EQMM, July 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I was about to explain this to my cousin when she said, “You know, Henry never really liked you too much.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “But he never really knew you the way I did. You were always like the big brother I never had. Whenever I was in trouble, even as a kid, I turned to you. And you never let me down.”

  I smiled, shrugged it off. When she was little, it made me feel good. Later, it just became a kind of duty. But it was easy to see why she hadn't turned to me when Deme came threatening her. Henry was her husband. It was his wife and child in danger. Hell, I wasn't even a policeman at the time.

  “And Deme really hated you for that scar you gave him. He told me once he wasn't gonna do anything to make the scar look better until he'd evened the score.”

  “I always thought he'd try.”

  “He even had a picture of you, you know. The one the paper carried when you graduated college.”

  Flora had given me a graduation gift, The Complete Sherlock Holmes. She knew I'd gone to college because my parents wanted me to. But she also knew all I wanted was to be a policeman. Two months later I was the godfather at the baptism of Dorothy, her first child and named after our grandmother.

  “Y'know, Gilbert, you said a little while ago that I can't tell a lie. Well, I told a big one once. Told it to my husband, the man I took a holy vow to honor.”

  On the monitor Joseph's early attempts for attention had turned into crying when his mother hadn't hurried in to get him. She sighed. I saw tears glistening in her eyes.

  “What, Flo?”

  She shook her head impatiently, muttered, “You just don't get it,” as she rose and turned toward the baby's room.

  She had lied to Henry. Had to be about her virginity, though her loss of it before marriage seemed hard to believe. But what other kind of lie would bother her that much? Flora? Still, in my years with the force, even in a small town like Putnam, I'd been surprised many times by who was capable of doing what.

  Her eyes were still damp when she came back out with the baby.

  “He's hungry, Gilbert. I'm gonna go in the living room for a while, if that's okay.”

  Meaning away from me. To nurse.

  “Sure, I was just leaving anyway. Thanks for the coffee and queijada.” I kissed her on the cheek, patted the baby on the head, called goodbye to Theresa, who lifted her hand but never took her eyes off the television.

  “I'm sorry,” Flora said.

  I nodded, but since I wasn't sure what she was sorry about, I just waved it off, said, “I'll call you before . . . if I come to any decision about this.”

  “He had a gun.”

  “Henry?”

  “No . . . well, sure, Henry's got guns. He's always had guns. He still goes hunting. But Deme, he showed me a gun . . . maybe.”

  “When he hypothetically threatened you.”

  “Hypothetically.”

  No smile as she turned and walked toward the living room, cradling Joseph.

  * * * *

  I was driving, still trying to sort this out. It was like one of those fractured sentences that you had to put the words in the right order to make sense. No, it was more like a fractured paragraph, and I was playing with Flora's statements. I was halfway up Route 24 when a variation of her sentences suddenly fell into a focus that made a different kind of sense. But not one I wanted to consider.

  I pulled off to a rest stop and called Flo's number.

  “Yes?” She sounded tired.

  “It's me, Flo.”

  “Yes.” Maybe some resignation sneaking into that one syllable. I could hear cartoon noises in the background, baby cooing up close. At least someone in that apartment seemed alert and happy.

  “There were a couple of things you said I've been wondering about.”

  She waited so I went ahead. “When you said Deme showed you a gun, was that the time you told Henry he had threatened you?”

  “Yes. I told you that.”

  “Right, but you also told me he had shown you a graduation picture of me. That must have been about the same time, no?”

  “Uh . . . I'm not sure. It was awhile ago.”

  And her reminder that Henry never liked me. A hell of a thing to say to someone who'd be seeing him at family occasions for years to come. It wasn't like her at all.

  “Okay, thanks, Flo. You were right. The whole thing was a long time ago. Maybe it's best if I just forget about it.”

  “That's your call to make, Gilbert.”

  Yes, it was. Neither of us spoke as we both waited for my answer. My college graduation picture had been in the paper two months before I went to little Dorothy's baptism. And Deme had told Flora he'd get his revenge on me when he showed her the picture, so it was after he'd been released from Cedar Junction. Twelve years ago. Deme had a gun. I didn't. But Henry did, and he knew how to use one. So I knew now what big lie she had told her husband. Maybe she thought Henry would only frighten Deme away. Maybe she prayed he would. There was a good chance that, if Henry got the drop on Deme and confronted him with the threat Flora had told him of, even crazy Demetrio would know enough to tell the truth—that I was the one he was after. Flora could have foreseen that likely turn in the confrontation. And she knew Henry might not be all that upset that I was the target. But she also knew one other thing . . . he would never believe Deme.

  “Hey, Flo,” I said, surprised by the gravelly emotion that had crept into my voice, “Uh, I think I finally figured out what really happened. And all I'm gonna say about this is thanks, Shame the Devil. Thank you more than you can ever know.”

  She was sniffing as she said, “You're welcome, Gilbert.”

  I clicked off the phone. How about that? She had wanted me to know. Even gave me her motive: I was the big brother she'd never had. And for her, blood was thicker than water. Thicker than truth, too. She'd probably been confessing that one big lie to a priest every Saturday afternoon in one of Our Lady of Fatima's confessionals. But once the body had been found, and the uncertain fear she'd been hiding all this time was realized, she wanted me to know why she'd done it. And had left it for me to decide what to do about it.

