My father enjoyed a wide variety of material. Thick volumes of military history checked out from the local library. Non-fiction books about golf and airplanes and home or car repair. Glossy, oversized travel guides covering an array of exotic destinations, many of which he had visited during his years in the Air Force and many more he one day hoped to visit.
And then there were his favorites: mysteries by the masters, Lawrence Block and Dick Francis and Robert B. Parker. Spy novels by Robert Ludlum and John le Carre and Frederick Forsyth. Stacks of pulp paperbacks by folks like John D. MacDonald, Charles Williams, David Goodis, and Day Keene (almost all of these novels short and sporting nifty titles and even niftier cover art, so they quickly became my favorites as well), these tattered paperbacks usually acquired from the Swap Shelf located by the front entrance of the library.
But my father saved his deepest affection for his magazines. National Geographic. Popular Mechanics. Life. Newsweek. I remember many summer evenings when he would sit out back on our screened-in porch and snip out his favorite articles and collate them into various binders for further study. I don’t know why, but it seemed like a magical process to me, and I was fascinated by the idea.
And then there was the Granddaddy of them all: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. I don’t ever remember my father cutting out pages from Ellery Queen’s. For him, I think it would have been like snipping out sections of the bible. Instead, each new issue was quickly read and then neatly collected on a bookshelf in the corner of the den, not far from his favorite reading chair. He never subscribed to Ellery Queen’s (I never asked, but I suspect it was because he didn’t want the mailing label to foul up the front cover). He bought each issue at a local book and magazine shop called Maxine’s, and I accompanied him on most of these trips. It was during those car rides that my father first taught me about the history of the magazine and many of its authors. He also told me about his favorite stories and encouraged me to try my hand at my own mystery tales (by then I was writing my own shorts, mostly monster and war adventures, and trying to sell them to my friends). I remember feeling happy and proud that he thought enough of my opinion to share those stories with me and talk to me like a grown-up. I remember feeling the early stirrings of an unbreakable bond that would last us a lifetime.
Years ago, I wrote a Story Note in an early collection of mine that described an idyllic childhood of fishing and hiking and playing baseball with my friends, my father inevitably parked in his car somewhere in the background or perched on the first-base bleachers, the lower half of his face obscured by a worn paperback or the new issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, his eyes peering over the front cover, watching over me. It was a scene I knew well from my childhood days, and a memory I still hold close to my heart today.
****
When I was a teenager, I had two favorite bookstores in the town I grew up in. The first was Carol’s Used Books, which was housed in a couple of trailers, sandwiched between a Dunkin’ Donuts and a pawn shop. I spent hours in that place, and I can still remember the exact layout (mystery and horror straight ahead and to the right), the sagging, carpeted floors, and the comforting smell of old books. Carol’s closed a long time ago. A used car lot stands in its place now. But I still have dozens of paperbacks on my bookshelves with the Carol’s Used Books stamp on the inside front cover, and that’s good enough for me.
The second store was called Maxine’s Books and Cards, and as luck would have it, Maxine’s was located right next door to Frank’s Pizza, just about the best pizza shop in the entire world. Maxine’s is where I first fell in love with comic books and later discovered Dean Koontz’s backlist and books by authors such as Bill Pronzini and Ed Gorman and Joe Lansdale. It’s where I bought my first Stephen King paperback and my first copies of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. It’s also where my father and I used to drive together once a month to pick up the brand new issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. For me, Maxine’s was sacred ground.
I never told anyone this—not even my father; some things you just have to keep to yourself—but I always dreamed of seeing one of my own short stories in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. It always felt like the Holy Grail of magazines to me—and not just because it was my dad’s favorite. It’s where the best genre writers contributed their very best work; you never got the feeling the magazine published trunk or throwaway stories. Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine was where the big boys and girls came to play.
Many years later, thanks to Janet Hutchings and Ed Gorman, my dream came true when my story “Like Father, Like Son” appeared in the March 1997 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
I remember being so excited on publication day that I couldn’t wait for my contributor copies to arrive in the mail. Sadly, Maxine’s was long closed by then, so I drove to the next town over and picked up a couple copies from a magazine shop. I stopped at my parents’ house on the way home and gave a copy to my father. I sat in the den and watched him read my story, a hint of tears in his eyes. That was a good night.
****
My father is gone now. Cancer. During his final days, I often sat at his bedside and read to him. On his night table sat books by Ed Gorman and Stephen King, a copy of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and a stack of other periodicals. When we weren’t reading, we talked about life and the people we loved and good books we had read. I told him how my oldest son was devouring books and comics and starting to write stories of his own. We smiled and laughed and cried a lot. We remembered a lot. Those long weeks were the hardest days of my life, but I wouldn’t have traded them for anything in the world.
****
All these years later, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine is still here. A time capsule of fine words and memories. For that, I’m grateful.
THE WITCH
“I hate Halloween.”
“You hate everything,” I said.
“That’s not true.”
“Name three things you don’t—”
“Pizza.”
