Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  Bubba switched the case handle to his left hand, and signed the paper while curling the case.

  "Do you know what you have gotten into, Mr. Simms?"

  "Deliveryman is all I know."

  "Of course. Take care, Mr. Deliveryman. That case has far more than Griffith had in his. And we all know how that turned out for him."

  "Want to ride with me as bodyguard? I'll pay a hundred bucks."

  Charles smiled, gold gleaming in the fading light. "There are more interesting ways of earning a hundred. Good day, Mr. Deliveryman."

  Bubba left and drove out Dunhill Road to the Lake Region Country Club. The mayor met him in the parking area. Bubba stepped out of the Bronco and held the case out to the mayor, who grabbed it. The case crashed to the ground. "What the hell?"

  "Charles said he didn't keep enough cash on hand every day. You had to take hard currency. Is all this yours, Mr. Mayor?"

  "A favor for a friend."

  "I need a receipt."

  The mayor grimaced. "Get real, Bubba. Did they give you any problems?"

  "They were unhappy. But giving up eighty pounds of gold coins makes most people unhappy."

  "You looked?"

  "Get real, Mayor. I didn't have to. For a grand, I think things out."

  "Not a word to anyone. Stay available tomorrow. We might have another package that needs to be picked up."

  "I'm busy tomorrow. But you owe me. Remember that."

  "Could you put that case in my Escalade's rear storage?"

  "No charge. Do you want me to follow and unload it for you?"

  The mayor shook his head and waved Bubba off.

  Two mornings later, after a grueling dead-lift workout at Big Al's, Bubba settled in to enjoy his Haven Cafe's ham and cheese omelet with a side of grits and rye toast when David Browne ambled over and plopped into a chair next to him.

  "You hear the latest about Jackie Jones?"

  Bubba paused with the fork midway up. "What?"

  "He has flown the coop. A friend of a friend at the Secretary of State's office in Tallahassee called a Winter Haven friend yesterday to report that they were looking into trading records at Jackie Jones Enterprises. That friend called Jackie to cash out his account, then told another friend to cash out his account. They were supposed to meet Jackie and Charles this morning. The friends showed, but no Enterprises. Apparently friends are calling lawyers, judges, and cops. Film at eleven."

  David ambled away. Bubba completed the fork lift.

  Bisse left a message in the machine asking Bubba for him to drop by Jones Enterprises if he had a chance this morning. Bubba drove by Roy's Bakery for a baker's dozen and a tray of coffees. Visitors bearing gifts are always more welcome.

  Winter Haven PD cars parked on the ends of the street, funneling traffic. Mercedes, Lexuses, Escalades, and a red Corvette lined the curbs. A group of angry men, including the mayor in a lavender golf shirt with an aluminum case at his feet, stood in the yard of Jackie Jones Enterprises, arguing with two uniformed deputies at the front door.

  Ray stood by his Crown Vic at the edge of the property. Bubba parked in front of him.

  "Ah, you have not forgotten your roots," Bisse said as he popped the lid on one of the coffees. "The boys will be glad you remembered."

  "That looks like a cluster."

  "Angry rich people who might not be as rich anymore make a noisy cluster."

  "What is Jackie saying?"

  "Can't find him or Charles. State investigators and Winter Haven detectives are inside. I'm here as liaison for the sheriff to discuss Griffith Taylor's murder."

  "What removed the suicide designation?"

  "Ballistics. Griffith's bullet matched the slug Memphis took from their body. Seemed like a clue. We reopened the death."

  "Widow Taylor will be pleased."

  "And Griffith's lucky gold coin was a fake. Didn't take the lab long to determine that. A quick look at the gold stash inside indicates the presence of many lucky coins. I also hear all the cash in the vault and a hundred pounds or so of what might be real Krugerrands are missing. That may be another reason why all the men in the yard are clustered."

  They drank coffee, ate a donut or two, and watched the ebb and flow of the crowd. A couple of uniforms strolled by for donuts. Bisse's cell phone rang. He talked quietly for several minutes. He clicked it shut and found a smile. "Jackie's hiding at his brother's house in Ocala. Says he didn't do anything wrong. It is all a bookkeeping error. Charles can explain everything. Just find Charles."

