Bound by Mystery

by Diane D. DiBiase

  Bound By Mystery

  Celebrating 20 Years of

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Edited by Diane D. DiBiase

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Poisoned Pen Press

  First E-book Edition 2017

  ISBN: 9781464208331 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  info@poisonedpenpress.com

  Contents

  Bound By Mystery

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Foreword

  Gold Digger

  Gone Phishing

  The Bomb Booth

  Be My Friend

  Telling Tales

  A Lure for Murder

  Quito

  Nantucket Plunder

  Sunday Drive

  The Paternoster Pea

  The Olive Growers

  Her Mama’s Pearls

  Chaos Points

  Two Bits, Four Bits, Six Bits…

  Dodo

  La Corazonada

  Time’s Revenge

  Taking the Waters

  The Reading by the Polish Author

  Wild by Name, Wild by Nature

  The Customer

  Reciprocity

  The Price of Belief

  The Stranding

  Mabel, Still Gathering Wisdom

  Game, Set, Match

  Hort-head Homicide

  The Cry of the Loon

  Judge Jillian

  Clear Knights

  Disguise

  Sage Advice

  Girls with Tools

  A Fox in the Hand

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  To Our Readers, Old Friends and New—

  We look forward to another twenty years

  Bound By Mystery

  Epigraph

  “Storytelling awakens us to that which is real. Honest…it transcends the individual…Those things that are most personal are most general, and are, in turn, most trusted. Stories bind…”

  —Terry Tempest Williams

  “To be a person is to have a story to tell.”

  —Isak Dinesen

  Foreword

  We have published a diverse group of authors over our twenty-year history. While a few have been fortunate enough to focus all of their time and attention on their craft, most do not make their living as writers; they have day jobs, and write in their spare time—because writers gotta write. They work as insurance agents and pastors and psychologists and medicine women and housepainters and art book publishers. Most reside here in the U.S., but we also have authors from Canada, Mexico, India, Australia, and the United Kingdom; one who splits his time between the U.S. and Greece, when not circling the globe for author conventions and book signings; one who spent many years living in Italy in the U.S. Foreign Service, but now makes his home in Colorado. Their ages span six decades; they are Democrats and Republicans; they are Christian and Hindu and Jewish and Wiccan and Agnostic. Yet as different as they may seem, they all share a predilection for detection and a taste for red herring; they are connoisseurs of crime, bound together by their passion for mystery.

  When we first began tossing around ideas on how to commemorate twenty years of publishing as a small press, I immediately lit upon the notion of a short story anthology. What better way to celebrate our little-press-that-could success than by showcasing the talented writers responsible for it? Several authors had expressed interest over the years in publishing short stories with us, but would there be enough interest to justify the project? I wrote a quick e-mail to the authors, asking for a show of hands. I mentioned that I would need at least a dozen participants to make it worthwhile. Oh, and by the way…the only payment would be author copies. Our intent was to use the book primarily as a promotional item, to get our authors and their excellent writing out in front of as many new readers as possible. To be honest, I didn’t expect an overwhelming response.

  The replies came thick and fast, and they formed an exuberant, unanimous “YES!” It seemed the authors were as excited as I at the prospect of an anthology dedicated to their original short fiction. Our only criteria were that the story be original and no longer than 5,000 words (initially we had intended to stick to “mystery only,” but quickly abandoned that notion after receiving a few outstanding stories which fell outside the mystery genre). Most of the authors who pledged their interest followed through with a story—and on deadline! Some were current writers, while others had not written for us in many years, whether having retired, taken a hiatus, or moved on to larger houses.

  It was especially touching for our publisher, Robert Rosenwald, and our editor-in-chief, Barbara Peters, that so many of the PPP authors, past and present, were eager to be a part of this project—including several who have gone on to great successes with lucrative contracts, film deals, and the like. As you will read in the authors’ introductions, our Press has lodged fondly in their hearts, either as the place they got their start or the place they continue to regard as home.

  As the editor of this anthology, it was my great pleasure to have so many of our authors as required reading. As I made my way through the submissions, I was impressed by how good they were. Not that I was expecting them to be bad, but to have so little work to do as the editor was almost a disappointment for me. A few tweaks here, some changed titles there, and basically all that was left to me was the sequencing of the stories within the volume. Though I confess I was tempted at various points to throw them up in the air and order them as they landed, or to take the simple “alphabetically-by-author” route, I think I managed to arrange them to showcase their marvelous diversity of genre, setting, subject, and style. There is a lot of time-hopping and globe-trotting between these stories, dear readers, lest you fear becoming bored or complacent. Length of story was also a consideration. If, like me, you’re chronically time-challenged, and reading for pleasure is a luxury afforded only in small snippets, it’s nice after reading a lengthier story to have one follow it that you can easily finish in a few extra minutes.

