He held out a shaking hand to her. “Mrs. Stavacre, we must get away."
They followed him onto the street. There they witnessed Mother Brimstone being tossed like a fork of fouled straw among the gleeful rioters. Only Mr. Butters stood between the two women and the mirthful wrath of the rabble.
His chest was heaving like a bellows when the redcoats finally arrived to quell the violent tumult. Leaning hard on his staff, he slowly led them to Mrs. Stavacre's home. “Lord forgive me,” he wheezed on her doorstep, “I'm sorry, marm, I truly am. I never thought it should start a riot."
Her precautions to contain her suspicions of murder and keep them secret had been wasted. Mr. Butters had stood there, silent but not deaf, while she had discussed the matter with Dr. Driffill, and she was certain he had shared them that very night, no doubt encouraged by a free pint in his favourite pub, the gift of a rapt audience of virtuous young Christians who could not afford to visit opulent brothels, eager for a chance at mischief.
Old soldiers love to tell tales, after all, and their boasts are not always idle, nor without consequences for good or evil.
There was nothing else for Mrs. Stavacre to do with Fanny but take her on as a scullery maid, however ill she could afford it, but her new compensation as searcher did make it barely possible. If she worried about Tulip's reaction to having a rival installed, she did so needlessly. There was finally someone in the house whom Tulip herself could bully with impunity.
The cut in Mrs. Stavacre's arm was not deep, and her experience as an apothecary's widow was sufficient to see it properly dressed. Indeed, she had come out of the brawl relatively unscathed compared to Mrs. Brimstone, who, while she still lived, was unlikely ever to attract another Mr. Davenport, even were she not to hang.
Beyond all expectations, Mrs. Stavacre had returned home to find Nan reconciled with Mr. Templedon. As her graceful daughter climbed into her husband's elegant coach to go home, Mrs. Stavacre grabbed her hand and pressed it to her face.
"I am not jealous of thee, Nancy, my darling,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “I do wish for thee all the joy and happiness, and all the riches and entertainments you could ever desire, even in the whole wide world."
"Mama,” said Nan, embarrassed, “do not carry on so. What ever will the neighbours think?"
So the carriage clattered off down Billings Lane, and as it passed, Mrs. Stavacre observed Dr. Driffill approaching her doorstep on foot, swinging his walking stick with a jolly swagger, complacent as ever.
"I perceive Mrs. Templedon has decided to return home? That is delightful news,” he said, touching his hat while shallowly bowing to Mrs. Stavacre. “I am glad that my offices were not needed after all."
Irritation stirred within her breast, and not without some effort she suppressed it. Reminding herself of how close she had come to death, she thought of another of the vicar's offices that might have been called for, had Billy Butters been delayed by as much as a single tick of the clock.
Nodding, she smiled. “I daresay we are both glad, sir..."
Copyright © 2006 James Lincoln Warren
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BOOKED & PRINTED by ROBERT C. HAHN
The enormous and prolonged success of Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code has spawned a flood of books attempting to capitalize on the book's rapt audience. But religious themes and mysteries have had a long and intimate relationship, and the current crop of offerings shows a variety of themes that owe nothing to the Code but rather tackle a slew of prickly problems involving religion and the secular world today.
Julia Spencer-Fleming's ALL MORTAL FLESH (St. Martin's Minotaur, $22.95) is the fifth book featuring the tortuous relationship of the Reverend Clare Fergusson and Police Chief Russ Van Alstyne of Millers Kill, New York, and it simmers with all the passion and anguish of a classically ill-fated love affair.
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* * * *
As the story begins, Russ and his wife, Linda, have separated but are trying to work things out, and Clare and Russ have agreed that they must end their relationship, which threatens both Russ’ marriage and Clare's career. But those resolutions, made at great emotional cost, disintegrate when Russ’ wife is found brutally murdered in their home.
The police force of this small Adirondack town, Russ’ own staff, are certain their chief is not guilty of the murder. They are merely observing the formalities demanded before moving on to other possibilities. But once the State Police become involved in the person of Emiley Jensen, Russ is not only removed from the investigation but becomes the primary suspect as well.
