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CONTENTS
Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: SECOND CHANCES by Linda Landrigan
Department: THE LINEUP
Fiction: A CUTTING WIND by Beverle Graves Myers
Fiction: THE RULES OF EVIDENCE by STEVEN GORE
Fiction: PRICE TAG ATTACHED by O'Neil De Noux and Kent Westmoreland
Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose
Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
Fiction: MANHUNT by Frank T. Wydra
Fiction: DEATH INSIDE THE BOX by John H. Dirckx
Fiction: DEADLINE EDITION by S. L. Franklin
Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
Mystery Classic: INSURANCE by Fletcher Flora, selected and introduced by Loren D. Estleman
Department: COMING IN MAY 2009
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Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: SECOND CHANCES by Linda Landrigan
Two things are twice around this month.
We've been “reintroducing” older stories to our readers in our Mystery Classic feature for years; beginning with this issue, these will be be selected and introduced by contemporary AHMM authors. This month Loren D. Estleman found for us a dark tale of conjugal deception with Fletcher Flora's story “Insurance,” and he explains why Mr. Flora deserves a second look.
We're pleased to announce the winner of our second annual Black Orchid Novella writing contest: Michael Nethercott of Guilford, Vermont, whose story “O'Nelligan's Glory” will be published in the July/August issue. The award is cosponsored by the Wolfe Pack, the Nero Wolfe fan club, and was given at their banquet in December. See the announcement about the third Black Orchid Novella contest.
If a subscription to AHMM wasn't in your stocking this year, well, you can have a second shot at that too! See our Directory of Services.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: THE LINEUP
A former New Orleans homicide detective and private investigator, O'Neil De Noux is the author of the short story collection, New Orleans Confidential.
John H. Dirckx's last story, “Eliminate the Middleman,” appeared in the January/February 2009 issue of AHMM.
LOREN D. ESTLEMAN is the author of nineteen mystery novels featuring Detroit P.I. Amos Walker.
S. L. FRANKLIN recently retired from the business world. His story “Mischief” appeared in July/August 2006 issue.
STEVEN GORE is a private investigator. “The Rules of Evidence” is his first published short story.
Booked & Printed columnist ROBERT C. HAHN reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly and New York Post. He is the former mystery columnist for the Cincinnati Post.
Beverle Graves Myers is the author of The Iron Tongue of Midnight, fourth in the Tito Amato series, published by Poisoned Pen in 2008.
Kent Westmoreland is a banker in New Orleans. “Price Tag Attached” is his AHMM debut.
FRANK T. WYDRA's story “Street Justice” appeared in October 2007. He is the author of The Cure (Dell, 1992).
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: A CUTTING WIND by Beverle Graves Myers
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Edward Kinsella III
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I pushed my tricorne firmly down on my head and bent into the fierce sirocco that had been scouring Venice for three days. The flood wind had come early that autumn of 1735. Waves slapped the stones of the quay beside the Grand Canal, while the few gondolas tethered at the mooring posts rocked and bounced in a frenzied dance. Augustus Rumbolt, the Englishman who was my closest friend and future brother-in-law, pointed his silver-knobbed cane.
"I don't like the look of those clouds, Tito.” He indicated a towering gray mass that filled the sky to the southeast. “We'll have rain before nightfall."
I lifted my nose. During a sirocco the very smell of Venice changed. The dreaded wind began over the deserts of Africa, hot and dry as the blast of heat from a baker's oven, then gathered moisture as it picked up speed over the Mediterranean. By the time the sirocco had blown the length of the Adriatic, the air was heavy with scents of the south: sun-drenched sand, wild thyme, and lemon groves, all tainted with a whiff of mold and decay.
I nodded at Gussie. “All the better to hurry to the theater and put this errand behind us."
Our destination lay down a short calle and over a spacious square dominated by the columned facade of the Teatro San Marco. A poster pasted to a signboard carried my name and billing in bold letters—Tito Amato singing the lead role in a new opera by Maestro Vivaldi. I'd been rehearsing with the company for weeks, polishing my performance, pushing my voice to its limit. But I wouldn't be singing this afternoon. I'd been summoned to listen.
Maestro Casali, the director of the company, was pacing the length of the pink and gold foyer as Gussie and I entered. “You're late,” he grumbled. “The boy's been in the back singing scales for twenty minutes, and Signor Morosini is getting restless."
"My apologies, Maestro. We were forced to walk. Most of the gondolas have sought shelter from the blow."
"Make your apologies to His Excellency. Morosini is on tenterhooks. He can't wait to hear the boy.” Casali hurried us up a sweeping marble staircase as he continued, “Paolo Favretti is his name. He's from down the coast ... Ravenna. So far instructed only by his father, the choirmaster at the local cathedral."
"Have you heard him?” I asked.
The furrows in Maestro Casali's forehead flattened, and his eyes began to glow. “He's amazing, Tito. A pure, clear soprano with perfect intonation. The voice of an angel.” He gave me a quick glance. “Much like you must have sounded as a boy, I imagine."
"How old is he?"
The director hesitated before answering, “His father says twelve."
