EQMM, February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  *** Laurie R. King: The Art of Detection, Bantam, $24. Found among the papers of a murdered Sherlockian is a typewritten manuscript apparently by Holmes himself, who en-counters the gay subculture of 1920s San Francisco and solves a murder similar to one facing police detective Kate Martinelli. Early chapters bog down in excessive detail, and even the 90-plus-page Holmes “short story” has a laggardly pace, but the plot is cleverly worked out. (Would Holmes be so politically correct by current standards as to use the courtesy pronoun “she” when referring to a male transvestite?)

  *** Stephen Seitz: Sherlock Holmes and the Plague of Dracula, Mountainside, $16.95. Others, notably Loren D. Estleman and Fred Saberhagen, have combined these two Victorian icons, but Seitz offers a fresh variation, told mostly by Watson through letters and diary entries. Style and use of the characters put this in the upper echelon of pastiches, though the combination of Holmes and the supernatural is an uneasy one.

  *** Alex Simmons and Bill McCay: The Raven League, Sleuth/Razorbill, $10.99. In one of two recent pre-teen juveniles focused on Holmes's younger assistants, Archie Wiggins leaves the Irregulars in apparent disgrace and forms a new group to rescue the kidnapped Holmes and help foil a plot in the run-up to Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee. With well-drawn characters and fast-paced action, this is slightly the better of the two, though it makes at least one canonical error: Holmes never wore his deerstalker in London!

  *** Tracy Mack and Michael Citrin: Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars: The Fall of the Amazing Zalindas, Orchard/Scholastic, $16.99. The investigation of the fatal fall of three circus aerialists has more Holmes and captures him well, but some will resent the implication that Watson downplayed the role of the Irregulars out of jealousy. Special features include vivid illustrations by Greg Ruth and notes on Cockney rhyming slang.

  ** Dave Keane: The Haunted Toolshed and The Neighborhood Stink, HarperCollins, each $3.99 paperback, $14.99 hardcover. The first two books about Joe Sherlock, Kid Detective, directed at slightly younger chil-dren, are played strictly for laughs. While I can't deny the text and illustrations are funny enough to appeal to adolescent males of all ages, I wonder if it's beneficial to give literary res-pectability to kids’ love of gross-out humor based on bodily functions.

  **** Margaret Maron: Winter's Child, Mysterious, $24.95. In the latest of a distinguished series, Judge Deborah Knott, of North Carolina's Colleton County, confronts two mysteries: the shooting of a local ne'er-do-well while driving his pickup truck and the disappearance of new husband Dwight Bryant's ex-wife and eight-year-old son. Maron's expertly plotted and written books are less often sidetracked from the main narrative than some series with large continuing casts. Unusual weather-related chapter epigraphs are a plus.

  **** Nancy Pickard: The Virgin of Small Plains, Ballantine, $23.95. In 1987, the body of an unidentified young woman is found in a snowdrift, bringing consequences for three families in a small Kansas town. By the time the truth comes to light in 2004, local legend has brought people seeking healing to the dead woman's grave. The deceptive but logical plot, supernatural overtones, well-realized plains background (including a twister), and familiar romantic-suspense elements will satisfy a wide range of readers.

  **** Howard Engel: Memory Book, with an afterword by Oliver Sacks, M.D., Carroll & Graf, $24 hardcover; $13.95 trade paper. Private eye Benny Cooperman wakes up in a Toronto hospital, victim of a brain injury that has robbed him of the ability to read, though not to write. Author Engel, whose stroke in 2000 produced the same rare condition, gives a good-humored and intensely in-volving insider's account of his affliction, while producing one of the most abundantly clued puzzle plots in recent memory, solved by a detective who has trouble remembering the names of the suspects.

  *** Marcia Muller: Vanishing Point, Mysterious, $24.99. Family is important to San Francisco P.I. Sharon McCone —consider how many continuing characters in her immediate, extended, and professional families appear in every book. Here she takes on the case of Laurel Greenwood, who disappeared twenty-two years ago, leaving a husband and two young daughters, one of whom wants to find the truth. An unusual whydunit in the rare literal use of the term, this novel takes an unsentimental and ultimately unsettling look at family dynamics.