  I am a great fan of short stories. Short fiction is not a novel that ran out of time; it is its own art form. Brevity is at its core, but there is still room for characters to have aspirations and acne, to evolve—or to solve a murder. The challenge for the writer is to accomplish all of this within the confines of the form. For anyone who’s tried, it ain’t as easy as a good writer makes it look. As Faulkner said, “Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first, finds he can’t and then tries the short story which is the most demanding form after poetry. And failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing.”

  Short fiction is an excellent way to become acquainted with an author, without a large time commitment. It’s like speed-dating; if you like what you see, you can arrange another meeting, and if not—no harm done, just walk away. You may even find yourself playing matchmaker, recommending prospects to friends and family, even if they weren’t quite right
for you. Whatever the case, we are proud to present our authors to you here via their original short stories. At the very least, you’re certain to make a few new friends. If you’re lucky, you just might fall in love.

  —Diane D. DiBiase, Editor

  Gold Digger

  Reavis Z. Wortham

  I was green as grass when Poisoned Pen Press saw the original manuscript for my first novel, The Rock Hole, in 2011. I didn’t know a thing about the writing business, other than the art of creating a cohesive story. My editor, Annette Rogers, met with me at the Sleuthfest Writers Conference in Florida that year and made several shocking suggestions to a manuscript that dripped red from her pen.

  “Rev, you need to rewrite the ending.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you killed everyone off and we want to make this a series.”

  I’d never considered the manuscript to be anything more than a stand-alone. She followed that statement with another stunner. “You need to cut out fifty-thousand words. It’s a little long.”

  I followed her directions, cut it down to ninety-thousand words and, when The Rock Hole came out, Kirkus Reviews gave it a Starred Review and listed it as one of its Top 12 mysteries of 2011.

  What Annette didn’t tell me is that PPP is where I wanted to be, too. They took a rank beginner and gave me the opportunity to grow and shine. Today, the Red River series of six historical mystery thrillers continues to grow in popularity, and has led to this writer’s success. I wouldn’t have been this far along if not for this outstanding publishing house, and the exemplary staff that is a family to its employees—and to its writers.

  —R.Z.W.

  ***

  I remember that night’s date, May 23, 1934, because it was the day Bonnie and Clyde soaked up about five pounds of lead on a lonely country road in Louisiana, about two hours east of us. We were between dust storms, those big black devils that sweep in from the northwest and dump a good part of the Oklahoma and Texas panhandles onto our little East Texas town of Coffeeville.

  The barn dance was already planned, but it turned out to be a kind of celebration of sorts because those two murderers were gone, even though a lot of folks in our part of the country thought they were just trying to make a living in hard times.

  For a little while, though, you couldn’t tell we were smack in the middle of the Great Depression. Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys were already picking out the “Spanish Two-Step” by the time we got to Old Man Devlin’s hundred-year-old barn full of hard-working folks there to have some fun.

  The doors were open on both ends to pull in whatever breeze there was, and the stall doors on the sides were propped open for the same reason. My running buddy, Milburn, was sittin’ in the hayloft with his legs dangling over the side. I climbed up there to join him and he gave me a good elbow in the ribs when I plopped down on the loose alfalfa on the floor.

  He pointed down. “Look over there. Leon Clayton’s got Red Devlin’s new wife hemmed up against the wall.”

  “How come?”

  Milburn cut me a look and rolled his eyes. A fresh boy’s-regular haircut left those big old ears sticking out like handles. “Looky here.” He pulled a crushed pack of Chesterfields from the front pocket of his bib overalls.

  “Where’d you get those?”

  “There’s only one. Snitched it from a truck out there.”

  “You just stole ’em?” I’d never stolen a thing in my ten years on Earth.

  “There’s only one, and I doubt Mack Platt’ll miss it. He chain-smokes so much he probably has these coffin-nails squirreled away everywhere.”

  The song ended and the dancers drifted back to the edges of the barn. Mama and Daddy passed under our feet and stopped in the middle of the crowd of farm folks. She turned in a full circle and finally looked up and found me. She raised her eyebrows and it was a whole conversation.

  I mouthed, I will.

  Miss Driscoll took Mama’s arm and they hugged one another. Daddy frowned at me from under his hat like he always did. It meant the same thing.

  The band was dressed in flashy cream-colored suits and they looked as cool as spring water at the north end of the barn. Some of the women in their print dresses beat at the stifling air with Jesus-and-the-Lambs paper fans from the local funeral home. Most of the men wore overalls, but a few, like Daddy, were in their Sunday khakis.

  “I sure hope ol’ Bob hollers while they’re making music.” I’d been looking forward to the dance for a whole month. Bob Wills tilted his hat back and worked that fiddle over some more.

