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Cover by John Sposato
CONTENTS
Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: CHARACTERS APART by Linda Landrigan
Fiction: KILLING TIME by Jane K. Cleland
Fiction: BLIND SIDE by Peter Sellers
Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by by Willie Rose
Department: UNSOLVED: LOGIC PUZZLE by Robert Kesling
Fiction: DISCOVERY by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Fiction: SOB SISTER: A FOUR HORSEMEN STORY by Loren D. Estleman
Department: BOOKED AND PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
Fiction: THE WARCOOMBE WITCH by James Lincoln Warren
Fiction: NO. 40 BASIN STREET by O'Neil De Noux
Fiction: SUICIDE BLONDE by Brian Thornton
Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
Department: REEL CRIME by J. Rentilly
Mystery Classic: A PERVERTED GENIUS by Silas K. Hocking
Department: THE LINEUP
COMING IN DECEMBER 2008
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Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: CHARACTERS APART by Linda Landrigan
Whether they be world-weary cops who have seen every horror imaginable or brilliant but misanthropic ratiocinative detectives, characters in crime stories are often somewhat set apart from their neighbors. Several of this month's stories feature characters blessed and burdened with a degree of isolation.
Shunned by the New York auction houses after she helped put a shady dealer in jail, antiques appraiser Josie Prescott has relocated to the seacoast of New Hampshire. In Jane K. Cleland's “Killing Time,” Josie finds once again that her knowledge of the decorative arts, knack for research, and dogged integrity are qualities that make her a good amateur sleuth—even while they doom her to some uncomfortable situations. Ms. Cleland is the author of three novels featuring Josie Prescott; the second, Deadly Appraisal, recently received the David Award for Best Novel at the Deadly Ink mystery conference.
As cops deemed too essential to be spared for military service, the “four horsemen” of the Racket Squad also find themselves slightly out of step with the wartime culture of World War II Detroit; in Loren D. Estleman's “Sob Sister,” the horsemen must deal with an ambitious reporter who gets wind of their plans to pursue a bootlegging operation. In “Blind Side,” Peter Sellers poignantly captures the mindset, motives, and lonely courage of a bullied young man who is staring down his demons. And a young detective encounters the hollowness of a vibrant but decaying New Orleans as he investigates the death of a prominent prostitute in O'Neil De Noux's “No. 40 Basin Street."
This month's issue also features a trio of tales featuring lawyers, some noble, others not. Kristine Kathryn Rusch's “Discovery” pits a small-town attorney against the big guns of the railroads. Brian Thornton's “Suicide Blonde” concerns a lawyer and fixer for a Las Vegas operator in the early sixties. And James Lincoln Warren's “The Warcoombe Witch” is a tale told by a lawyer about the defense of a “witch” in the eighteenth century.
Our mystery classic this month, “A Perverted Genius” by Silas K. Hocking, features a village curate who is perplexed by a spate of robberies. In addition, we have a challenging logic puzzle by Robert Kesling and a look at the fall lineup of crime television shows in J. Rentilly's Reel Crime column.
Copyright (c) 2008 Linda Landrigan
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: KILLING TIME by Jane K. Cleland
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Joel Spector
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Driving up Ocean Avenue, which ran alongside New Hampshire's three miles of shoreline, I decided to play hooky.
Instead of hot-footing it back to my company, Prescott's Antiques and Auctions, after acquiring a stellar collection of snow globes from a retiring professor, I was going to go for a walk on Rocky Point beach. It was twelve thirty on a sparkling bright mid November day, and it was almost sixty degrees, more than twenty degrees warmer than usual.
I parked on the sandy shoulder not far from Rocky Point Bed and Breakfast. I'd sold a fair number of antiques to Valerie Lane, the owner, and on a whim I decided to pop in and say hello.
A silver Sonata driven by a striking redhead was backing out of Valerie's small parking lot as I walked between Valerie's white van and a gold Impala to get to the walkway. She headed south.