  *** Claudia Bishop: The Case of the Roasted Onion, Berkley, $6.99. In his first book-length case, Dr. Austin McKenzie seeks a sniper who is killing his fellow upstate New York vets. The characters, from juvenile leads to villains, are broadly but entertainingly drawn; the first-person narration (most by the doctor, some by his wife) has humorous charm; details of veterinary practice and the equestrian world are convincingly conveyed; and the cleverly devised plot includes fair-play clues. The McKenzies also ap-pear to advantage in the short story “The Melancholy Danish” in the music-themed and CD-accompanied anthology A MerryBand of Murderers (Poisoned Pen), edited by Bishop and Don Bruns.

  ** John Mortimer: Rumpole and the Reign of Terror, Viking, $24.95. The third novel about Rumpole, who invariably fares better at short-story length, finds the Old Bailey stalwart defending a Pakistani doctor accused of terrorist activities. The series shows its TV-sitcom roots when regulars act out of character for plot purposes, e.g. Hilda Rumpole's unbelievable relationship with the dreaded Judge Bullingham.

  Margaret Millar was one of the greatest American writers of mystery fiction, but her novels have been out of print for years. The double volume combining An Air That Kills (1957) and Do Evil in Return (1950) (Stark House, $19.95) includes a fine introduction, “The ‘Post-Freudian Mysteries’ of Margaret Millar,” by Tom Nolan, biographer of Millar's husband Ross Macdonald.

  Another notable reprint is William Hjortsberg's striking 1978 private eye/dark fantasy hybrid Falling Angel (Millipede, $14 trade paper, $65 limited hardcover), set in a vividly realized 1959 Manhattan. James Crumley provides an introduction, the author an afterword, Ridley Scott and Stephen King briefer encomia.

  (c)2007 by Jon L. Breen

  WHERE THERE'S A WILL... by Amy Myers

  A number of Amy Myers's stories for EQMM recently became available in book form in the Crippen & Landru collection Murder, ‘Orrible Murder. And that's only one of several Myers books recently released or about to be released. ‘Murder in Hell's Corner', from her Georgia and Peter Marsh series, was published by Severn House last autumn; ‘Murder and King Arthur's Cup’ is due in 2007 from the same publisher, and ‘Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner’ is due soon from Tekno Books.

  I'm a wicked old man, so all my dearly beloved relations fondly tell me. They don't know the half of it. They've got a shock coming their way when I'm finally hauled kicking and screaming into the afterworld. Not yet awhile. I'm a hundred years old today, and in full possession of all my faculties. Silas Carter at your service. Just like that creepy old bore Humphrey Bone claims he's at mine. Who needs lawyers? Death and di-vorce is all they're good at. Just as well—he's got a shock heading his way, too.

  Look at that marquee out there. No need for it at all. A little bit of rain never hurt anyone. Anyway, it's always sunny on my birthday; that's what darling niece Mary coos at me, bending over me with all her cleavage showing—as though there were anything to look at. Thank the Lord I never had kids of my own. I'm at liberty to see my relations as clear as God made them, and an ugly sight they make. She with her holier-than-thou simper, Don with his knobbly knees, shorts, and binoculars, always twittering on about birds (the feathered kind, alas), and “young” Nigel, Mr. Artsy-Craftsy himself, and more of the craft than art if you ask me. A long-haired skinny white wiggling grub, he is. Never see any of them except when they're crawling here on pilgrimage to my bank account.

  Now they've had the nerve to stay in my house, without so much as a by-your-leave to me. “We've fixed it all with William,” Mary beams, as though they expect me to leap up in my wheelchair and cry out, “Oh, whoopee!” because my servants and family have saved me the trouble of organising my own birthday. Leap? That I should be so lucky. It'
s no fun being old, being wheeled everywhere. You have to work hard to make your own fun when you're a hundred years old.

  So, believe me, I have.

  "It's high time you updated your will,” Mr. Humphrey Bore Bone snuffled to me some weeks ago.

  "You're right, Humphrey,” sighed I, pretending to be all tired and weary, though only ninety-nine at the time.

