Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 02/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  I looked at him for a few moments more, then set my piece on the board. “Checkmate,” I told Frank.

  He blinked down at the board, then scratched the side of his neck. “Well I’ll be goddamned.”

  “Another?” I asked.

  “ ’Course.”

  He cleared the board and put the pieces back in place. Outside, the wind blew against the windows and the snow came down. I’d just taken Frank in chess, but when it came to the weather, Frank—and his Old Farmer’s Almanac—had me beat.

  At least it looked that way. For now.

  Copyright © 2010 by Shane Nelson

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  Fiction

  A STUDY IN SCARLATTI

  by Donald A. Yates

  Holmes fandom began for Donald Yates in 1944, when his mother gave him a copy of The Complete Sherlock Holmes; in 1960, he revived the Sherlockian society at Michigan State; then, in 1972, he was invested in the Baker Street Irregulars, the world’s largest Sherlockian organization (which EQMM honors with each February issue). Here’s a fanciful recreation of a BSI get-together. It’s dedicated to Rodolfo Jorge Walsh.

  The tables were being cleared after the traditional goose dinner had been dispatched by the two dozen Sherlock Holmes devotees gathered at a St. Helena restaurant on the second morning after Christmas. This was the date of the events of “The Blue Carbuncle,” and the Napa Valley group of Baker Street fans commemorated that Holmes tale of a lost hat and a lost goose with a midday meal each December 27th.

  The group’s leader, Fred Cambridge, a retired professor of English, rose to call the meeting to order.

  “I am pleased to have the honor of introducing our speaker on this special occasion,” he began. “He’s our Chief of Police, Ollie Branson. Chief Branson has some thirty years’ experience in investigating crime and will no doubt have countless insights to offer us. When I first asked him if he would speak today, I noticed a certain sparkle in his eyes.” Cambridge looked down at Branson, seated next to him. “I’m not sure why he was so accommodating, but I suspect that he may not be entirely unaware of the exploits of our admired Sherlock Holmes.”

  Branson smiled and nodded. “I have a very well-read copy of The Complete Sherlock Holmes at home,” he said. “I know the stories well.”

  “Well, then, you’re among friends,” Cambridge replied. “The floor is yours.”

  Branson stood up and moved around in back of his chair. He was tall and lean, with a tonsure-like ring of white hair circling his head and a closely trimmed white beard.

  “Thank you, Fred. If I could ask everyone’s patience for a short time, I’d like to tell you about a certain Napa Valley crime and see what you can make of the facts.”

  The diners seated at the long table nodded approvingly, eager to accept the challenge.

  “This case concerns a man named Frank Scarlatti. He was a New Yorker who came to Napa Valley to negotiate the purchase of the Chateau Rachel winery from its owner, Dennis Tucker. Tucker, who had lived and worked for many years in the valley, had suffered a series of terrible financial setbacks—bad investments, losses caused by the weather—and saw no solution to his problems short of selling the winery that he had founded.

  “Tucker and Scarlatti had met several years earlier at a graduation ceremony at Yale University, where both had sons receiving undergraduate degrees. Tragedy befell Tucker soon afterwards when the graduate careers of his two sons were cut short by a very serious hit-and-run car accident in which the driver was never identified. In the accident, Dave Tucker lost the use of both legs and his brother Larry was blinded.

  “A couple of years later, when financial pressures convinced Tucker that he would have to sell his winery, he remembered Scarlatti, who was a wealthy stockbroker in the East. Scarlatti was interested, but his negotiations with Tucker were harsh and uncompromising. He was determined to acquire Chateau Rachel for a rock-bottom, distress-sale price.

  “Eventually, sensing that Tucker was on the verge of accepting his terms, Scarlatti flew out to the West Coast with two of his aides and drove to Napa Valley. On the evening of the day they arrived, Dennis and Rachel Tucker hosted a dinner at their home, on the grounds of the winery. After dinner, the family and all of the guests except Scarlatti retired to their rooms in the spacious Tucker home. Scarlatti went to occupy the guest house situated some fifty yards from the main house.”