  “Somebody’ll tell him to.” Milburn stuck the wooden end of a kitchen match between his lips and flipped it up and down.

  “Hope they don’t.”

  Him having that match worried me because the loft was full of dry alfalfa and everyone down below was as scared of fire as of a bear. I was afraid he was gonna try and light that Chesterfield up there and I’d already been warned by both of my parents to behave myself.

  “Why not?”

  “Daddy says it makes Bob mad if folks tell him to holler. If he gets aggravated, they say he won’t holler for the rest of the night, and that’s one of the best parts of his music—him hollerin’ stuff.”

  Bob sawed into his fiddle and they took off with “Shucking the Corn.”

  “Come on.” Milburn jumped up.

  “But I want…”

  He flipped the crushed pack back and forth between two fingers. “Come on, titty-baby! Let’s fire this butt up.”

  We shinnied down the ladder and into the dark outside. I trailed along behind like always and we circled around behind a truck. I expected to see lightning bugs flickering in the trees on the fencerow down by the slough, but it had been so dry they were all gone that year.

  We zigzagged between the cars and trucks scattered around the pasture. We circled a Tin Lizzie and Milburn came up short when he almost walked into some of the local farmers passing around a quart fruit jar in the shadows.

  “You boys get on outta here. Scat!”

  I didn’t even try to see who said it, but we scatted outta there like he said and found another place to share Milburn’s snitched toonie. We sat down with our backs to a big red oak tree, with a pickup between us and the barn. He scratched the strike-anywhere with his thumbnail and I saw he already had the butt between his lips.

  It wasn’t my first cigarette. I’d tried chewing, too, but didn’t like it. Both of my grandmothers dipped Garrett’s snuff, but I couldn’t stand that nasty stuff that smelled up the whole house so bad I couldn’t breathe. I was already good at smokin’, though. We passed it back and forth, listening to the music while the band played song after song. There was a steady stream of men circling around those trucks and then back inside.

  Every now and then some young couple slipped outside to giggle together for a minute. Joe Bill Pines was the constable back then and he pulled up in his sedan and prowled around, talking to one person, then another. He did the same when he came to church, just stayed outside and visited with the men waiting on their wives to leave the service.

  Daddy said there wasn’t any use in him going inside; if there was gonna be any trouble, it’d be around the cars. I guess he figured the same was true at a barn dance.

  Two men stopped on the other side of the T-Model we were hiding behind. Their voices came to us clear as a bell.

  “Did you see Red’s face just a minute ago?”

  “Sure ’nough. Looks like he’s mad enough to spit nails and I can’t figure out why. They say it was his idea to have the dance here. Now he looks like he’s mad at everybody who showed up.”

  “He’s nervous as a cat in a doghouse, all right.” The car door on the opposite side opened and closed and I heard the ring unscrewing off a fruit jar. “We’re lucky he gave in, though.” Somebody swallowed like a horse at a water trough. �
��This is the only barn in the county big enough to handle this crowd.”

  “I hear it was that little tramp he’s married to’s idea.” The other guy took a long, loud sup, reminding me of Grandpa sipping coffee out of a saucer. “They say she talked him into havin’ everybody over here because she’s trying to be somethin’ she ain’t. It was even her idea to hire Bob Wills. But Red ain’t said two words to anybody since we showed up.”

  “Opal May? What’s she think she’s gonna get out of it? Red’s so tight he squeaks.”

  I knew who they were talking about. The Spit and Whittle Club up at the store talked about her a lot after she showed up with Old Man Devlin. Her bleached hair and tight clothes made her stand out like a sore thumb in our little rural community, but all that makeup she wore made her look like a movie star to me.

  “Hell, he has the first dollar he ever earned. I can’t believe he paid for the band by hisself. I swear, he don’t even like most people.”

  There was a big slurp. “Ahhh. It’s a fact. Willie Connors makes the best whiskey I ever tasted. Anyway, back to what we was talkin’ about. Leon spun that little gal around on the floor and his hand was a sight lower on her back than it should have been.”

  Milburn put his hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “Well, it’s Red’s fault he married somebody thirty years younger’n him.”

  The ring screwed back on the jar and they walked away. “Yeah, but you know why.”

  “Poontang!”

  I could see Milburn’s white grin in the dark and felt my ears burn. I knew what the word meant, but Mama and Daddy never used that kind of language around me.

  Milburn took one last drag off the butt and flicked it away. “That sounds like fun. Come on. Let’s go see what them two are doin’.”

  We slipped in one of the side stall doors and worked our way through them that wasn’t dancin’ until I saw Red’s peroxide blond wife sitting on a tack box against the wall with Leon. I nudged Milburn and we found a place so we could watch. He pointed at Red Devlin standing not far away, all swole up like a mad coon and looking like he was about to explode.