat, which might have had something to do with it."
"There’s one that keeps going by our camp." Quinton welcomed the change of topic. He swallowed and resisted the urge to re
quest a glass of cold milk. That seemed like just too much to ask for, although if she offered…
"Ah yes, the Elegant Spirit." She put the lid back on the pot and leaned against the wall. "Fake steam, fake pilot, fake passengers. Tourists and prom dates pay twenty dollars a head for that crap."
Quinton nodded without looking at her, instead drawn to the dark niche next to the fireplace. He could make out some shapes on the table if he turned his eyes so he didn’t look directly at them.
"Heh." The woman looked off at nothing in particular. "You know they call this a lake to campers and boaters, and a swamp to fishermen and thrill seekers?" She glanced up when he didn’t reply and then followed his gaze into the shadowed table.
"Oh," he said when he realized her eyes had narrowed to study him. "I’m sorry, I was just…" He wanted to add "being nosy" but instead just let the sentence trail off. He finished the first cookie and waited before he started the second.
"Yes, you were." Her smile radiated a little less energy than before, having transferred it to some penetrating power in her eyes.
He said nothing, caught between the inability to ask for a glass of milk and the inability to keep his gaze away from the darkened table. She cocked her head to one side, and then moved towards a third lamp, a triplet to the other two.
When she clicked it on the shadows fled the recessed extension to the room. "Well, come take a look," she said with a grin.
Quinton rushed over to the table and let out an involuntary, "Whoa," when he got there. Unpainted statuettes covered the surface, each about the size of a yapper dog standing on its heels, but each also a different abomination right out of a carnival house of horrors. All humanoid in basic form, some had tentacles dripping from its face or torso, some had gills, others scales or tails. Quinton blushed when he realized he couldn’t identify whichever movie or comic book the beasts came from.
"These are my babies," the woman said, looking over the figures. "Sculpted each one myself."