I gave a low whistle. “Left it a bit late, haven't they?"
Casali shrugged. “The family has little money and no connections. That's why they've come to Venice. The father has taken Paolo's instruction as far as he can. They need to find a patron to fund the boy's future training and...” He cleared his throat. “And to pay for the necessary arrangements, of course."
I nodded and glanced at Gussie. He shook his head in disapproval. My friend was a great music lover, but as much as he admired my stupendous voice, he abhorred the sacrifice that had made it possible.
Casali conducted us to the patron's box that overlooked the stage, where we found Morosini and several oversize bravos wearing the livery of his household. So Morosini could have his pick of the operas performed on any given evening, he kept a box at every theater in town. I'd often observed him from the stage and thought he cut a handsome figure: tall, fortyish, always impeccably dressed and wigged. In the close confines of the box, the nobleman appeared less attractive. His mouth was chiseled in a petulant droop and his dark eyes flashed with a hard, cruel glitter.
After Casali had presented us and withdrawn, I felt Morosini's gaze linger on my form as I made the low bow that his station demanded. Gussie was treated to a similar inspection as he stammered through the usual pleasantries in his English-accented Italian. Indeed, Morosini tore his eyes from my friend's ruddy cheeks only to admire the muscular
calves straining Gussie's white silk stockings.
This uncomfortable tableau was interrupted by the appearance of Maestro Casali down on the stage. As he clapped his hands for attention, we took our seats at the box railing. The vast auditorium was shrouded in gloom and shadow. The ceiling chandelier was dark, and only a few footlights at the lip of the stage were aflame.
Casali introduced Paolo and his father. The man had the look of a severe schoolmaster: pursed lips, spindly shanks, and a ramrod stiff back. He unbent to aim a deferential smile toward our box, then scurried to the harpsichord in the orchestra pit to arrange his music. After a pointed look toward his son, he sounded a flourish on the keyboard.
The boy dragged his heels toward center stage.
Paolo was a tall, gangly youth dressed in corded breeches and an old silk jacket whose sleeves stopped several inches short of his wrists. In a misguided attempt at elegance, someone had crowned him with a powdered wig done in lank sausage curls that hung to his shoulders like the ears of an untidy mongrel dog. His liquid brown eyes surveyed the dark theater with a mixture of awe and defiance. I would wager my right vocal chord that he was nearer fourteen than twelve.
I sighed, silently cursing the noble dandy who had demanded my presence at this impromptu concert. Then Paolo began to sing, and I was all ears.
He had chosen an aria from Ataserse by the Saxon composer Hasse. I'd snuck into a rival theater to hear the great Farinelli sing that opera during last year's Carnevale. Of course, young Paolo couldn't match Farinelli's dazzling vocal feats, but I confess that the boy moved me. His high notes soared on crystalline wings. His low notes were as mellow and sweet as fruit ripe and ready to drop from the branch. Most amazing to me, considering his approaching manhood, was that his throat delivered it all with an easy grace unmarred by any sign of catch or strain.
Paolo's eyes were as expressive as his voice, and unfortunately, they told me much. The boy didn't want to sing. His natural gifts had been polished to a high shine, but brilliance was no substitute for joy. I knew what it was to sing with joy. I did it almost every night. Sharing the beauty of music with a receptive audience was my life's crowning glory. Paolo's eyes were filled with dread.
As the last golden note shimmered in the air, Signor Morosini turned toward me with a wolfish smile. “What do you think, Signor Amato? Is he not brilliant?"
I nodded slowly, playing for time.
"Well, what say you? Will the boy make a great singer or not?"
"He does show talent, Excellency,” I replied. “Great potential. But ... I don't sense the temperament for the years of constant study required to make a virtuoso."
The nobleman snorted, then grinned at his liveried thugs. “A purse of gold ducats will do wonders for his temperament, as you call it. I'm interested in your professional opinion regarding the future of his throat. I don't fancy investing in a singer whose voice will break a few months down the road. Just tell me this. If we take his stones, will his soprano survive the surgery? Or is he already too old?"
I traded uneasy glances with Gussie. Take his stones, the man said! Spoken with no more emotion than a casual command to one of his footmen. My face grew hot. Morosini had no idea of what he spoke.
I was barely ten when I'd faced the knife. With a powerful elixir clouding my brain, the surgery itself, though not the pain afterward, was only a handful of scattered memories: an apothecary shop with an enormous aloe plant in the window, a shelf of blue and white jars labeled with exotic-sounding names and a table with sharp, shiny blades laid out in a neat row. The surgeon's face had remained a blank for many years, a mysterious cipher floating tantalizingly out of reach. It had finally returned in one of my more terrifying nightmares. Now I would never forget the man's thin-lipped smile or the wart the size of a chickpea at the tip of his nose.
Gussie had once asked what I would do if I came face to face with the surgeon on the piazza or in a cafe. What could I do? Thousands of boys were castrated for the singing schools every year, mostly in Italy. While the rest of Europe demanded our glorious voices for cathedral choirs and the opera stage, the northern countries rarely put their own to the knife. So there it was. One swipe of the blade and no going back. Mine was not a life I would have chosen, but I had made peace with it. Or so I thought.