  By the time the donuts were finished, the coffee drunk, and all the cop gossip exchanged, Bubba was ready to leave, but the mayor walked over to Bubba. "You cash that check?"

  "Yesterday morning."

  "Want to trade the grand for that case of lead?"

  "You've already checked all thousand of those coins?"

  "No, but we hear they're all fake."

  "Probably are. But I might take a chance. A thousand dollars for a thousand chances. Like buying lottery tickets. Or let me have that case. I'll give you a check."

  "Never mind. I'll have them all checked out. That's another one I owe you, Bubba."

  Ray slapped Bubba on the shoulder, "Suckers are born and gather every minute." He eased into the Crown Vic to leave. The mayor returned to his case and struggled with it to his Cadillac. The crowd of angry men had driven away one after another. The Victorian house looked forlorn.

  The following weekend, Bubba drove to Lakeland to do bench presses with Bisse and his friends at All-American Gym. After Ray out-benched Bubba and they were enjoying some cold refreshment, Bubba asked, "Have you found Charles yet?"

  "Charles does not exist. Fake passport. The real Charles McCray died at age one in Cape Town. But fingerprints lifted from the office match a set that Interpol has of a South African charged with a variety of unpleasant but lucrative activities. I don't expect he's still around here, but someday, he'll surface. Then we can talk to him about Taylor's death. And the missing millions. And the missing computer discs."

  "He do the guy in Memphis?"

  "Monthly plane tickets to Memphis, and one the day of the killing, phone calls to the victim for over a year. MPD likes him for it, so do I. For Taylor also, but not much concrete proof."

  "Why kill Taylor?"

  "He must've figured out that it was all a Ponzi scheme—maybe that lucky coin had a flaw—and wanted his share. The hundred grand a down payment on being rich."

  "Jackie says that?"

  "He says it's all a bookkeeping error. The missing millions are all there. That Charles can explain. He has no idea where the counterfeit Krugerrands came from. He has such a straight face I almost believe him. Lying bastard."

  "My client's happy. Her lawyers and the insurance company lawyers are talking whether it's double indemnity."

  "It's an ill wind that doesn't blow someone's apple cart along the street."

  "There're angry people in Winter Haven's apple cart. Sincere talk of shooting Jackie."

  "We've heard all that. Put his Labrador retriever in witness protection. He's now a poodle in Phoenix."

  Three weeks later, Bubba was driving down Recker Highway when he saw a sign crew working at Taylor's leasing company. Janeen was standing outside directing the workers. There was only the black Lexus under the covered parking. Bubba pulled in. She smiled and walked over to the Bronco. Bubba let the windows down, turned off the ignition.

  "Good to see you, Mr. Simms. Aw, it's hot. Is it ever going to be fall?"

  "Nice sign."

  "You're looking at the new owner of Imperial Polk Leasing. And I owe you for giving me the nudge to reach out for it."

  "Brenda sold it to you?"

  "Either that or lose it altogether. She's pretty distracted with the insurance negotiations, let me buy the name for ten grand."

  "You had ten grand?"

  "Gave her a stack of hundreds. She smiled at the cash." Janeen walked over to the workers and had them move the sign a fo
ot higher. She returned to the Bronco.

  "There's a sweet deal on a thirty-nine-month lease Ford Expedition, leather, loaded."

  "It's too bad about Griffith getting killed."

  Janeen's eyes carried a sheen. "I never expected that. He never should've gotten so involved with that gold. We were doing great right here."

  "They've never found the hundred grand Jackie gave him. McCray must have taken the briefcase when he killed him."

  "Could have. Of course, one thing I learned early on in this business, always clean out the returned vehicle before it's delivered to the leasing company. Always stuff left in the trunk, even in a like-new black Lexus."

  "I bet. These last few weeks, I've wondered how Griffith figured out that Jackie was running a Ponzi scheme."