  I'm not only wicked, you see. I'm also very rich. Perhaps that's the reason for it. Never had a wife, well, not for the last seventy years, so I can please myself what I do with my money. Oh, the pleasure of freedom. I've only mentioned these particular relations, but I've a vast family out there. All the Christmas cards check in dutifully once a year, but now they're all screaming down on me like vultures licking their lips in person at the thought of a slice of my golden pie when I hop it.

  "How about charities?” Humphrey said dolefully to encourage me on my will updating.

  "How about them?” I said rudely.

  "Have you no favourite causes?"

  "Only one. Mine,” I snapped. Then I relented. Humpity-Humph is a boring old stick but he means well. Perhaps. “Tell you what, Humphrey, you find me a charity that looks after blind atheist stamp collectors with moles on their cheeks or aged aunts who run homes for stray elephants and I'll support them."

  He couldn't, of course, so when he sent his bill in I didn't pay him—don't believe in encouraging failure. And, I informed him, I'd be writing my own will, and sending it to him in due course.

  Humphrey's eyes had glinted, the first sign of life I'd seen for a long time. He told me that one day my jokes would take me too far. Maybe he's right. Jolly good. Nothing like living dangerously when you're a hundred—in your mind, at least. Fat chance I've got of fighting off sharks or climbing Everest from this chair.

  The vultures have landed. I can see them all outside in the garden, gathering for the big feast at my expense. Why should I have to pay for my own birthday party? You'd think if they all loved me so much they'd be queuing up to treat me. No way. I reckon that everyone in that mob below flatters himself he's entitled to walk in and help himself to my money the minute I'm dead. Well, I've scotched that little plan. I've outlived my brothers and sisters—told them all I would, and I did—so it's the next generation and the one after that I have to watch. Mary's in the former category, Nigel and Don in the latter. They march together in the vanguard of the “Why don't you leave it all to me?” brigade. The Three Gargoyles, I call them: always goggling at me with their ugly faces and nothing but water running in their veins.

  They'd no sooner arrived yesterday than they bounded up to me to ask if I'd like a trip to my old home next month. Bah, humbug. I grew up in a two-up two-down terrace house in Huddersfield. No, I'll stay here in my Surrey mansion, thanks very much, where Woeful William answers my every whim. Most of these are to press Venus's boobs. I've got a bar behind the library books; one touch on the carved lady's tender parts on the panelling underneath and out floats nectar—or whisky, if you prefer its real name. And that's one thing the Three Gargoyles don't know about. Let ‘em stick to water. They're welcome to it. If any showed up in my veins they'd burst with shock.

  Here come the Gargoyles now. I can see them marching purposefully from the marquee towards the house, and—oh, goodie—Humphrey Bone the Bore is with them. Only William to collect on the way and we're off. Mary's at the front, of course, mutton dressed as lamb, or as I like to think of it, soggy shepherd's pie with a white topping. Don's on one side—trousers today, I see! Even a sporty blazer. I am honoured. I can do without the sight of his knees on my birthday. And I can glimpse darling Nigel's supercilious nose poking out on Mary's other side, as he struts along in his artsy pale cream suit. No artist starving in a garret, he. Nothing but the best for him—especially if it comes courtesy of my bank account. Any one of them would see me dead tomorrow if it wasn't for the fact they can't be certain who's in my will because I might change it. If only I could see their faces when they find out...

  Ah well, time for my big appearance. I've been smothered with cards and presents today. Even the Queen sent a card via a minion. She's the only unselfish one amongst them, and she's not getting a slice of anything. Her blinking government will get their paws on anything coming her way in the way of tax. Perhaps I'll send her a lump of stale birthday cake in compensation.

  "Well, Uncle Silas, are we all ready?” Mary beamed.

  Of course I am, you silly old cow, I wanted to reply, but I could see Humphrey looking at me in that way of his, so I decided to behave. “Hallo, Mary,” I quavered. “Think I'd be late for my one glass of champagne?” Not on your life, I thought. Or more pertinently, on mine, which is a great deal more valuable to me.

  "Happy birthday, Uncle,” Don said heartily, peering at me as though I was a wounded goldfinch.

