The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  * * *

  So she went back to her life, changed as it was. Her brother gave her more responsibility at the i.p. and she found a jogging partner, a woman whom she had spoken to a few times at the gym and felt an affinity for. They were developing a friendship composed of short conversations followed by a mile or more of gasping silence. She found that she liked talking with someone. She actually looked forward to it.

  By the end of the second week, she made it through two days without thinking of Tom. Then Huckleby walked into her office. He leaned against the door, smiled at her, and let his blue eyes draw her in.

  "Do you do lunch?" he asked.

  "Only on every other Thursday," she said, and was surprised at the tartness of her own reply.

  His smile widened into a grin. "I'm buying."

  She went with him to the health-food restaurant next door. He ordered the only meal with beef in it— a shredded beef taco concoction made with cream cheese instead of sour cream— and she had their homemade tomato soup and fresh sourdough bread.

  "You never followed up on the case," he said after the food was served.

  "You didn't keep me informed."

  He took a bite from the taco and half the cream cheese fell out. He set the food down. "I was a little busy."

  "But you got him," she said.

  "We got him. It's up to the L.A. cops to get the rest." He sounded relieved at that.

  "More excitement than Seavy Village is used to," she said.

  "More than we want," he replied. Then he put an elbow on the table and watched her. She had never had anyone watch her eat before.

  "You know," he said, "in all the times we talked, you never did tell me how you felt about him."

  "About Tom?" she asked, stalling. She put her soup spoon down and picked up the bread, shredding it.

  "Yes."

  She shrugged. "He was my spinning instructor."

  "And?"

  There was no harm in telling him now. No harm in saying anything. She felt herself flush. She had to look away. "And I hated him."

  He let out a slow whistle, as if he hadn't expected it. "Because he was a drill sergeant?"

  She shook her head. The soup was nearly gone. She had made a mess of the bread. There were crumbs on her side of the table. She stared at them instead of looking Huckleby in the eye.

  "Because of how he looked at me, in the beginning. Like I offended him just by being in his presence."

  To her surprise, Huckleby took her hand. She raised her head, saw him looking at her with empathy, not disgust. She wanted to look away, but couldn't.

  "Do you know how many times you told me that fat people get treated differently?"

  "They do," she said.

  "You're no longer fat," he said.

  "I always will be." With her free hand she tapped her chest. "Inside. I'll always remember how it feels. Like an alcoholic. I'll always be a fat person crammed into a skinny shell."

  "If you want to be," he said. "No one sees you that way anymore. No one treats you that way. The loathing I hear when I'm around you comes from you."

  He said the words softly, gently, to lessen their sting. But they still hurt. She blinked, startled. No one had ever talked that way to her before. But then, she hadn't let anyone talk to her, really talk to her, for years.

  "I don't want to treat anyone else that way," she said.

  "But you do," he said. "You assume all the rest of us will look at you with that same disgust that Ansara had, and you hate us in advance."

  "I don't hate you," she said.

  He smiled and squeezed her hand. "It's a start, at least."

  "Of what?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Friendship, maybe something more. If you're willing."

  She had never fantasized about him, not in this way, never imagined what he would sound like in bed, never allowed herself to think a man like this one would even be interested. He was a person to her, not a Greek god who looked down on the less-than-perfect with complete disdain, like Tom had been. Only Tom hadn't been. He had been as imperfect as she was. It just hadn't been apparent from the way he looked, the way he dressed, the way he spoke. Only his eyes had showed it, and only if someone paid attention.

  She felt a little floaty hit of adrenaline, like she used to get in her early spinning classes after she had been on the bike awhile. Just when she thought she would be ready to quit, something in her body would adjust and she would feel slightly dizzy, slightly high. A little afraid and a bit proud of herself at the same time.

  Friendship. Something more. If she was willing.

  "All right," she said, and squeezed Huckleby's hand.

  There was no longer a need for fantasy. The fantasy had made her blind to the realities around her. Some of those realities could have harmed her— the arm around her neck, the same arm that had crushed Tom's throat— and others could have helped her, allowed her to see that things were different now, that she was different and, perhaps, always would be.

  She was no longer spinning her wheels on a stationary bike. She had been moving forward for a long time; and she had finally noticed.

  Brendan DuBois

  The Summer People

  BRENDAN DUBOIS first came to prominence as a short story writer, becoming so deft that his crime stories now frequently appear in Playboy. He combines a tight, sometimes lyrical style with some truly original storylines, as in his first story in this year's annual, the masterful "The Summer People," which appeared in the November issue of EQMM. He has written several novels, the most recent of which, Resurrection Day, won the Sidewise Award, which is bestowed on the best alternate-history novel of the year, an intriguing what-if about the Cuban missile crisis turning into World War III, and the effects thereafter.