  "I don't guess anyone will ever know for sure with Griff dead, Jackie blithering, and Charles vanishing. But Griff could smell a scheme a mile away. And anyone with a good eye for numbers might take one look at their paperwork and see it was fake. He just needed to poke around till he found some evidence, gold trading printouts, phone records, suchlike, and then become a silent partner. Who would've ever thought McCray was such a badass bookkeeper?"

  Bubba started the Bronco, turned the air conditioning on high. "What do you know about the Yukon?"

  "GMC? Low residuals."

  "Canada. I want to leave Winter Haven for a while. Find somewhere cool. Fresh air." After a few moments of silence, Bubba cranked the window up, the cold air rushing around him. Janeen turned away, skinny jeans walking toward the workers, one black stiletto high-heel leading the other.

  Copyright © 2012 Mitch Alderman

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  FICTION

  THE ABBOT AND THE DIAMONDS

  MARIANNE WILSKI STRONG

  Art by Linda Weatherly

  Brother Leo put down his shovel, bent and scooped up a handful of soil, and kneaded it. Yes, he thought. The rich brown color spoke of nutrients, and the slight touch of orange indicated just enough clay to hold in moisture for thirsty plants.

  Brother Leo looked around. The plot of ground was large, far larger than the plants would need. That was also good. Once the ground was cleared of the thick brush, he could begin clearing out the trees, leaving just enough of the pines and maples to provide shade for the plants that required it and plenty of room for the plants that needed sun.

  Brother Leo smiled. He hadn't liked leaving his sun-drenched monastery in Arizona and the garden he had so painstakingly and lovingly coaxed out of the desert soil, but he would thoroughly enjoy creating a garden in soil that would require little more than weeding and, perhaps, some watering in the summer.

  He looked up at the sky, a clear, pristine blue on this early spring day. The sun shone down gently. No, this sun of northeastern Pennsylvania would not burn and wither plants. If anything, it would be rather stingy with its warmth, granting only a short growing season.

  But that would be enough. It would save this monastery with its magnificent gray stone walls, deeply grained wooden beams, and white-framed casement windows.

  He studied the building. It was certainly not as old as his own seventeenth-century mission, but it had to be at least a hundred years old. Maybe more. What had it once been? The multiple rooms of its second story, now classrooms and the cells for the monks, along with the wide oak staircases, the large first-floor rooms, now the refectory, library, and conference rooms, might once have served as an exclusive school, a hotel, or perhaps the summer home of one of the robber barons who amassed their fortune on the backs of the immigrant miners who had, for little enough wages, worked the deep, rich seams of anthracite coal that ran through the valleys below these mountains.

  Brother Leo resolved to ask the monks. The younger ones might not know, but some of the older monks would surely know the history of this building and how they had acquired it. Perhaps Abbot Joseph had already asked. Abbot Joseph was a history buff. He seldom went anywhere without delving into the history of where he was.

  Brother Leo looked at the building again. It had a strange quality about it, a kind of gray moodiness, nothing that would frighten anyone, just give them a sense of melancholy, of sadness. A kind of haunted feeling.

  He shook his head. His imagination was running amok. To know a little of the history of this northern part of Pennsylvania was to run that risk. Miners had died here by the hundreds, many of the bodies never having made it up from the dark mines. Only a few years ago, Abbot Joseph had said, a whole family was swallowed up by a mine cave-in.

  Brother Leo looked down at the ground. He took a few light steps to his right, then to his left. Seemed solid enough.

  He rolled his eyes. Of course it was. The mines ran down through the valley, just to the west of this mountain. Here, he was safe, standing on fine, solid ground. Here, he could plant the flowers Brother William would need for his part of the project to bring in financial support for the monastery. And over there, nearer the monastery, roses would flourish. They would require care, but Brothers Stephen and Christopher were willing enough learners to cultivate that part of the garden and manage the selling of the roses.

  Brother Leo looked toward the monastery again. The flowers would bring beauty to the place. Not that the monastery was not beautiful. Indeed, it was with its broad first-floor windows and its fine dovecoted roof. But the flowers would give it cheer and life. He felt pleased.

  He stretched out his arms, then folded them to himself, as if to gather in as much of the sun as he could, hoarding it for his gardens. He could imagine his flowers flowing in carpets of color to the edge of the woods.