“That’s one.”
“Fishing.”
“Two.”
Frank Logan, bald head, double chin, and wrinkled suit, stared out the passenger window of our unmarked patrol car.
“Stuck at two, aren’t you?”
“Well, I was gonna say you’re the third thing I don’t hate but that was before you started with this shit.”
I laughed and swung a right onto Pulaski Highway. “So what do you have against Halloween anyway?”
He glanced over at me and I recognized the look immediately: it was his ‘Should I really waste my breath explaining this to you?’ look.
After a moment, he decided I was worth the effort and went on. “It’s become too damn commercial. I read in the paper last week that Halloween is second to only Christmas when it comes to holiday sales revenue. Christmas, for Chrissake!”
I smiled and changed lanes. Another classic Frank Logan rant coming right up.
“When I was a kid, the only thing anyone spent money on was candy. That’s it! We made the decorations for our yards and houses. We made our costumes. I was a hobo the first time I went trick-or-treating. A clown the next year. A baseball player the year after that. All homemade. Didn’t spend a penny.”
“I can’t see you as a clown.”
“I was five, Ben. What was your first costume?”
I hesitated. “Umm, I don’t remember.”
“Sure you do. Everyone remembers their first Halloween costume. It’s like a rule, like remembering your first piece of ass.”
“I really don’t remember.”
“Sure you do.”
I sighed. “I was Casper, Frank. Good enough?”
“Casper the friendly ghost?”
“No, Casper the angry squirrel.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Store bought?”
I tu
rned onto a residential street. Jack O’ Lanterns grinned their jagged, orange grins at us from front porches. Tombstones poked out of manicured lawns, piles of fallen leaves heaped in front of them in the shapes of corpses. Ghosts and goblins hung from trees. I saw a cluster of police lights in the distance. It was after ten, so the sidewalks were empty of trick-or-treaters, but I could see a good-sized crowd gathered in the middle of the road ahead.
“Store bought?” Frank asked again. Once he got his teeth into something, he didn’t let go. It was what made him such a fine detective.
“Yes, Frank, it was store bought. A cheap plastic mask with eyeholes cut out of it, and one of those elastic bands in the back that pinched your ears and neck. I apologize for violating the spirit of Halloween and promise to make up for it next October. Happy?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Just a question. No need to get touchy.”
I pulled to the curb and parked behind a Sheriff’s cruiser, opened the driver’s door and got out.
“Westerns,” Frank said.
I looked at him over the top of our sedan. “What?”
“I don’t hate Westerns. You know, movies.”
I closed my car door and started toward the scene.
“That’s three, Ben,” from behind me. “I win.”
****
“Whatdya got, Lenny?”
Sheriff Deputy Leonard Perkins looked up from the small notebook he was scribbling in and shook his head. “It’s a weird one, fellas.”
“That’s what we hear,” Frank said.
Lenny closed his notebook and looked around at the bystanders, a mix of excited children—many still dressed in costume (all of them store bought, I noticed), masks pushed up off their sweaty faces—and worried, tired adults. “Guess it makes sense. Being Halloween and all.”
“Don’t get him started on Halloween,” I said.
Lenny looked at Frank and back to me again, waiting. When neither of us said anything else, he went on. “Deceased is Harold Torre. Forty-six-year-old male. Divorced. No kids. Been in the residence for almost fifteen years. Neighbors say he’s quiet and polite. Keeps to himself mostly. Doesn’t show up at the block parties or cookouts but is friendly enough if you pass him on the street or see him working out on his lawn. Doesn’t have many visitors.”
“Occupation?” I asked.
“Owns an insurance company right here in town.”
Lenny gestured for us to follow and started across the lawn to the front porch of a well-kept rancher. It looked like every light in the house was on.
“This is how one of the neighborhood kids found him.”
Mr. Torre was a man of average height and build. I would guess 5’10 and 165 pounds, although it was difficult to accurately gauge since he was presently sprawled face-down on his front porch, one leg tucked beneath the other. He had dark curly hair and wore eyeglasses. The glasses—old fashioned and metal-framed—were lying on the concrete porch amidst a scattering of Halloween candy and an empty dark blue Tupperware bowl.
“No one saw him go down?” Frank asked.
Lenny shook his head. “No one we’ve talked to.” He gestured to a blonde woman and a little boy waiting in the side yard with another police officer. “Kid walked up on him when he was trick-or-treating, found him like that and ran back to his mom crying. She called 911 from her cell.”
Frank grunted. “Kid got his trick, I guess.”
“Really, Frank?” I said.
Lenny ignored us. “Had to be quick, though. Lotta trick-or-treaters in this neighborhood. Can’t imagine much of a break between ’em.”
I nodded, remembering my own childhood Halloween nights. We’d practically sprinted from house to house. “You talk to the mother yet?”
“Emerson did,” Lenny said. “And we figured you guys would want to.”
“Frank can handle that,” I said and held up a hand in Frank’s direction to stop what I knew was coming.
