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Cover by Kurt Varg/Images.com
CONTENTS
Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: PRIDE GOETH... by Linda Landrigan
Fiction: TABLE FOR NONE by B.K. Stevens
Fiction: PICKLED ZILLIONAIRES by Gary Alexander
Fiction: GANG OF THREE by Jas. R. Petrin
Fiction: KANGAROO COURT by Toni L.P. Kelner
Fiction: THE BONDHOLDER by R.T. Lawton
Department: Reel Crime by J. Rentilly
Fiction: RED HERRING HOUSE by James Powell
Department: BOOKED AND PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
Mystery Classic: MYSTERY CLASSIC: THE ROOM OVER THE BATHHOUSE by Okamoto Kido
Department: THE LINEUP
Department: COMING IN JUNE 2008
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Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: PRIDE GOETH... by Linda Landrigan
The “falls” in this month's issue are pratfalls. Our annual humor issue features seven stories that offer a healthy dose of Schadenfreude, finding pleasure in the pain of human foibles and criminal incompetence.
Robideau, the retired police chief of the town of End of Main, returns in Jas. R. Petrin's “Gang of Three"; filling in for Chief Butts, Robideau is faced with a widespread, if decidedly small scale, crime wave of minor thefts, though they lead to something larger and unexpected. In B.K. Stevens's “Table for None,” an old man who normally dines alone at a pretentious restaurant attracts suspicion—and murder—when he is suddenly joined by a seedy-looking character. In Gary Alexander's “Pickled Zillionaires,” an unsuccessful orthodontist on vacation in Mexico stumbles upon the chance of someone else's lifetime. Toni L.P. Kelner offers a new take on the hell that is high school in “Kangaroo Court.” Cletus Johnston, Theodore Dewey, and Moklal Feringheea return in R.T. Lawton's “The Bondholder” as the bail bondsmen track down a client who has disappeared from a cruise ship. And James Powell's slightly surreal “Red Herring House” should stand as a warning to many mystery writers.
Our mystery classic this month is a rare treat: a new English translation of Okamoto Kido's “The Room over the Bathhouse,” in which the elderly Inspector Hanshichi once again recalls his adventures solving crimes in mid-nineteenth century Edo (Tokyo).
New this month, J. Rentilly takes over our Reel Crime column, with a look at how some Hollywood-connected novelists feel about seeing their books turned into film.
Copyright (c) 2008 Linda Landrigan
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: TABLE FOR NONE by B.K. Stevens
"And he shows up every night?” Miss Woodhouse asked.
"Every night for three whole years,” the younger of the two women said. She looked about twenty-five, reasonably pretty and resolutely slim. “Practically the whole time I've been working at Chez Cubbe."
"And he always shows up around eight,” the man said. He looked midway through his thirties, but his hair didn't match his age—shaved to a pale orange shadow on the sides and back, slicked into dark peaks on top. “And he always sits at the same table, always orders pretty much the same thing. He starts with a martini and a glass of water, and he nurses them for a solid hour—takes a sip of the martini, pours a little water into the martini glass, sip, pour, sip, pour, until both glasses are empty."
"Then he orders a cup of soup,” the other woman said. She looked about fifty and had probably never been attractive, but she kept herself up—trim figure, careful makeup, studiously grayless brown hair cut sensibly short and combed into a just barely flirty arc that bumped up over her forehead. “Clam chowder, usually—it's the house specialty."
"Yeah, we got a real creative menu,” the man said. He blew his nose disdainfully. “An Annapolis restaurant with clam chowder as the specialty—imagine that!"
"It's what people expect, Chuck,” the young woman said, half smiling. “Anyhow, he takes a long time eating the chowder—or the tomato basil, he'll have that when it's soup of the day. The soup's served with a roll, but he wraps that up in a napkin and sets it aside. I bring him a basket of crackers too; he'll eat those."
"And sometimes I'll bring him a little something from the kitchen,” Chuck added, “just as a freebie—if I'm trying out a new appetizer, say. He enjoys that."