  He squinted, adjusted his glasses, and peered at the woods. He hadn't really noticed before, but there seemed to be a break in the dark pines, a path perhaps, or what had once been a path leading into the woods. And, there, almost illusionary, was a touch of pink.

  Brother Leo put down his shovel and headed toward the woods. As he approached the line of pines, his robe caught on a briar bush, gently yanking him back, as if to stop him from entering. Rather like a child's fairy tale, Brother Leo thought, smiling. He pulled his robe free, and marched ahead.

  He could see now that, indeed, a path had once led into the woods and a short way in split to run off in several directions.

  He headed down the path straight ahead, toward the delicate pink. Ah, he thought, rhododendrons. Of course, they would flourish in these rich woods, just thin enough to give them sun, and just thick enough to keep the sun from wilting the delicate flowers.

  Brother Leo touched a finger to one of the stems, just opening now. He looked down the path. Dozens of rhododendron bushes, masses of them, growing full and large. In another week or two, the woods would be glorious. No wonder someone had made paths into the woods. Ahead, Brother Leo could see a streak of silver: a lake perhaps. He was about to head toward it when he heard the deep, low-pitched tolling of the monastery bells, calling the monks to lunch.

  He realized how hungry he was. Good cheese, good bread, and a nice stew awaited. The monastery had a good cook in Brother Anselm.

  Brother Leo turned and headed out of the woods. He had just reached the meadow when it happened. A shot shattered the quiet of the woods, broke through the tolling of the bells, and pierced the bark of the tree just to Brother Leo's right, splintering a branch. A cracking sound came from the branch as it bowed lower and lower, then fell at his feet.

  Instinctively, Brother Leo sank back against a tree. He knew the sound of a gun, and he hated it. He stood still, his breath sounding loud in the ensuing silence. Nothing stirred. Finally, he persuaded himself to venture a little closer toward the meadow. Grasses swayed a little in the breeze, but nothing else moved.

  Taking a deep breath, Brother Leo headed for the monastery, hugging the edge of the woods, bending down a bit to make himself a smaller target. He wound between trees, hesitated when he reached th
e edge of the woods, then dashed across an open field, robes flying, and into the protection of the monastery's long porch. He yanked on the door, scurried in, and leaned against the cool stone wall. He was certainly not injured, but the branch had been. Surely, the branch had not been the target. He himself must have been. But the target of whom? He and Abbot Joseph had been here only a little over a week. They had seen and talked only to the monks, Abbot Joseph coaching them on Gothic manuscripts and Brother Leo himself coaching them on how to grow the plants needed for the inks. It was an innocent enough plan the monastery had: create and sell modern versions of beautiful old manuscripts. Surely no one could have taken offense to that plan.

  Brother Leo pulled himself away from the wall. He straightened his robe, patted his thinning hair, and adjusted his glasses. Lunch. And Abbot Joseph. Abbot Joseph always had an explanation for everything. Of course, he could explain this incident.

  "Very likely a hunter who mistook you for a deer," Abbot Peter said, passing a basket of bread to his right. "Since I arrived to take charge here, I've heard not a few shots fired. They don't really startle me anymore, but I am sorry, Brother Leo, that this one startled you. I am much relieved that you were not injured."

  "Surely it isn't the season for hunting," Abbot Joseph said.

  "No," Abbot Peter said, sighing. "It is not. But for some of the men here, deer hunting is an addiction and they ignore the state's rules. Most of the hunters, I assure you, are very responsible and careful. But there are exceptions."

  "Then that is the likely explanation," Abbot Joseph said. "I can see how someone could mistake Brother Leo for a deer, given those cowlicks of hair that stand up on either side of his head. And, of course, the brown robes. I suggest, Brother Leo, that when you work in the garden, you wear a bright yellow scarf."

  The monks laughed.

  "It is an excellent idea," Abbot Peter said. "We certainly don't want any more potshots taken at you."

  "I feel exactly the same way," Brother Leo said. "A yellow scarf it is." He lifted his hands, then quickly pulled them down. He hadn't quite washed out all the rich Pennsylvania soil from his fingernails. "Where do I purchase such an item?"