Mounting the steps to the porch, I read the message embroidered on a heart-shaped pillow hanging on the front door: “Welcome! Come on in and call hello!” I stepped inside.
"Valerie! It's Josie! Josie Prescott."
"Coming!” a woman, maybe Valerie, shouted from somewhere upstairs, then a moment later, Valerie's head and torso appeared at the top of the stairs looking over the banister.
Valerie was a full-figured brunette, about my age, mid thirties, with an easy smile and a great eye for Victorian antiques and collectibles. Through the wooden balusters, I could see that she wore a silky robin's egg blue dressing gown. She held it closed, clutching a handful of fabric to her bosom. It was great looking, and I found myself wondering where she bought it.
"Hi, Josie!” she said, smiling. “Long time, no speak. How's the antiques biz?"
"Good. Everything's great. Listen, I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm going for a walk on the beach and just popped in to say hello. Is everything good with you?"
"That's sweet of you. Everything's fine. You sure picked the right day for a walk."
"It's gorgeous out, isn't it?” I agreed. “Well, I'll see you later, Valerie."
I crossed Ocean Avenue, clambered up a dune, and skittle-ran down the side to the surf. I was on a hunt for driftwood. When I was a kid, before my mother died, we'd trek to Nantasket Beach, south of Boston, each November, just the two of us, and seek out the best-looking driftwood, a crucial element in the elaborate holiday decorations we created each season. I hadn't done it since I couldn't remember when, and this year I was determined to find a perfect piece and restart the tradition.
I headed north. Plenty of driftwood was scattered about, most of it tangled in seaweed, but nothing that fit the bill. After about thirty minutes, I turned back. An hour into my walk, just as I was about to give up, I found it—the perfect specimen, hidden behind an old log. It was a two-foot length of knurled applewood, sea- and sun-bleached to a satiny dove gray.
The screams, when they came, were piercing, and louder than the crashing waves. I spun toward shore, but I couldn't see over the dunes. I raced up the sand toward the street, driftwood in hand. The screams didn't stop. From the top, I saw a middle-aged woman wearing a Macon Cleaners uniform standing on the Rocky Point Bed and Breakfast's front porch.
She was shrieking, her eyes clenched closed.
I ran-slid down the dune, dashed across the street, and took the stairs two at a time to reach her on the porch.
"What's wrong?” I asked her.
"Jes” was embroidered on the pocket. She clutched a mop to her chest as if it were all that was holding her up. She didn't appear injured.
"What's happened, Jes?” I asked.
She didn't stop yelling. She didn't know I was there. I touched her shoulder.
"What's wrong?” I repeated. “Tell me."
She opened her eyes wid
e and I saw terror in her eyes. “Upstairs!” she managed, choking on the word. “Oh my God ... oh my God ... oh my God!” She began wailing, and folded into herself. The mop clattered to the porch.
My mouth went dry. I looked toward the parking lot. The only vehicle was the Macon Cleaners van. “Where's Valerie? Ms. Lane?” I asked.
"Grocery shopping,” she moaned. “Oh my God!"
"What is it? What's upstairs?"
"Mother of God ... he's dead."
I dug my cell phone out of my purse and called 911. The police dispatcher told me to stay outside, away from the house, and to wait for the police to arrive. I took Jes's arm and guided her into the parking lot.
Four minutes later, a patrol car driven by a uniformed police officer I didn't know came charging into the lot. Jes, the maid, stood silently.
He tried to get information from her but couldn't. She was unable to say more than “Upstairs” and “Mother of God."
He started off toward the porch, spoke into his radio, then entered the house. I caught the door before it swung closed and stepped inside behind him. He stopped three paces in to listen. I backed into the corner behind him. The grandfather clock was ticking. Somewhere outside a dog barked. The refrigerator cycled on, then off.
The police officer fingered open his holster as he started up the stairs. My heart was thudding. I followed. When he reached the second-floor landing, he paused and glanced around.