  The Summer People

  Brendan DuBois

  The drive north from Massachusetts had taken the better part of three hours, and the first half-hour of the journey was still with Roy Toland as a dull ache continued between his shoulder blades. Those thirty minutes had been spent in bumper-to-bumper traffic, snarling along Storrow Drive in Boston, the air conditioner in their Jeep Cherokee struggling valiantly to keep things cool and comfortable in the hundred-degree weather. Twice people had cut him off— one in a Volvo that had a bumper sticker that said VISUAL WORLD PEACE— and since he and his wife were officially on vacation, Roy let both drivers live.

  Now, bouncing down a dirt road towards Morrill Lake in northern New Hampshire, his wife Nicky was rubbing the sore spot on his back, saying, "Only a few minutes more, Roy. Just a few minutes more."

  "Oh, I know," he said, passing a point in the road where a signpost listed about a dozen names of people owning summer cottages on this part of the lake. "But before you know it, our week will be up and it'll be time to head south."

  Her hand rose up a bit to tug at his hair. "That's seven days away, love. Let's just enjoy the time and not worry about the trip back."

  Then he rounded a slight bend in the road and smiled. There it was, the summer cottage they rented the first week of every August, and just the sight of it was enough to finally undo that knot between his shoulder blades. It was simple— one-story with light red paint on the clapboards. The place had a solid concrete foundation (important for keeping out four-legged pests such as field mice and chipmunks) and a screened-in porch that was about fifty feet away from the cold blue waters of Morrill Lake.

  A blue canoe was chained to an oak tree, and about the cottage were tall pines that gently creaked as the wind from the lake passed over them. Roy walked with Nicky down to the water's edge. Before them were the wide waters of the lake, and to the north, the outlying peaks of the White Mountains. The only sound was that of the wind and the gentle slap of the waves, and the far-off murmuring growl of a powerboat.

  Nicky slipped her arm through his. She had on khaki shorts and a white polo shirt, and her muscular arms and legs were quite tanned. Her sunglasses were pushed back on her short blond h
air, and she said, "I've been thinking of this view for the past couple of hours, and it's still better than what I remember. Smell that air? Smell anything unusual?"

  "Just the trees, that's all," he said, smiling at her enthusiasm.

  "Right," she replied. "No diesel, no gasoline, no exhaust. Nothing."

  "Well," he said, gently pulling his arm free. "If you want to smell some steaks barbecuing, we'd better get unpacked and dig out the cooler. Hungry?"

  "Starved." He walked with her back to the cottage. To the left of the cottage was a grove of trees and underbrush that blocked their view of the other cottages on the road. To the right was a larger home, two-story and painted white, which belonged to the Pelletiers, who owned the rental cottage. Henry Pelletier— a retired papermill worker from Berlin— was outside, raking. He waved a hand and they both waved back. "Welcome back to Morrill Lake, you two," he called out.

  "Thanks, Henry," Roy said. "How's Mrs. Pelletier doing?"

  "Oh, she's on the mend," he said. "Doctor says the stitches will be coming out soon. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you when she's feelin' a bit stronger."

  "Glad to hear that, Henry," Roy said. "Oh, I'll be over later to pay the other half of the rent."

  "Jesus," Henry said, smiling and going back to work with the rake. "Don't be in such a hurry. Get yourselves unpacked 'fore you have to worry about that."

  As Roy unlocked the front door with the key that Henry had earlier mailed to them, Nicky said, "We've been here five minutes, and already I feel like we're in a real home. You know, back in Boston we still don't know our upstairs neighbors?"

  "I know that they like Gilbert & Sullivan and that their bed squeaks," Roy said, switching on the lights. "That's all I need to know."

  During the next half-hour they unloaded the Jeep, and one of the first things Roy took out was Nicky's computer, which she set up on a table in the porch. There was no phone in the cottage, but there was a phone line that Nicky used so she could have Internet access, and that was that. There was no television and only a small radio that picked up the local stations. She sat down at the computer and sighed. "Work. Wish I didn't have to do this when I'm up here."

  "It'll be fine," Roy said. "Just as long as you leave enough time for other things. Like canoeing."

  She raised an eyebrow as she smiled. "And maybe checking how squeaky our bed is, if you're lucky."

  He laughed and felt warm and cuddly towards his woman, despite her work, and resumed unpacking. One of the last things Roy took out were two black zippered duffel bags, which had been placed behind the spare tire. He knew that another reason his back ached was the content of the two bags, which he now placed behind a sliding piece of paneling in the bedroom's closet. If a state trooper or local cop had pulled him over this day and had discovered the content of the two bags, well, Roy wouldn't have had to worry about coming back to this summer place next year, or the next decade, for that matter.

  Back out in the porch, he kissed his wife's neck. "Feel like dinner?"

  "Only if you cook it."

  "Deal," he said, and he went outside, where he got the grill going. Like every summer before, the Pelletiers had filled up the gas tank. It was nice to be back, back among people who liked having them around.