The nobleman in front of me was fuming. I couldn't put Morosini off any longer.
"The boy's future?” I murmured. “Surely that is in the hands of God, Excellency."
The arrival of Maestro Casali and Paolo's father saved me from having to elaborate. The opera director was smiling broadly, and the father wore the calculating look of a man expecting to seal the bargain of a lifetime. He was actually rubbing his hands like a miser gloating over a stash of gold coins. Before their negotiations began in earnest, Gussie and I took the opportunity to bow ourselves out.
We started down the corridor that bounded the second tier of the curved auditorium. Narrow doorways led into the boxes on our right, and a row of windows pierced the outside wall to our left. While we had been engaged within, the storm had hit Venice with full force. The window panes streamed with sheets of silver rain and gusts of wind whistled through chinks in the masonry.
"It's a bad business, Tito,” Gussie remarked.
"Yes, this is the worst sirocco we've had in years. I wouldn't be surprised if it pushes the tide over the Molo, right up to the porch of the basilica."
"No, I'm talking about Paolo. This gelding of boys. It's a despicable practice."
I replied heavily, over the drumming of the rain, “It's the way of things, Gussie. It's been going on for years. Can you imagine opera without its castrato heroes? Who would counter the female sopranos?"
"I don't know. The tenors?"
"Oh, Gussie. There's a reason why I and my kind are the undisputed kings of the stage. We have twice the range and twice the flexibility of the tenors, to say nothing of our exceptional tone. Who would pay to hear an opera featuring a tenor? Besides,” I continued with a touch of asperity, “don't you enjoy hearing me sing?"
"You know I do,” he replied with an irritated shrug, “but how many boys are mutilated to produce one voice like yours? For every virtuoso singer there must be dozens who never achieve fame or fortune. What happens to them?"
I thought back to some of my unhappy friends from the conservatorio, the ones who lacked the talent or heart for the stage or, worse yet, the ones whose voices had lowered and coarsened despite the surgeon's manipulations. “There's always other work,” I replied uneasily. “Teaching, composing, copying musical scores."
"Then what about the ones who don't even make it off the table? The boys who die from loss of blood or, later, from fever. What could possibly justify their deaths?"
I could have mentioned the fascinating beauty of the voice, the unrivaled ecstasy to the ear, the almost sacred dedication to the music, but in truth, I was no more happy with the current state of opera than my English friend. “You're right, Gussie, absolutely right as usual. Perhaps someday the pendulum of public taste will swing back to a simpler, more natural style of singing. Then talented boys like Paolo will have nothing to fear. But until that day, what can one man do?"
"Perhaps the right man—oof—” Gussie broke off as Paolo charged out of the nearest staircase and careened into him.
The boy clutched his bedraggled wig in one fist, and his face was set in a pugnacious scowl that made him look more like a street urchin than a future theatrical sensation. His expression brightened when he recognized me. “Signore, you must help me."
"What is it, Paolo?” I asked, certain that I already knew.
"Please, I beg you, Signore. You are the great singer my father spoke of. You must tell them I'm no good."
I bit my lip. “But you are good. More than good. For your age, your voice is one of the finest I've ever heard."
He dropped his gaze and stared at the floor tiles.
"You might enjoy the conservatorio,” I continued. “I learned a
lot there and made many friends.” Even to my own ears, I sounded hopelessly patronizing.
"I don't want to sing,” he muttered between clenched jaws. “I don't care what Papa says."
"What does your papa say?” asked Gussie.
Paolo looked up at my friend's kind face. The words tumbled out. “I have eight brothers and sisters and I'm the only one who can sing. Papa says I have to let them cut my balls off so I can make some money for us. That's not even the worst of it.” He snuffled miserably, tears wetting his cheeks. “That man with the money won't send me to school. He wants me to live with him in his palazzo and take training with a private tutor. I don't like him. He gives me funny looks.” Paolo tugged on my sleeve. “Tell them my voice will go bad, Signore. Please. Tell them, and I can go find my cousin."
"What does your cousin have to do with this?” I asked.
"My cousin Flavio is second mate on a merchant ship. He's in port now, waiting for fair weather. He's promised that the captain will take me on as cabin boy if someone can convince Papa that I'll never be a singer."
The boy's eyes pleaded. I thought furiously, but to no avail. Anyone with ears knew that Paolo had a wonderful gift, and the law gave his father the right to make any arrangement he chose.
"Paolo! There you are, boy.” His father's voice floated down the corridor.
The unhappy youth took one look at the bravos following Morosini and Maestro Casali and fled the opposite way. The thugs brought him down before he had covered ten strides.
Morosini's men carried Paolo away, screaming and thrashing. His father dithered along in their wake. Looking extremely pleased with himself, Maestro Casali disposed of the boy's discarded wig with a well-placed kick toward a rubbish bin. I wondered what the director's cut of Morosini's largesse amounted to. If the reverential manner he used to hold Morosini's fur-trimmed cloak was any indication, Casali had been given a generous purse for finding the boy.
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