Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 16

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Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 16 Page 9

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE


  She told him about the shoes from the dunes. “They were Ferragamos, size nine. The sniper was a woman!”

  Amanda never slowed until she reached the driveway. A woman. How could that be?

  There was still an hour before it began to get dark. She pulled in, dashed into the house, and ran upstairs to change her clothes. She slipped into black slacks and a black long-sleeved jersey. After pinning her hair back, she added a gold necklace that softened the look of her outfit. She took her second gun out of the case then returned downstairs to check all the doors.

  Louis was in the kitchen in front of empty bowls. “Thank you for keeping life in balance.” She kissed him on the head. She filled both his bowls as well as Sami’s, then turned on music for him. “Watch the house,” she said as she ran out.

  One gun was in her purse, the second in her glove compartment. She headed for dinner.

  * * * *

  “Getting anywhere on Will’s case?” Ellen asked as Amanda sat down.

  The murder weapon was at the top of her mind. Ellen had given it to Will years back. She couldn’t bring herself to ask about it. Instead Amanda asked about the theft at the East Hampton Cultural Center, where Ellen was on the board. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “It was horrible. The three priceless Egyptian eighteenth dynasty necklaces and two Vermeer paintings turned out to be forgeries. We don’t know where or when the switch was made. Before we got them, or during the exhibition. To this day, they haven’t turned up. Does this have anything to do with Will’s murder?”

  “I think so. It looks like Will caught onto a smuggling operation being conducted from his house when he wasn’t there. His house has a unique location. It allows a large boat to come close to land where items can be loaded and unloaded and then head back out to sea without being noticed. Will’s next door neighbor became suspicious of odd hour comings and goings and called him. He came back unannounced and discovered what was going on. It was just after the East Hampton theft which was in August of that year. Not sure he knew who was behind it.”

  “That’s unbelievable.” Ellen stared at her. “If the pieces did leave the country via the canal, that could be why they were never found.”

  Ellen looked at her watch. “We’re going with some friends to hear jazz in East Hampton. It starts about nine. Why don’t you come along and give yourself a break?”

  * * * *

  His gestures seemed anxious. Louis padded his front paws back and forth. Amanda wasn’t familiar with the movements.

  It was just before eight thirty and nearly dark. Returning from the restaurant, rather than driving around to the rear of the house, she parked out front and came through the front door. Her assailant had at least an hour to get here and find the best spot from which to take a shot. The garage offered one of the better vantage points on the property, which was why she didn’t park there.

  Hopefully entering from the front had thrown the sniper off balance. It would take the woman a few minutes to find another place outside to set up. Amanda turned back to Louis, who desperately wanted her attention. With one gun in her belt and the other in her hand, she followed him. He did not go to the kitchen but instead headed for the library. He walked to the French doors at the end of the room then stopped in front of the right door and pushed on it with his paw. It moved. Her assailant was in the house.

  Amanda felt chills up her back as she bent down and petted him. “Good watch cat.”

  The room was in darkness. A slash of light from the pole light outside by the swimming pool slanted through the panes, across a section of the oriental rug, ending in the glass-enclosed display case. Her eye caught a glittering object inside the case—a large, crystal, octagonal paperweight with nautical carvings. The object Ellen had given Will so many years ago. The murder weapon.

  She looked for Louis. He was gone. Her assailant was inside. She listened for a movement. A break in the air. A sound that didn’t belong there. The woman was quicker than she thought. Then again, she had help.

  A confrontation in the house was not the way this should end. Not inside. Too many memories that could be obliterated by a bullet. Needing to lure her assailant outside, she went out the French doors. They opened onto the patio surrounding the pool. The motion detector lights were still on. The sniper had come this way not long ago.

  Keeping to the side of the house, Amanda had just reached the cover of the privacy hedge surrounding the pool when a shot buzzed by her ear.

  “Damn. Where is that woman?”

  Backing up against the house, she made it through an opening in the hedge and ran as fast as she could across the darkened lawn and across the road to the dunes. Another shot buzzed by her. Let’s hope third time not a charm for her, she thought.

  Reaching the first dune, she dropped to her knees and leaned against the base. Looking back to the house, she could see the porch in the glow of the living room lights, but the lawn, as it rolled to the road, faded into darkness. It was going to be hard to see anyone coming toward her.

  Sitting in the sand at the base of the dune she waited. Poised. Gun forward. Suddenly there was a faint crackle to her left. Startled, she shifted her stance and began to crawl across the sand toward the sound. A shot coming from between the olive bushes nearly grazed her shoulder.

  She stopped for a moment, then grabbing onto a large stone, flung it in the direction of the shot. She scrunched back into the protection of the olive plants and took aim.

  Suddenly, headlights from a car cut the darkness. Her assailant lifted herself to take a shot at the approaching car.

  “Hey. Yo.” Amanda called out at the same time flinging another rock. The figure stopped, then to Amanda’s surprise started toward her, shooting.

  Amanda dropped onto the sand and raised her gun. I’m good at moving targets, she thought as she fired.

  * * * *

  It was the Saturday night following the Surfriders concert. Amanda and Clint sat on the front porch, he with a beer, she with a wine, being soothed by the backdrop of the rolling ocean.

  “This is a nice place to come to if you don’t have people shooting at you,” he said. “And now that it’s over, how did Lina Walsh, George Simmons, and your Aunt Ellen ever get involved in art theft?”

  “It started off as a game. A Kandinsky exhibit was coming to a gallery in Southampton. Ellen had a client who wanted one of the pieces. She could oblige, and a new business was born. All three had European connections to make sales easy. But to get the art in and out of the country, they needed Will’s house. All went well until Will’s neighbor became curious. Reluctant to call the police, she called Will. Concerned, he came and watched his house for three nights from her property. He figured out what they were doing. And from the cars, he also knew who was involved. This included Sheriff Davis.”