  I sat back and took a couple of deep breaths before pulling out into traffic. I was imagining what that final scene must have been like. Henry would be slowly squeezing the trigger. Deme, not completely believing what was happening, couldn't really make sense of the last words he'd ever hear, Henry answering his protests about his intended target by saying something like, “Flora never lies.”

  Copyright © 2012 by James T. Shannon

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  * * *

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES

  by Bill Crider

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  * * * *

  I know that some readers of this column are fans of Old Time Radio, but not everyone's aware that after the end of that era, CBS produced 1,399 episodes of CBS Radio Mystery Theater, which “was meant to appeal to an audience that remembered when radio drama was a popular form of family entertainment. Riding on the wave of nostalgia fever, the radio show attracted many younger listeners who would stay up late, hidden under their covers, to hear the program on their bedroom radio. . . .” If you remember those shows and would like to hear them again, or if you'd like to hear them for the first time, they're all available for free. You can listen on your computer, or you can download the shows and listen on the go. In addition, the site (www.cbsrmt.com/) has links that will give you the names of all the actors who worked on the series, a list of the adaptations, an episode guide, a list of all the writers, and even links to a lot of other places where you can hear old radio shows. In other words, you might want to set aside plenty of time before you start to investigate this site.

  While you're listening to old radio shows, you'll have your hands free, so you can do a little cooking. And what better place to find recipes than in The Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen (www.mysteryloverskitchen.com/)? Nine mystery writers tell you how to whip up cheese-and
-bacon quiche, low-calorie chocolate cupcakes, spinach dip, chicken curry, and other tasty treats. If you're not hungry when you start reading this blog, you soon will be. The authors also plug their books and offer commentary on the recipes, so there's lots of non-culinary fun to be had, too.

  Those who like to read traditional mysteries (as who doesn't?) and everyone else will enjoy Traditional Mysteries (traditionalmysteries. blogspot.com/), where William I. Lengeman III, focuses his “attention on the more traditional flavors of mystery fiction and film, with occasional side jaunts to explore anything else in the genre that looks interesting.” Recently he's reviewed Trent's Last Case by E.C. Bentley and Not Quite Dead Enough by Rex Stout, as well as an Asylum Films release that might be the worst Sherlock Holmes movie ever made and in which we discover that Holmes's first name is “Robert.” Not to mention a few other things that Lengeman says he won't mention, although he does. Well worth your time.

  Copyright © 2012 by Bill Crider

  Bill Crider's latest novel is The Wild Hog Murders, published by St. Martin's Press.

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  Fiction: DROWNED IN A SEA OF DREAMS

  by Donald Olson

  Toward the end of 2011, EQMM received a letter from longtime EQMM writer Donald Olson's agent, telling us that this great contributor and friend to the magazine had died. Donald Olson was almost exclusively a short-story writer. He had several novels published in the 1970s, but for most of his writing life he concentrated on the short form, writing elegantly and poignantly of the gentler side of the world of crime. We hope some of his ‘00-plus published stories will someday be collected; it would be a shame if they were lost to future generations. There aren't many writers today who can do the twist-in-the-tail story as well as he did. We were fortunate in having one last Olson story on hand. We hope you'll enjoy it.

  Florence had fibbed about her age, as about everything else, when she talked to Professor Merryman on the phone in response to his help-wanted ad: Temporary position as cook-nanny available to qualified person. It was sheer madness, of course, and she hadn't dreamed she'd actually get the job; however, you're going crazy anyhow, what have you got to lose. Go for it, girl.

  Though it was unlikely the other lies would be detected—she could cook and she knew enough about children to fake the nanny role—her artless use of makeup failed to hide the fact that she was pushing seventy. Oh yes, pushing it to the brink. Yet who was it who said attitude is the best disguise of age? She must not wince at the occasional arthritic twinge, must remember not to shuffle but to walk with a sprightly step and to create the image of a woman who had all the confidence of youth. It pleased her that she already felt younger, or was it only the excitement of being away from Wildwood?

  As arranged, Professor Merryman was at the bus station to meet her, a plump, amiable-looking man of about thirty-five.

  He extended a chubby, pale hand to greet her. “Miss Haynes, I believe?”

  “Professor Merryman?”

  Florence noticed at once that he had peculiarly dark lips, almost as if they were as nicotine-stained as his fingers. Dark eyes, too, but with a twinkle, betraying, to Florence's relief, no sign of dismay or disappointment.

  “No luggage?” he inquired.

  She indicated the spacious tote bag. “I travel light.”

  “Allow me.” He reached for the bag and led her to the Volkswagon van. Once out of town, he drove with reckless disregard and as he drove he smoked a cigarette in the same careless manner.