Three closed doors, labeled, ROSE, TULIP, and VIOLET, were visible, one to right, the other two in front of us. A fourth door, on the left, stood open.
The officer drew his weapon and eased into the room with the open door. I stayed on the landing. After several seconds, I heard him speaking and crept toward the room. He was staring at something on the floor on the far side of the bed and talking into his radio. I saw rumpled sheets and a nightstand with a lamp on it. I stepped over the threshold.
"What are you doing in here?” the police officer snapped at me. “Get out!"
"Sorry,” I replied, and as I turned to leave, I peered over the bed. A man lay on the floor. He was naked. His face was swollen and purplish gray. He was, beyond doubt, dead.
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Detective Claire Brownley stared at me, her sapphire blue eyes meeting mine. “You didn't touch anything? Not even the watch?"
"What watch? I didn't see a watch."
She held up a see-through plastic evidence bag containing a gold pocket watch clipped to a chain. There was a circular onyx fob dangling at the chain's end.
"No. From what I can see, though, it's a beauty,” I said.
We were sitting in a patrol car while the crime scene investigators worked inside. Valerie hadn't returned from shopping. The maid, who'd blurted to Detective Brownley that she knew nothing and that she was going to faint, was being interviewed in an unmarked police vehicle on the other side of the lot.
"The watch was under the nightstand near his body,” she told me. “Do you think it's valuable?"
"I'd need to examine it. Some pocket watches are hugely valuable; others are worthless."
She nodded and was about to speak when Valerie drove up in her white van. Valerie opened up the side door and I saw a sea of white plastic grocery bags. Detective Brownley stepped out of the vehicle. I followed suit.
Valerie stood by her van as Detective Brownley approached her. She turned to me. “Josie?” she asked. “What's going on? Are you all right?"
I nodded but didn't reply.
"Someone died,” Detective Brownley told Valerie. “The body was found in the room marked ‘Wisteria.’ Who was assigned to that room?"
Valerie looked stunned. She shivered despite the scarf wrapped around her neck and the down vest zipped all the way up. “Someone's dead? Who?” she asked.
The detective pushed some buttons on her cell phone. When she'd arrived, ten minutes after the first police officer found the body, she'd taken a head shot of the murder victim on her cell phone. “Do you recognize this man?” she asked, turning the phone so Valerie could view the display.
Blood drained from Valerie's face as she stared at the photo. One second, her complexion was rosy, and the next it was ashen. “What happened to him?"
"The ME is just starting her work,” Detective Brownley replied, watching Valerie with laserlike focus. “Who is it?"
Valerie scanned the parking lot. “Where's Phyllis?” she whispered. “I don't see her car."
Detective Brownley paused, then said, “Ms. Lane?"
"That's Murray Jenkins. Phyllis is his wife. They're from Tampa. They decided to spend the fall up here. They've been guests since late September."
"What did they do with themselves all day?"
"I don't know.” Valerie shrugged. “Murray stayed inside most of the time. Phyllis was gone a lot. I think she was a photographer. She carried equipment around—good stuff. I'd see her in the garden sometimes taking shot after shot of a flower or a leaf."
"What other guests are here now?"
"Besides the Jenkinses? Just Shannon. Shannon McIver. She's a CPA from Boston. She stays with me one week a month while she's working at the university. She's their outside auditor."
"So she's at work now?"
"What time is it?” Valerie glanced at her watch. “Just after two. Yes, she should be."
"When did you last see each of the Jenkinses and Ms. McIver?"
"This morning at breakfast. Phyllis drove off. Shannon left for the university. Murray went to his room.” She shrugged. “It was a typical day."
"What did you do after breakfast?” Detective Brownley asked.
Valerie took in a deep breath and held it for a moment. She swept her hair back, then took another deep breath. “I cleaned up the dishes. I made a grocery list.” She shrugged again. “I checked the computer to see if I had any e-mail. Nothing unusual happened. It was a regular day."