  Branson paused and looked over his audience. “There you have the setting for the crime. Now this is what happened. The next morning, Scarlatti was found stabbed to death in his bed in the cottage with a knife that had been taken from the Tuckers’ kitchen.

  “What you need to know first of all is who among the previous evening’s dinner guests was unable to provide an alibi for the late evening and early morning hours.”

  Branson picked up a pile of printed sheets and passed them out to his left and right. “This is a list of the five people who were without an alibi. If you wish, this is your chance to try solving the case.”

  Branson’s list read as follows:

  Bonnie Ventura—Scarlatti’s slim, attractive secretary

  Gino Franchi—Scarlatti’s stocky, nervous, fast-talking assistant and bodyguard

  Dave Tucker—Tucker’s handicapped son; 24 years old, of medium build

  Larry Tucker—Tucker’s blinded son; 23 years old, muscular, but also of medium build

  Caspar Griswold—heavyset retired banker from San Francisco and a friend of the Tucker family

  “I’ll give you some additional evidence that was gathered on the morning of the discovery of the crime.” Branson said. “ A light rain had fallen after everyone had retired that night, and a set of deep footprints was discovered leading to the guest house and then back to the main house. On the porch, there was a pair of muddy shoes that belonged to Gino Franchi. From the Tuckers, we learned that Scarlatti and his two assistants drank an abundant amount of wine at dinner. Scarlatti ended up making sarcastic comments about how much his secretary, Bonnie Ventura, was drinking. She took offense and got up and went to her bedroom. Not long after the meal was cleared and the party had moved to the living room, the Tuckers and their friend Griswold also retired, and Scarlatti left for the guest cottage. Only Dave and Larry Tucker and Gino Franchi stayed on, talking and opening up more wine.“That’s all I’ll give you now,” Branson added. “But you are all free to ask questions or offer your solution to the murder.”

  At this point, Cassie Sawyer, a real estate agent, spoke up. “I think Bonnie Ventura would have reason to go after Scarlatti, especially if she were a little tipsy. You know, a woman scorned . . .”

  “True enough. But she had a slender build and could not have made those deep shoe impressions in the wet earth.”

  “Yes, of course. I should have seen that.”

  Erik Stanton, a columnist for the local newspaper, raised his hand. “All right, you indicated here that Caspar Griswold was a sizeable person. That would fit with the depth of the footprints. And since he was a good friend of the Tuckers, he could well have become angry over Scarlatti’s heavy-handed tactics in acquiring the winery.”

  “A point well taken,” Branson replied. “Unfortunately, it was determined that he could not possibly have gotten his feet into the muddy shoes. You’re doing a good job, however, in narrowing down the suspects.”

  Fred Cambridge reached up and touched Branson’s arm. “You can’t be suggesting that Franchi was stupid or drunk enough to commit the crime—for Lord knowswhat reason—and then leave his own incriminating shoes on the front porch!”

  “Well, Fred, stranger things have happened. But what else do you need to consider? Means and opportunity were available to all five suspects. Therefore, the motive is the missing factor. So go ahead and see what you can come up with.”Branson’s audience was properly stumped. No one responded.

  “Take your time. You’ll figure it out.”

  Bran
son smiled and waited. For a minute or two, the only sound was the low murmur of the diners, talking among themselves about the unlikely choice that they were left with. Finally, Cambridge spoke up and stated the obvious.

  “You can’t be suggesting that one of the brothers . . .”

  “Motivation,” Branson said. “You need a reason!”

  The group fell silent.

  “Okay,” Cambridge said after a long pause. “Let’s review this. Franchi and the sons stayed up later than the rest, just talking—”

  “And the next morning Scarlatti was found murdered,” Branson inserted.

  “So what connection was there?” Cassie Sawyer asked. “They didn’t know each other before.”

  “That is true,” Branson admitted.

  “Franchi must have said something,” Erik Stanton ventured, without much confidence.