“No visible wounds,” Lenny continued. “The M.E. had us roll him on his side, but only for a few seconds. Didn’t find anything.”
“Heart attack?” Frank asked.
“Guess it’s possible,” Lenny said. “But when you take the note into account, it’s…doubtful.”
“What note?” I asked.
Lenny looked surprised. “I thought you knew. We found a handwritten note magneted to the refrigerator door.”
“A note saying what?” Frank interrupted.
“We bagged it and tagged it. It’s in the van right now.” He nodded his head in the direction of the crime lab van parked across the street.
“Just give us the short version,” Frank said, glancing at me, all business now.
“Note claims that if anything happened to him, his ex-wife was to blame,” Lenny said. “Evidently they’d been arguing a lot lately. It’s dated a week ago yesterday and signed Harold Torre.”
“Interesting,” Frank said, a split second before I could mutter the exact same response. I read an article once that claimed police detectives who worked together for long periods of time became almost like twin siblings, reading each other’s thoughts and completing each other’s sentences. I looked at Frank and really hoped it wasn’t true.
Lenny flipped open his notebook and read from it: “Ex-wife is Ramona Ann Torre. Age thirty-nine. Maiden name Ramirez. Residence 237 Tupelo. Over in Aberdeen.”
“All that was in the note?” I asked.
“Negative. Just her first name. I dug up the rest waiting on you guys.”
Frank slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s good work, Deputy.”
I backed off the porch and looked at Frank. “You go talk to Mom and I’ll track down the M.E. Meet you at the van when we’re finished.”
Frank gave a nod and started for the side yard.
“There’s one more thing, detectives.”
Frank and I stopped and looked up at Lenny, who was still standing on the front porch with Mr. Torre’s body. The deputy loomed over us, an imposing dark shadow silhouetted in the bright house lights shining behind him.
“What’s that?” Frank asked, squinting, impatient now.
“Mr. Torre…in the note…” Lenny lowered his voice to make sure no one else could overhear. “He claims his ex-wife is a witch.”
“A witch?” I repeated, unsure I had heard him correctly.
But I had. Lenny nodded his head and said it again, a little louder this time: “A witch.”
I looked at Frank. He looked back at me, eyebrows arched. “Happy Halloween, partner,” he muttered and walked away to talk to the mom and little boy waiting in the side yard.
****
“Sweet Jesus, please tell me that’s not the house,” Frank said, staring out the car window at the spilt-level home on the right side of the road.
“That’s not the house, Frank.”
The home in question was decorated from yard to rooftop like a haunted house from some Grade B horror film. Gargoyles with glowing red eyes stood watch from the second-story roof. Hideously lifelike zombies lurched amongst the grave markers scattered across the front lawn. Fake spider webs drooped from porch railings and tree branches and roof gutters. A blood-splattered corpse, swollen tongue protruding, dangled from a noose hanging from a leaning oak tree. Both sides of the driveway were lined with what had to be at least twenty fat pumpkins, orange flames winking secrets in the cool October breeze and forming a welcoming path for gangs of trick-or-treaters earlier in the night. A pair of fog machines hidden behind the shrubbery churned out a hazy backdrop and, even with the car windows closed, we could hear the familiar manic beats of the Halloween movie soundtrack.
“Look at that,” he scowled as we cruised past. “Must’ve cost them a thousand bucks. At least!”
“Two-thirty-seven is up here on the left,” I said, spotting an unmarke
d sedan parked at the curb. They had arrived a half-hour earlier, to confirm that Ramona Torres was at home and, in case she was indeed guilty, to make sure she didn’t decide to make a run for it before we could get there. The two officers would also serve as back-up in the unlikely event we needed it.
“All that money and for what?” Frank went on. “One stupid night. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I figure it makes plenty of sense to them, Frank, or why else would they do it?”
He grunted and shook his head in disgust.
I flipped a wave to the undercover officers parked across the street and pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine. “Ready?”
“To go witch hunting?”
I tried not to smile. “That’s what the man said.”
Frank looked at the tidy house at 237 Tupelo. The porch light was on, but all the windows were dark. Rose bushes lined the front of the house and a birdbath stood in the middle of the lawn. “Doesn’t look like a witch lives here to me.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” I said, getting out of the car.
“Bet you twenty bucks it was a heart attack.”
“No bet.”
“Chicken.”
I laughed. “Let’s just wait on the Tox report. Remember those kids that spiked their teacher’s coffee a few years back and he ended up dead? That happened on Halloween, too, you know.”
“I hate Halloween,” Frank muttered and slammed the car door.
****
She surprised us by answering the door after the first knock.
Frank and I introduced ourselves and showed her our badges, and she surprised us again by inviting us inside before we could even explain what we were doing there.
We followed her into a candle-lit living room and she motioned for us to take a seat. Frank and I sat side by side on a leather sofa. She settled across from us in a high-backed antique chair. Some kind of incense was burning in the room. It smelled exotic and welcoming. I could almost taste it on my tongue.
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