Spencer-Fleming elevates her story beyond the trite love triangle by treating her principal characters as reasoning, responsible adults, not lovesick fools blind to the consequences of their actions. Clare is no inexperienced young idealist but a former helicopter pilot who saw combat in Kuwait. She has come to her role as priest relatively late in life, and she struggles mightily to honor both her commitment and her own desires. Russ is not a wandering husband who no longer loves his wife but a man who finds himself in love with two women and no way to reconcile those different loves. Russ, of course, cannot sit idly by while Jensen uses his own police force to try to discover evidence that will convict him. And Clare is not about to leave any avenue unexplored that might free Russ from suspicion.
In addition, Spencer-Fleming's winter setting isn't just scenery; it plays a vital role, and her cast of small town characters mostly avoids the kind of cliché sketching that so many authors provide.
While the most intense light shines on Clare and Russ and their attempts to deal with the scrutiny that a major investigation brings in its wake, the investigation also reveals some surprising secrets about others, and Spencer-Fleming pulls off some twists that should satisfy those who demand that both plot and character be of high caliber.
Michael Simon embeds a variety of religious shadings and issues in his third Dan Reles mystery, LITTLE FAITH (Viking, $23.95), following Dirty Sally, and Body Scissors.
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Reles is a New York Jew transplanted to Austin, Texas, where he is a homicide cop and definitely not one of the good ole boys. After eighteen years in a police department riddled with corruption, Reles is still waiting for pro-motion while lesser cops are elevated over and around him. While watching a promotion ceremony Reles observes: “I'd been blackmailed, set up, shot at, stabbed and bitten, and half the time by cops. I didn't have anything to show for it."
What he gets here is more grief as he tries to handle single-handedly the murder of a former child star fallen on hard times. By swapping favors with Catarina “Cate” Mora, a cop working a missing juvenile case by herself, he doubles his caseload but adds brain power.
Simon lays on complications and sub-plots lavishly: A straight-arrow type becomes head of Internal Affairs; a fellow-cop witnesses a higher-up in a compromising position (literally) with the subject of an ongoing investigation and brings it to Reles; and the activities of Suzanne Addison Wade, wealthy right-wing crusader, and her zealous aide Judah threaten more than a few constitutional rights.
Simon's gritty take on the city's underbelly, his unflattering portrayal of the Austin police force, and his obvious distaste for the politics of Texas's wealthy oil men may turn off some readers. But Simon tells his tale with brio and gusto, and Dan Reles, for all his faults, is the kind of cop—and the kind of person—that readers will enjoy rooting for now and in future battles.
In the most lighthearted of the three books examined here Jon Breen looks at the effects of a religious conversion on a detective partnership in EYE OF GOD (Perseverance Press, $13.95).
Al Hasp and Norm Carpenter are partners in a reasonably successful detective agency with the easygoing Al providing the people skills and, by most people's judgment, Norm providing the brains. While Al would dispute that, he certainly doesn't want to lose his partner, so when Norm walks into his office and announces that he is resigning as soon as
he can clear his desk, Al can't believe it. And when Norm explains that he has “given my life to Jesus Christ” and thinks working for the agency would “hinder his walk” (with the Lord), Al hits the roof.
But before Norm can finish the process of resigning, the agency gets a new client—one that the sly Al can use as a lever to keep Norm aboard. Noted televangelist Vincent Majors wants to hire the firm to investigate a leak in his own organization that has already proved embarrassing and could prove disastrous. Soon the firm (including Norm) is involved in a case that reaches into Majors's powerful and polished operation; into the home of Majors's less-than-dutiful daughter and her husband; and even into the operation of Sonrise College, which prides itself on its basketball program and its spiritual heritage.
Sprightly writing allows Breen to tackle serious subjects with a light touch. While Al is inclined to poke fun at excesses of religion, Norm takes faith seriously, and the result is a nicely balanced approach that is neither impious nor overly credulous.
Breen's complex plot may seem confusing at times, with a rather large cast and any number of angles to keep track of, but Breen untangles it all with a magician's flourish at the satisfying end.