  “Good,” said Branson. “Now you’re onto it.”

  “Even if the brothers had some reason—” Cambridge began.

  “That would explain it, wouldn’t it?” Branson prompted.

  “Well, yes and no,” Cambridge said. “Suppose that Franchi, with his tongue loosened, had let something slip, it doesn’t—Wait! The hit-and-run accident at the university! He must have said something that revealed that Scarlatti’s car had somehow been involved. Maybe he helped Scarlatti cover it up.”

  “Well, now,” Cassie Sawyer objected, “you’re not saying that a blind person and someone who could not walk—”

  “Of course!” exclaimed Cambridge suddenly. “I understand what they did.”

  A score of puzzled heads turned his way.

  “So you think you see how it was done?” Branson said.

  “Yes. When they understood that it had been Scarlatti’s car that had run into them, probably while he was visiting his son at the university, they wanted at all costs to avenge what they had suffered. They came up with a way of doing it that would once and for all settle their account with him.”

  “But how, Fred?” several in the group asked in unison.

  “After picking up the knife in the kitchen, Larry carried Dave, piggy-back style, to the cottage, where Dave ended the life of the man who had ruthlessly disabled them both. One son’s legs and the other one’s eyes enabled them to take their revenge.”

  Branson nodded. “Very good! And when they discovered Franchi’s shoes outside his room where he had improbably left them to be shined before he went to bed, they included them in their plan.”

  A moan of disbelief echoed around the dinner table. When it subsided, Erik Stanton asked, his voice tense: “What happened to the brothers? Did they get away with it?”

  “It would have been a shame, don’t you think, for those two unfortunate souls to have been brought to justice for their crime?” Branson said. “Somehow it wouldn’t have seemed fair.”

  “So how did the whole thing end up then?” Cambridge demanded.

  “Very happily, I’m glad to say, for all concerned. As is the case with detective stories, the puzzle is the most delectable part of the tale. Step by step, we reach the solution and after that, we are not really interested in learning how the criminal is brought to justice. The mystery is truly all that counts. Don’t you all agree?”

  Branson glanced around at the upturned faces of his audience, which still reflected mystification. “I must now make a confession.”

  He paused for a brief moment and then said, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I devised this little puzzle for your entertainment, drawing on the traditional elements of the detective story. It is all, with your pardon, a fiction. So no one needs to face prosecution for the crime.”

  His admission was followed by a palpable sense of relieved tension, and then applause broke out, accompanied by several shouts of “Bravo!”

  Chief Branson gratefully acknowledged the ovation and sat down. Cambridge rose and turned to the speaker with his own applause.

  “Ollie, I think you caught us all off guard. But fiction, of course, has that capability. It strikes me as very fitting that you have let the Tucker brothers off without having to atone for their crime. That, you may know, is exactly what Sherlock Holmes does at the conclusion of ‘The Blue Carbuncle.’ He allows James Ryder, who masterminded the theft of the jewel, to go scot-free. He observes that, after all, he is not retained by the police to correct their deficiencies.”

  Branson grinned. “I know the story very well.”

  Cambridge offered him his hand. “I’m sure you do. I feel quite sincerely that you are one of us, Ollie. Will you join our little group?”

  “I would be delighted, my friend. Just as long as you don’t forget who the police are around here!”

  Fred Cambridge offered Bronson his hand. “All right, it’s a deal.” He turned to his audience. “Well, if you will now all stand and, as is our custom, join in the singing of ‘God Save the Queen,’ I believe we will conclude our gathering on a very satisfactory note.”

  “Hear, hear!” was the unanimous response of the Napa Valley Sherlockians.

  Copyright © 2010 by Donald A. Yates

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  Fiction

  DOG ON A COW

  by Gina Paoli

  Pseudonymous author Gina Paoli has appeared in EQMM before, but under a different name. The Colorado writer worked for many years as a technical writer for high-tech industries, “explaining the machinations of research physicists and engineers to the manufacturing and management side of business.” Love of the short-story form notwithstanding, this author’s latest work in progress is a historical mystery novel. Perhaps some historical short stories will follow.