"Were there any phone calls? Did you see anyone after breakfast?"
"There were no calls. Shannon came back for lunch, as usual. I allow her kitchen privileges as part of my deal with the university. She got here about twelve fifteen. Josie stopped by about twelve thirty to say hello. Jes from Macon got here right afterwards, and I left around one to do some shopping. Shannon would have left to go back to her job about one fifteen."
"Does that timing sound right to you, Josie?” the detective asked.
"I guess so. When I got here, Valerie's van was here, and a gold Impala. A silver Sonata was leaving at the same time as I arrived. When I got back from the beach, about one thirty, the Macon Cleaners’ van was the only vehicle in the lot."
"The gold Impala's Shannon's. The Sonata is the Jenkinses’ car,” Valerie said. “Was a woman driving? A redhead?"
"Yes. That's right."
"Then Phyllis must have come back sometime during the morning and I missed her. It's a big house."
"Do you have contact information for Mrs. Jenkins or Ms. McIver?” Detective Brownley asked Valerie.
"Yes, both of them. Inside."
Detective Brownley used her radio to contact someone called Tillman, got permission to enter, then turned to me. “You can go. I'll be in touch."
I watched Valerie and Detective Brownley walk inside, then crossed Ocean Avenue, climbed a dune, and faced the ocean. I stood on the shifting sand for awhile, listening to the waves as they rolled to shore and watching the sea gulls spike and dive, and then I drove slowly back to work.
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I was in my office on the phone with my boyfriend, Ty Alveraz, filling him in, when Wes, the annoyingly assertive cub reporter for the Seacoast Star, called.
"Whatcha got?” Wes demanded.
"Hi, Wes, I'm fine, thanks."
"So? What did you see? Was the dead guy really naked?"
"I'm on the other line, Wes. I'll call you back."
"Josie,” he whined, “it's urgent! I've got a real shockeroonie."
Curiosity warred with an aversion to encourage Wes's unseemly de
light in all things scandalous, and curiosity won. I told him to hold on, explained to Ty that I had to take another call, then said, “I'm back. What's your shockeroonie?" I rolled my eyes as I spoke the word.
"You first."
"I don't know anything, Wes."
"What are you talking about? You called 911. You found the body."
"I didn't find the body,” I protested. “The cleaner from Macon did."
"What's her name?” Wes asked.
I felt it beginning again. Wes had a gift. He invariably drew out more information from me than I wanted to provide. I let him because I knew the score: if I didn't give information, I wouldn't get information. And Wes had sources everywhere, from the police to telephone companies to bankers. Wes and I had our own sort of quid pro quo and our own rules. Before answering, I demanded anonymity, and he argued that he was only asking background questions. After a familiar squabble, I succeeded in wresting a commitment from him.
"So, what's the maid's name?” he asked.
"I don't know, but her uniform had the word Jes embroidered on it."
"What was the murder weapon?"
"I didn't see anything nearby,” I replied. My throat closed as I recalled the murdered man's face. “I don't even know how he died."
"Asphyxiated,” Wes said.
"Suffocated?” I asked, shocked.
"Strangled.” Wes sounded bloodthirsty.
"With what?"
"According to my police source, they don't know. Something soft, like a sheet. Not a rope or an electric cord, which would have left marks. You didn't see anything?"
"I saw sheets. The bed was unmade."
"What else? A towel lying around?"
I thought back to the scene. “No, nothing like that."
"Did you know him?"
"No. Nor his wife."
"How about the other guest? Shannon McIver?"
"No.” I swiveled to face my window and gazed out past my bare maple tree toward the church on the other side of the woods. “What's your shockeroonie?” I asked.
"I have two. First, you know how they said their names were Phyllis and Murray Jenkins? And that they were from Tampa? Well, guess what? There's neither a Phyllis Jenkins nor a Murray Jenkins in Tampa!"
AHMM, November 2008 Page 1