  “You'll like young Myron. Precocious lad. Quite exceptional for a twelve-year-old. In all my years at Hillcrest I've never encountered a more gifted adolescent. As I explained on the phone, Myron's parents are abroad. As a friend of the family's I offered to take the lad under my wing for the spring break. Unfortunately, I myself don't get a break and couldn't very well leave him on his own up here in the wilds. My country retreat is quite secluded. No phone, no radio or TV, only the rudest of amenities. Of course, I shall pop down twice a week and for the weekends. All you need to do is feed the boy, keep the place tidy, simply be there, if you see what I mean.”

  Presently they arrived at a stone farmhouse pleasingly situated on a wooded hillside overlooking a broad trout stream with no other habitations in sight.

  “I trust you won't mind being alone for one night,” Professor Merryman remarked as they got out of the car. “You won't be frightened, will you?”

  The solitary house and all that open space inspired an emotion quite the opposite of fear. And to be there alone, if only for one night, what bliss after Wildwood! Florence's delighted response seemed to please Professor Merryman. “It appears I couldn't have chosen a more suitable applicant. Now I shall just get you settled in and then I must scoot back to Hillcrest. You can expect us around lunchtime tomorrow.”

  Once alone, Florence's explorations led her to assume that Professor Merryman rarely visited his rural retreat. There was a well-stocked larder and the other bare necessities of life, but not a single visible fingerprint disturbed the layers of dust wherever Florence looked. She set about tidying the house, fixing herself a light supper, and then retired to bed with one of the less scholarly of the few books she found on a shelf in the living room.

  * * * *

  “Do you play chess?”

  Florence shook her head. “Checkers I could manage.” They often played checkers at Wildwood.

  “Perhaps you could teach her,” suggested a beaming Professor Merryman.

  Myron regarded Florence with a politely dubious frown. “We shall see.”

  Myron was a weedy, undersized boy with a perfectly round head atop a pale neck of swanlike appearance. From under wispy, evenly trimmed blond bangs, his big brown eyes viewed the world with an inherently disdainful look of reproach. Florence found him infinitely more disconcerting than she did Professor Merryman.

  “I shall try to be a very good nanny,” she promised, and then added, misreading the boy's blank look: “You do know what a nanny is.”

  “Correct me if I'm wrong,” Myron replied with a deadly sweetness. “A hollow-horned ruminant of the female gender?” And in reply to her blank look: “A goat.”

  “Oh, my. Maybe you'd better not call me Nanny Flo. And I don't like the name of Auntie Flo.”

  “Nor do I. As you are not my aunt, it would be inappropriate. Florence should suffice nicely. Parlez vous Francais?"

  Professor Merryman sputtered a protest but Myron cut him off. “I merely thought I might practice my French for want of some less frivolous diversion. Do you speak French, Florence?”

  “No chess, no French. I fear I shall be a disappointment to you, my dear.”

  “Only if you can't cook.”

  “That I can do. So if you'll excuse me, I'll see what I can rustle up for lunch. If you're going out to play I'll call you when it's ready.”

  “The only thing I play is the piano. As there is none available, I shall retire to my room and read.”

  As the door closed behind him Florence smiled somewhat uncertainly at Professor Merryman. “You did say the boy is only twelve?”

  “In years. But well advanced, if you see what I mean.”

  “Indeed I do. A joy to teach, I would imagine.”

  Professor Merryman seemed for a moment to lose some of his bounce. “By and large, yes. By and large.”

  * * * *

  If Myron treated her with the droll condescension of an adult for a hopelessly backward child, Florence soon learned to accept the indignity with forbearance. Better Myron's casual disregard of her presence than to be constantly pestered by the tiresome demands of a more ordinary youngster. He spent most of his time in his room with a book or occupied with his own thoughts on a rustic bench, put there, perhaps, for the convenience of anglers, on a rock shelf projecting over the trout stream.

  It was now the third day and the sight of that solitary waiflike figure brooding beside the water moved the essentially kind-h
earted Florence to join him on the rock platform where, for a while, they both peered silently into the stream, so clear one could watch the smooth brown trout moving like bright shadows below the surface.

  “Don't you like to fish?” Florence asked him. “I noticed plenty of gear in the shed. Most boys love to fish.”

  A shrug of the narrow shoulders dismissed the activities of most boys as beneath contempt. “I've always considered the sport of fishing to be a pointless exercise, unless one is adrift at sea or marooned on a desert island.”

  Florence inhaled the pure country air and gazed rapturously upon the smoky blue hills rising beyond endless ranks of pine and hemlock. “What a splendid site for a house. I do envy Professor Merryman.”

  “Merry loathes the place,” said Myron in the same scornful tone that deplored the joys of fishing. “Merry is an urban animal. Solitude bores him.” He turned to examine Florence's face with a look of indifferent curiosity. “Don't you have a house of your own?”

  Florence sighed. “I did have. Lovely house it was, with a garden and friendly neighbors.”

  “So where do you live now?”

  “A room. I have a room. It's not easy to get used to living in a single room when you've had a lovely big house. I suppose you live in a big house when you're not in school.”

  “Bigger all the time,” Myron replied. “Some people prefer to expand their houses rather than their minds. My parents and I occupy the same residence but live in different worlds. To whom you're born is a genetic accident. Where you're born is a geographical accident.”

  Florence tried not to smile. “If I had my choice I'd stay here the rest of my life.”