"Then he orders a sandwich to go,” the young woman resumed. “A turkey club, usually, but sometimes it's chicken salad with fresh tarragon, or ham with Swiss and honey mustard. And coffee. He stretches the coffee out till closing time—that's ten o'clock on weeknights, midnight on weekends. Then I bring him his check.” She paused, clearly expecting to amaze us. “And every night, he pays with a crisp hundred dollar bill."
"Then Brenda brings him his change,” the other woman said, sounding impatient, “and he leaves a three-dollar tip—never a penny more or less—takes his sandwich and roll, and leaves. That's the way it's been every night for three years."
"And you don't know anything about him?” I asked. “Not even his name?"
"It's Howard,” Brenda said. “Terry finally asked him, and that's what he said—just Howard, no last name. At first, I tried to strike up conversations because he seems lonely. But it made him uncomfortable: He always loves to hear about what I'm doing, but he doesn't like to talk about himself. He's old—seventy, maybe—and doesn't wear a wedding ring, but that's all we know. Except, of course, that he's rich."
Professor Woodhouse looked up sharply from the mounds of uncooked pasta on the small mahogany table next to her rocking chair. “Do you base that conclusion solely on his habit of paying with hundred dollar bills? Or do you have solid evidence?"
It was the first time the professor had spoken, and all three of our visitors looked taken aback. They'd probably assumed she served a purely decorative function—the quaint, grandmotherly figure with her black shawl and long gray braid, musing serenely as she threaded manicotti and ziti onto long strands of dental floss.
"Well, gosh,” Brenda said, tugging thoughtfully on her artfully highlighted hair. “I mean, what other evidence do you need? Plus he eats out every night, and he drives this great car—a classic Mustang in mint condition. I mean, he's gotta be rich, right?"
With every word she spoke, I could see Brenda losing points with the professor. As I'd learned long ago, the professor has a low tolerance for chatty incoherence and a special disdain for “I mean” as an interjection. The professor couldn't have liked the way Brenda was dressed, either—low-slung jeans and a tight, sleeveless T-shirt that skimmed her tummy; whenever she shifted in her chair, her navel peeked out. Professor Woodhouse is not the sort of person who enjoys looking at other people's navels. She's never told me this; she doesn't have to. By now, I know the professor well enough to feel sure she doesn't particularly enjoy looking at her own navel.
Miss Woodhouse spoke up quickly. “There are other ways of interpreting the hundred dollar bills,” she said, “and the rest. But let that pass. I assume you have a specific reason for seeking help from a private detective at this point, that you're not simply troubled by the presence of an odd but exceptionally loyal customer."
"Hell, we're not ‘troubled’ by Howard,” Chuck said. “We're afraid he's in some kind of trouble. He's a little weird, yeah, but he's a great old guy. Three months
ago, this other guy started showing up every Thursday around nine, joining Howard at his table, talking to him real low and making him unhappy."
"And he's creepy looking,” Brenda put in eagerly. “Tall and skinny, with a long ponytail and piercings and way too many tattoos. He always wears this crummy leather jacket and carries this ratty-looking red knapsack. And all he ever has is coffee, and he always leaves just a fifty-cent tip, even though he stays a full hour. Not that I care about the tips. Sometimes he takes something out of the knapsack—a piece of paper, like, or a photo—and gives it to Howard; sometimes Howard gives him an envelope. But Chuck's right. Whatever this guy's saying to Howard, it gets him all worked up."
"Last week,” Chuck added, “Howard got so upset, he ordered a second martini."
"And he still left just a three-dollar tip,” Brenda observed. “Not that I care."
"The point is,” the woman called Terry said, “we're concerned. We've heard about con artists who prey on older people—we're afraid that might be going on. Not that I'm convinced we need a private detective. That was Brenda's idea, and she persuaded us to come along. What do you think, Miss Woodhouse?"
Miss Woodhouse sat back, thinking it over. As always, she looked imposing—almost six feet tall, broad shouldered, lean, black-gray hair pulled back hard and caught at the nape of her neck with a thick blue rubber band. Part of the reason she looks so impressive is that she clearly isn't trying—she doesn't bother with makeup and wears boxy beige suits chosen for utility only. The other reason she looks so impressive is that that's what she, in fact, is. “That depends,” she said. “What would you like us to do?"