  * * *

  Later that night they were cuddled up in the porch on a couch, a light blanket over the two of them, the lights off, listening to the cries of the loons out on the lake. Roy felt all the worries and stresses of driving up here melt away, like snow from a late March storm. Nicky had first brought him up here a couple of years back, and he was amazed at how much he looked forward each summer to returning to the lake. They had lived for a while in California and in Washington, but there had never been a place in those two states that gave him such a sense of contentment, of belonging.

  Nicky was in Roy's arms and sighed as another call came from a loon. She said, "Tell me again why we can't stay up here longer."

  "First, we can't afford it," he said. "Second, the place belongs to the Pelletiers, and they've got other renters lined up for the summer. We can't hog the place for the whole summer, as much as we'd like to."

  She shifted in Roy's arms, rubbed her nose against his. "Can't you figure something out?"

  "I'll try."

  She smiled and let her hands wander over him. "Goodie, little boy. Then come to bed and I'll reward you."

  * * *

  Nicky made breakfast the next morning— simple stuff, scrambled eggs and toast— and she said, "All right if I get an hour or so online?"

  "Sure, go right ahead," Roy said. "It'll give me a chance to pay Henry and to see what's new on the lake."

  He went outside, blinked from the bright sky. There were just a few clouds off to the south; the small peaks made their green, jagged marks against the light blue sky. The water was fairly still, with only a couple of powerboats out in the distance, so far out that he couldn't even hear them.

  Henry Pelletier was at work in his yard, dressed in green chino work pants and shirt, and Roy went over to see him. The old man was sawing off chunks of white birch log— each piece about eighteen inches long— using a handsaw.

  Roy said, "A chainsaw would go faster."

  "Unh-hunh," Henry said, moving a length of tree in the saw stand. "It surely would. But it would make a heck of a racket and would smell up the yard, and during the year I'd have to oil the damn thing, sharpen the chain, and then winterize it when I hang it up in the cellar when the snows come. Or I can use this little handsaw my daddy gave me years ago, get a little exercise, and still get the job done."

  Roy smiled and passed over the check for the rent. Henry stuck it in his shirt pocket without even looking at it, and Roy was suddenly filled with affection for the old man. Anyplace else Roy had been, this kind of transaction would have required two forms of identification, a credit check, and a signed contract. But not here. Here, a man trusted his neighbor, trusted him to do the right thing. It was a way of life Roy thought had gone forever, and it warmed him to see it still alive.

  He said, "Give you a hand, Henry?"

  "Sure," he said. "See that twine over there? Bundle these logs up, three at a crack. Make a handle from the twine, too. Thing is, I sell 'em at Corder's Farmstand down the road. Five dollars a bundle. Damn flatland tourists buy 'em and put 'em in their fireplace. Usually they don't even burn 'em. Look awfully pretty, don't they?"

  He started separating out the logs, enjoying the feel of the rough bark against his hands. "They sure do, Henry."

  Henry laughed. "Funny thing is, they do look pretty, but they don't burn worth shit. Good dried oak or maple would burn ten times better, but they don't look as nice in a fireplace in a half-million-dollar home. So who am I to educate those touristy folks?"

  Roy laughed with Henry, pleased that the old man talked as if Roy himself was not a flatlander, was part of the lake, even though he and his wife were just renters, known as summer people. It was good to work with his hands, and when he had started the fourth bundle, a loud-pitched whining noise cut through the stillness of the morning, causing Henry to stop sawing and say, "Jesus suffering Christ, look at that, will you."

  He stood up and looked to where Henry was pointing. Three jet skis were out on the lake, setting up plumes of spray as their operators whooped and hollered, swaying and setting up waves from their wake. A canoe almost tipped over from the moving water, but if the jet skiers noticed, they didn't let on. Henry muttered something else and then looked up at the house. "I suppose that's going to wake Muriel from her morning nap."

  "How's she doing?"

  Henry shrugged. "Oh, better and better, but she still tires easily. She really needs the peace and quiet but those young bucks—" he pointed out to the jet skiers "—aren't helping matters at all."

  "I thought jet skis were banned on this lake," Roy said, watching the jet skiers now move in a circle, as if they were trying to create a giant whirlpool.

  "They sure are," Henry said, put
ting his saw back in place. "But they're smart fellows, they are. They're renting a place over on Marie's Cove for a month, and they know by the time anybody calls the Marine Patrol, they can be back there and moored up, not moving a bit. You see, Marine Patrol has to cover the entire county, and it can take a half-day or longer for someone to come by. So they have their fun and laugh at all of us while swamping canoeists, running down loons or drowning their nests, and making my Muriel lose her naptime during the day."

  "Somebody should do something about it," Roy said, watching the jet skis leap up and down in the water, the high-pitched whinning seeming to throb against his head.