ALL POINTS BULLETIN: THESE GUNS FOR HIRE, a collection of hitmen tales, edited by AHMM alum J. A. Konrath, features stories by Jeremiah Healy, Ed Gorman, Rob Kantner, and Lawrence Block. The book debuted in October from Bleak House Books. —Brendan DuBois, Steve Hockensmith, P. J. Parrish, Tom Savage, and Jim Fusilli are just a few of the authors included in MYSTERY WRITERS OF AMERICA PRESENTS: DEATH DO US PART, an anthology of new stories about love, lust, and murder, out from Little, Brown in August —When a Holocaust survivor turns up dead, police rule it a suicide, but the victim's brother suspects foul play in Muriel Moulton's new novel A PRAYER FOR GERSHON LEVIN, out last July from Rabid Press.
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SANGRIA by GARY ALEXANDER
"This is swill,” says Marshall Bascombe.
Heather Bascombe says, “What did you expect? Look where we are, an outdoor café on a plaza, by a sandwich board for their paella. I suggested this place for the people-watching. This is tourist sangria."
Bascombe sniffs his glass and writes: Is a taste of brandy or rum asking too much?
Heather is half focused on her British tabloid. English language reading material is scarce in Córdoba, Spain. Looking above a piece on royal family misbehavior, she gasps.
"Oh my God!"
"What?"
"It's him."
Bascombe guesses who him is, him who has turned his wife's tanned cheeks to skim milk. Sure enough, across the plaza, coming out of a restaurant with an arrogant swagger, is Fred Smithert. He's roly-poly and beady eyed, a self-caricature of the grasping and inept CEO, the bumptious robber baron of the new century.
A driver opens a rear door of a large black BMW. Smithert gets in, and they accelerate around the corner of a street not much wider than the car. Heather takes down the license plate number.
"Are you all right, dear?” Marshall asks, aware that she isn't.
"Couldn't be better,” Heather says, trembling.
He jots in his notebook before he forgets: It's nigh impossible to identify the red wine base, masked as it is by an alien saccharine beverage.
Marshall Bascombe's The Ultimate Libation is syndicated in ninety-three newspapers. He's done rum punch in Grenada, Blue Hawaiis in Honolulu, sake in Osaka, pilsner in Pilsen. Now he's evaluating Spain's fabled sangria. A book of Bascombe's columns cobbled together made the bestseller lists. Marshall Bascombe is handsomely paid for drinking his way around the world.
"You're not convincing, dear,” he says.
"I'd like to spit in his face,” Heather says. “Tell him what I think of him."
"That's all?"
She says, “It just occurred to me that sangria comes from the Spanish word sangre, for blood. Sangria means bleeding."
Marshall Bascombe peers into the blue blue sky. Córdoba is in the Andalusia region, the sun-basted heart of southern Spain. It is eighty degrees, a glorious autumn afternoon. Bascombe has goosebumps.
* * * *
They lay in bed, listening to the hum of the air-conditioner. Heather's headache is genuine tonight.
"I minored in Spanish,” she says.
"I know, dear."
"There was a name and phone number on the license plate bracket, like a leasing company. If only we had the time."
They're planning to explore Andalusia, researching indigenous libations. They have reservations on the morning train to Sevilla.
"I could give them a story,” Heather says. “I was at the luncheon party and left something in Señor Smithert's car."
For over seventeen years, Heather Johnstone had been a technical writer at the corporation Fred Smithert ran. After he made a train wreck of the company, Smithert resigned abruptly and has been in Europe ever since.
Heather lost most of her 401(k) when the company's stock nosedived. The promised severance package was drastically reduced for lack of funds, the medical benefits eliminated entirely. The pension fund was a shell. Heather was destitute, no employment prospects in sight, with two sons in college and a deadbeat ex-husband.
The Bascombes met at a writers’ conference six months ago, Marshall speaking on panels, discussing the limited prospects of newspaper freelancing. He had been so sweet and patient answering questions, especially Heather's.
Marshall hired her as an assistant on their third date and popped the question on the fourth. He's fifty-eight years old and looks it; she's forty-five and doesn't. He is smitten beyond smitten and doesn't care that people regard Heather as a purchase.