Brenda leaned forward, and the navel made another appearance. “We thought maybe you could, like, send some big, scary guys to the restaurant tonight and have them wait in the parking lot, and when this guy comes out they could tell him to stay away from Howard or else, and—well, you know. Shove him around. Rough him up."
"Just a little,” Chuck added. “Just enough to scare him off."
Miss Woodhouse grimaced. “I don't employ any big, scary guys. And I'm not in the business of having people roughed up, not even just a little. What I can do is come to your restaurant, pose as a customer, and observe this man. When he leaves, I'll follow him, find out what he's up to. If it's appropriate, I'll warn him off or notify the proper legal authorities. First, though, we should discuss payment. Have you consulted Howard about this plan? Is he willing to—"
"That's okay,” Chuck said. “We'll probably never tell him about this. We'll take care of the bill. I've got a little stashed away, Brenda's been saving her tips, and Terry said she'd chip in. We might even talk Little Dave into parting with a few bucks."
"Little Dave?” Miss Woodhouse said. “Who is that?"
Terry pressed her lips together and made the corners twitch. I think she was trying for a smile. “David Cubbe,” she said. “My husband. He owns the restaurant."
"Yeah, he inherited Chez Cubbe from his father,” Brenda said. “And everybody called his father Big Dave. So naturally, everybody calls Little Dave—well, Little Dave."
"Big Dave Cubbe,” the professor said, nodding. “I met him. I ate dinner at Chez Cubbe on several notable occasions—my cousin's engagement, my parents’ fiftieth anniversary, the day my tenure was revoked. Goodness! Such memories! Chez Cubbe used to be quite the spot—but isn't now, clearly. I thought it had gone out of business."
"Not yet,” Chuck said. “But Little Dave's working on it."
"That's enough, Chuck,” Terry said sharply. “Shall we please just stick to business.” She didn't inflect her voice at all, didn't put a question mark at the end of the sentence.
"Very well,” Miss Woodhouse said. “I'll come to the restaurant tonight and—"
"You shall do no such thing, Iphigenia,” the professor cut in. “I will not have you going to a place where alcohol is served. You know how little restraint you have. You would surely disgrace yourself."
Oh brother, I thought. How do we defend Miss Woodhouse without admitting that while the professor is still sharp as ever in most ways, in other ways she's—well, confused? And once we admit that, how do we explain why Miss Woodhouse defers to her mother on business decisions and accepts all her insults meekly? Private detectives are supposed to be hard boiled; we'd sound scrambled.
Miss Woodhouse would not blush. “I appreciate your concern, Mother, but I assure you—"
"Not another word, Iphigenia,” the professor said. “I will not have it. You may send little Harriet. She, at least, is sober and responsible."
Our three potential clients exchanged uncertain looks. No wonder. “But she's a secretary,” Chuck said. “Isn't she?"
"I'm Miss Woodhouse's assistant,” I said. “I've followed lots of people—"
"Generally with little success,” the professor put in cheerfully, “but always with a willing spirit. Do you remember, little Harriet, that afternoon when you attempted to follow a lime green SUV from Duke of Gloucester Street to Porter Road and ended up in Reston? Oh my! How we all laughed on that occasion!"
"That was a long time ago,” I said, blushing plenty. “Anyhow, Miss Woodhouse, I'd be glad to handle this—if you're too busy with other cases."
I'd hoped that would sound tactful. Judging from the look Miss Woodhouse gave me, it didn't. “I'm not sure,” she said. “The situation might be too dangerous for you. We know nothing about this man. Suppose he carries a gun?"
"So what?” Brenda asked. “I mean, she carries a gun, too, doesn't she?"
"Not usually,” I said. In fact, I've never carried one. “But I know how to use one. I took a class.” I looked at Miss Woodhouse hopefully. “If you'd lend me your gun—"
"Absolutely not,” Miss Woodhouse said firmly. “You're not licensed for it, you're a terrible shot, and you're not levelheaded enough to be trusted with a firearm."