  "Sorry. I'm still alive,” I said tartly, and seeing Humphrey's compressed lips, added, “Just my little joke, darling boy.” Boy? He looks like an antiquated frog. No, frogs are too lively for our Humph. Toad's more like it. Sits on its bottom and blinks—waiting for the fees to roll in.

  Nigel must have been nervous for once. “Many happy returns,” he bleated, pumping my hand up and down.

  "As a ghost?” I retorted politely, but seeing my grin, the party took this as a witticism in which everyone could join. Even Woeful Willie, looming over me with first-aid kit in hand in case I pass out with pleasure at their company, giggled, although Toad Humphrey remained solemn-faced.

  So here we go. Off to my hundredth-birthday party. As I was wheeled into the tent the crowds parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Quite right, too. I could see the place was packed, with all those Christmas cards having sprung to life and put their happy, happy faces on, while they waited for the champagne. I decided to make them all listen to me for an hour at least before they got their reward.

  At the end of the first half-hour of my speech, I beamed at their now flagging faces. I was wiping their smiles away splendidly.

  "And now, my dears,” I announced, “I'm going to tell you something very important."

  The whole assembled company leaned forward very hopefully. But it wasn't going to be about my will. Oh no. That's going to be a sweet surprise. I didn't talk about money at all. I lectured them on the importance of happiness in families, how nice it was to see them all together getting on so well. Poppycock. My brothers and sisters used to quarrel like a pack of hyenas, and their offspring followed suit. Even Mary, Don, and Nigel couldn't stand the sight of each other normally. They are only united today by a common hope that they alone will be my sole heir. I have, I admit, been teasing each of them separately that he or she is the person to whom I've left all my money. And it's the truth—in a way.

  I do like teasing people.

  I'm even teasing you, whoever reads this. You're all expecting me to drink my glass of champagne, gag, clasp my throat, and fall gasping for air, poisoned by one of my dearest and nearest kinfolk, unable to wait a minute longer for my millions.

  Well, I've news for you. The party's over, and I'm still alive.

  * * * *

  "Good morning, Mr. Bone.” William opened the door of the manor to me, and led me into the late Mr. Silas Carter's library cum living room. Once it was a dark and sombre place, but no longer. The blinds were up and sunlight streamed in, as if glad to reach the previously forbidden places. I approved. I had always dreaded coming here, but it made my unwelcome task of this morning much easier if the sun was fighting on my side. Silas Carter was, I regret to say, a wicked old man, with a sharp, if lively, tongue. He was no judge of character, however. Assuming the role of boring old lawyer is a useful device for me (and never more so than with Silas Carter) and would be so again in the meeting about to take place.

  "My condolences, William,” I said formally. Might as well stick to being Humphrey the Bore for the moment. “What will you do once everything is cleared up?” It had obviously been sensible for me as executor—at least as apparent execu
tor—to ask his carer to stay on while the disastrous mess of the estate was being sorted out.

  "I daresay I'll find something. I've always dreamed of a cottage of my own, but it won't be the same.” William looked sad. “I've been here over twenty years now."

  I could see his point. Being ill-treated in a palace might be more palatable than loneliness in a cottage, and William must be over fifty now. Not an age to go searching for new Silas Carters to tend.

  "I've prepared coffee for you all, Mr. Bone. I'll be in the kitchen if you want me. Just ring."

  He'd be used to that, all right, I thought as he left me. Everything in its place: cups, saucers, coffee keeping warm. If only my life had been as simple over the estate of Silas Carter: Instead it had presented me with The Great Muddle. Not a word that lawyers take kindly to. We prefer words—and wills—that are cut-and-dried, not muddled. Especially where the family of the deceased are concerned. I was ready to implement my plan, and I was only awaiting the three most vocal of them over their demands to know how matters stood with the will. I fear—no, that is not the word I should be using—in the case of these three, I am delighted to tell them. Indeed, I shall relish it. As the old rhyme has it, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, the reason why I cannot tell. For Dr. Fell, read Mary Simpkins, Donald Paxton, and Nigel Carter. I never have liked them on the rare occasions we have met, but since the events of Silas's hundredth birthday, I have added deep suspicion to my dislike.