For her part, Heather isn't sure if she can learn to love Marshall. She likes him and she has sufficient work to feel useful. That's a start.
"Tomorrow, Marshall? We could rent a car at the same agency."
"Yes, dear,” Marshall says, the only possible answer. “We can certainly stay another day."
* * * *
Heather sits white-knuckled in the passenger seat. Hating harum-scarum European traffic, she reluctantly asked Marshall to drive. She's regretting her choice. How much can a taxi cost?
Marshall Bascombe is in the far left lane on the auto-estrada, doing fifty miles per hour. Powerful automobiles like Fred Smithert's race up to them, headlamps flashing angrily, buffeting their tiny rental car as they blur by at twice their speed.
"Toward the end, we called him Fred Satan,” Heather says.
Bascombe nods. He's heard this before.
"None of the worker bees at the branch ever met Smithert personally. Only the managers. He'd come to town once a year. The branch took a conference room at a hotel. We'd file in and listen to him orate how the company was on the upswing thanks to his initiatives. We called them state visits."
The chunked fruit in the sangria pitcher should be citrus, preferably oranges. Apples and pears tend to absorb the liquor, be it rum or brandy. “I remember, dear."
"Smithert was brought in three years ago to ‘turn us around.’ We were making money, but weren't among the industry leaders.” She makes quote marks with her fingers. “Fred Smithert was going to make us ‘world-class.’”
They're at the edge of the burbs. Rugged scrub is ahead. Bascombe is reminded of Hemingway, of the Spanish Civil War, of savage hill fighting. He slows, not wanting to miss the turnoff.
"Marshall, please get out of this lane before we're killed. Do you know when we knew the company was in big-time trouble?"
The corporate jet, Bascombe thinks, veering to the right-hand lane as horns bleat.
"The corporate jet,” Heather says. “Home office was in Minneapolis. Smithert lived in Maryland. The company bought him a Minneapolis penthouse. He commuted to Maryland on weekends in the jet."
"A bad decision by the board of directors,” Bascombe says, seeing their exit.
"For everybody except Smithert. My fellow discarded correspond in e-mail that we should
pass the hat and hire a hit man to get Fred Satan."
"Spitting in his face is inappropriate, dear,” he says. “Let alone murder."
"Spitting in his face, figuratively. I'm joking, okay?"
An ascending road winds past gated compounds. The community isn't unlike affluent enclaves at home, Bascombe thinks. They stop at the top, at Fred Smithert's, a sprawling hacienda of stucco and red tile roof and territorial view. There are olive trees. Ripening grapes hang heavily on vines. The BMW is in the circular driveway with other vehicles.
Heather Bascombe stares at a camera on a post and pushes the call button. After several minutes of waiting for a response, she says, “Marshall, a sheet of paper, please."
Bascombe tears a page out of his spiral notebook. Heather lipsticks WE KNOW YOU ARE HERE, FRED and holds it up.
"The next best thing to saliva in the eyeball,” she says.
* * * *
That evening, as the Bascombes do some preliminary packing, they're wondering aloud why not Madrid or Barcelona for Fred Smithert.
"Córdoba is a medium-sized city, the population of Wichita or Raleigh. It'd be easier to lose yourself in the bigger cities,” Marshall says.
"How many American tourists have we seen here, though?” Heather says. “Not many."
"Excellent point. Córdoba has all necessary services and considerable charm. A thousand years ago it was one of the world's major cities, capital of Muslim Spain. The Moorish Mezquita survives in its splendor. The Jewish quarter, the museums, and restaurants. There are worse places to hide."
Heather answers a knock.
"Ms. Heather Johnstone?"
It's Smithert's lunchtime driver, a clean-cut man her age. Thin and earnest, he carries a soft briefcase.
"That was my prior married name. I'm Bascombe now."
"Well, hey, hi, I'm Chuck Avery. Special executive coordinator to Mr. Fred Smithert. Johnstone's on your driver's license when you rented the car."
"That was fast,” Heather says. She'd expected her gesture to be ignored. “What did you do at the company, Chuck?"
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