God. Why does anyone ever hire us? “Well, I won't need a gun,” I said. “I'll just follow him at a safe distance.” I turned to the woman called Terry—somehow, I knew she'd make the decision. “I'll come to Chez Cubbe tonight. Agreed?"
The three of them exchanged looks again. Then Chuck shrugged, Brenda nodded, and Terry sighed. “All right,” she said. “But please understand, Miss Woodhouse, that if your assistant isn't able to follow this man—"
"If I lose him,” I said, “you won't owe us anything. But I won't lose him."
That seemed to settle it. They all stood up, and Chuck drifted over to the professor's rocking chair and inspected her handiwork. “So you've got all this pasta, and all this dental floss,” he said, “and you're making—what?"
Professor Woodhouse drew her head back and stared at him—incredulous, scornful, pitying. “Biodegradable wind chimes,” she said. “Obviously."
"That's cool,” Brenda said. “I design stuff too—jewelry, purses, like that. I mean, I don't actually make them, but I draw pictures, and I figure out how much it'd cost to manufacture them, how much you could charge, how much profit you'd make."
The professor looked at her coldly. “A fascinating enterprise, I am sure."
Chuck jabbed his coworker's arm. “Maybe you could lend Harriet your gun."
Brenda jabbed him back. “Will you please stop giving me a hard time about my gun,” she said, turning to me. “It's just a little gun. See, my apartment was burglarized a few months ago—it's a first-floor apartment, near the city dock, cute neighborhood but not the safest. I wasn't home when it happened, so it was okay. I mean, the guy stole some stuff, but I didn't get hurt or anything, since I wasn't there, you know? But what if it happens again, when I am there? So I bought this little gun to keep next to my bed."
"And you've never had to use it,” Terry said impatiently. “We should get back to the restaurant. Miss Russo, will you please arrive at seven thirty and come to the office first."
Once again, it wasn't a question. I saw them to the door, then rejoined Miss Woodhouse and the professor. “That warms your heart,�
� I said. “Doesn't it? This Howard isn't their relative—he's not even a friend, really—but they're so concerned that they're dipping into their savings and hoarding their tips to help him. Getting rid of that creep won't benefit them—they just want to protect a lonely old guy. What nice people."
The professor, smiling, bit off a fresh length of dental floss. “You are a nice person, Harriet,” she said. “Not a foolish ninny, generally speaking, but still so trusting, so eager to see the good. That warms my heart—and, simultaneously, chills my spine. Do be careful tonight, sweet child. What do you plan to wear?"
"What I'm wearing now,” I said. “It doesn't sound like a fancy place."
"Nevertheless, you will be representing our firm; you must look your best. Here.” She struggled with the clasp of her cameo brooch, then pinned it on my sweater. “This was my mother's—it has always brought me luck. I trust it will do the same for you."
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Chez Cubbe is across the bridge from the Naval Academy, on a grassy bank of the Severn. It's sprawling and white and looks like it was once a private mansion, but it didn't look like a mansion now, and it wasn't just the driving rain that made it feel tired and shabby. The peeling paint, the sagging roof, and the weed-packed cracks in the parking lot all did their parts. Remembering Terry's instructions, I hurried to the back and knocked on an unassuming door. The man who opened it was five foot eight, looked to be in his mid forties, and had thinning reddish brown hair parted sharply on the left, plastered down hard on the right. He wore loose white pants and a red shirt with a black collar.
"Are you Harriet Russo,” he asked, “the private detective?"
And what if I hadn't been? What if I'd been Jane Doe the restaurant robber? Wouldn't I have claimed to be Harriet Russo the private detective? This guy apparently hadn't considered that possibility. “That's right,” I said. “And you must be Little Dave."
I hadn't meant to say that; I'd meant to say Mr. Cubbe. But this guy was so obviously a little one thing or another that the words just came out. He didn't seem to mind. Probably, everyone called him little.
AHMM, May 2008 Page 1