  Outside, the downpour continued unabated, each raindrop intensifying the stale, humid dreariness of the confining motel room. Trussed in the corner with a piece of cord from the cheap Venetian blinds, Dan rubbed the throbbing side of his head against the wall in the corner farthest from the door of the tiny room. It was sometime past two in the morning. The little one, Brucie, had just slugged him with his ring-encrusted fist: Dan’s wedding ring was on that fist now; his money and credit card were in Brucie’s pocket. Brucie reclined in the dingy stuffed chair beside the bed, digging at his fingernails with a flat, blunt carpenter’s pencil.

  The big one, Jane, rested on the sagging bed, back against the water-stained wooden headboard, her tremendous arms crossed over her equally massive chest. Her hair, red streaked with black, had been fashioned into an improbable pageboy cut, an unfortunate choice that further accentuated the fleshy features on her round face. Part of a tattoo on her right bicep peeked out below the sleeve of her faded yellow T-shirt. It looked like the forepaw of a dog, and for some reason Dan imagined the dog was a frisky, bright-eyed poodle. Tiny bottles of nail polish, cylinders of mascara and eye shadow, tubes of lipstick, and several compacts of face powder lay scattered on the bed before her. She slowly bent forward and wagged a stubby finger at the gaudy containers as if selecting the right one would solve an important problem.

  Dan’s courage had weakened a little after that last punch from Brucie, but he still managed to convince himself that he could wait them out. He’d probably already suffered the worst of it. Hell, if he just got a chance, he could talk his way out of this. They only wanted a little traveling money, and since he had given them all he had, they’d soon grow bored with their little game and let him go. Still, he should try to do something. Maybe the story, maybe he could reduce the tension by telling them the story.

  The story, which had come to him just a few hours before, had been forming in his mind even as he’d been sitting there tied up. It had an urgency of its own and despite the discomfort and pain from his numb hands and the scuffs on his face, its tenuous threads began to knit themselves into a ragged tapestry and suddenly he could see the outline of it and knew enough to begin the telling. He had nothing to lose, and maybe it would help somehow. So he worked up a few drops of saliva and prepared his s
wollen tongue to make words.

  They’d been sitting in silence since Brucie pounded on the TV to remove some static from the sound, resulting in a blank screen and no sound at all. That had been an hour or more ago. He’d been told to be quiet and he knew that Brucie had a short fuse, but Dan had faith in his own skills as a storyteller.

  “It’s raining like hell out there, like it’s never going to stop,” he said tentatively. There was no reaction to these first few words, so he continued. “It reminds me of a story I heard about a flood. It happened about twenty years ago, right here in eastern Colorado, though I’m not sure if it was up north on the South Platte or down on the Arkansas. Both rivers flood sometimes in the late spring when the snowmelt has already filled the river and a rainy spell sets in.

  “So the rains came and swelled the river over its banks and into the pasture of this farm that was usually a half-mile from the river. The farmer had his cows penned up by his barn, but the river was rising steadily, so he let them out and herded them up onto the prairie sandhills above his farm. He struggled through the mucky soil, but he and his dog got them out and up into the hills with only one of the cows running off. When he was sure the others were safe, he and the dog took off to find the lone cow, a young milker who had always been a little skittish.

  “Let me tell you about this dog. It wasn’t the kind of dog the farmer would have picked for a work dog. It had come wandering into the farmyard a couple of years earlier and after a week of tossing rocks and shouting at it, the dog was still skulking around. Against his better judgment, the farmer began to leave food scraps in an old Ford hubcap behind the barn, and soon, the dog began to follow him around as he did his chores. He soon found that the dog had a touchy and unpredictable nature. The farmer sometimes caught a gleam in the dog’s eye that seemed like a challenge, as if it would as soon go for you as listen to what you had to say. But the dog learned to handle the cows so the farmer put up with it and let it live in the barn.