  “Which is why Will’s death never got investigated.”

  Amanda sighed. “Knowing the sheriff was connected to it, he decided just to show up unexpectedly. Which upset all their plans. The East Hampton exhibit had priceless articles and this time, they found a new way to protect themselves. They had them copied. Ellen did it. She found a new career. But Will told Ellen he knew what was going on and it had to stop. Further, he said if it didn’t, he’d involved the FBI. And that was the end of Will.”

  “He had you in mind?” Clint said.

  “I guess so but he never said anything. They formed a company and bought Will’s house and their business continued all these years until just recently, by the slimmest of chances, Terra happened to run into someone who was with the police at the time of Will’s death. It was on the set of a movie she was doing and he was there as a consultant. He said, quote: “They never caught Will’s killer did they?” By the time they finished talking, Terra knew Will’s death was not an accident and she hired a private investigator who could get into the storage facility where the case files were kept. One look and the investigator knew the guy was telling the truth. So she wrote t
he letter, sending it to herself and George, whom she suspected of being in on it.”

  “The case had surprises,” he said. “A sniper in designer shoes. Where did Lina learn to shoot?”

  “Army. Some kind of special guard unit.”

  “And your aunt. I’m sorry.”

  “I knew she was involved. She gave Will the crystal. After he was killed, she brought it home. Cleaned it off and put it in the display case along with other keepsakes.”

  “Cold.”

  “She and Will had a falling out years before then. Things didn’t work out for her with Will as she hoped. The memory lingered. Unfinished business.”

  “Is the lesson here, beware of the friendships you make and how they end? Could come back to haunt you?”

  “Especially when there’s millions of dollars involved,” she said.

  “But you did get Mark Ashford in the end. Not for murder but for theft?”

  “He got himself.” Amanda smiled, and breathed deeply in satisfaction. “Will had his reasons for never turning over those songs to Mark. And Mark vowed he would get that music, over Will’s dead body if necessary. And that’s exactly what happened. Tuesday night at dinner he told me Will had drawn up a contract for those songs. So when Will died, he saw no reason not to take the music. Will never drew up a contract. He lied.”

  “And you were able to prove it?”

  “Among the songs Mark took that night was the one I had worked on with Will that last morning. It was called Perfect Strangers. I had the score. Will faxed it to me. And the CD he emailed. Mark should never have claimed it as his own. It was the song that went on to win a Grammy, the Oscar, British, and World Music Awards. A song that catapulted Mark into the Songwriters Hall of Frame. It was the last song Will Peterson ever wrote. He needs to be remembered for it.”

  “Terra and the attorneys have all the evidence?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure how they’ll settle it but they will.”

  “What happens to the house and the cats?” He petted Louis who had walked out onto the porch.

  “Gil’s moving in. He’s selling his house and getting married again. She’s from a Southampton family. It’s good. Louis loves him.”

  “We both have time before you leave for Paris.” He reached for her hand.

  “We can spend it here. We have the place to ourselves for two weeks. Louis and Sami need caring for. It’ll be good. And after that you can come to Paris with me.”

  He put his drink down and stood, pulling her to stand beside him. He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. “This is what we’ve been trying for for five years. It’s a start.”

  about the author

  Dianne Neral Ell has written professionally for trade and consumer publications, online magazines, and websites. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies and Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. The Exhibit, a novel of crime and suspense, is currently available at most retailers including Amazon and Barnes and Noble. She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, the Author’s Guild, and the Florida Writers Association. Her website is: www.dianneneralell.com.

  SANTA AND THE SHORTSTOP, by Steve Liskow

  I’m almost eight so I can read by myself, but I felt really tired and my throat was scratchy so I let Shenka read “The Night Before Christmas” to me on the couch.

  * * * *

  “It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house…” Her accent made the words sound like scissors snipping the paper on the presents under our tree. She was from Georgia, so when I first met her I thought she’d have a southern accent, but Mom told me it was a different Georgia, over in Russia. Her real name is Natyashenka Taracova. I’m glad I don’t have to write that on top of my papers at school. It would take up a whole page.

  “The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…”

  Her eyes flicked toward the fireplace, where the last log was still smoking.

  “No stocking this year, Daniel?” She made it “stockinks.” She made my name start with a “T,” too. I snuggled against her and pretended my throat was really sore so I didn’t have to answer. She smelled good and her sweater was soft like my blanket. She put her arm around me like I was a little kid and asked me again.

  “Uh-uh.” Dad said I was getting too big for Santa Claus. Mom told him I had plenty of time to grow up, but he said there’s no such thing as Santa and that he and Mom put the presents under the tree and in my stocking. It made my eyes burn and my nose feel stuffy.

  “How come?” Shenka squeezed me a little closer and her big blue eyes looked down at me. “You’ve been a good boy, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t want to talk about it. Dad dressed up in a red suit with a white beard to go to his Christmas party. Mom wore green tights and red boots like an elf, too. They wouldn’t be back until late, not until I was in bed.

  “So you’re going to have lots of presents for Christmas tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  I looked at the pictures in the book again. Big boxes under a tree, people in funny caps they used to wear to bed, and stars and snow outside. I heard Mom say it was supposed to snow tonight, so they wouldn’t stay late.

  “Can we read more of the story?” My voice felt like nails in my throat.

  “Are you all right, Daniel?” Shenka’s hand felt cold on my forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  We read until the guy saw the moon on the best of the new-fallen snow. I never get that part. How can part of the snow be better than the other part? Mom told me it was “breast,” not best, but that doesn’t make any sense, either. Snow isn’t a lady like Mom. Or like Shenka. She’s a lady, too, almost.

  But she plays softball really good. She’s shortstop on the high school team. Dad knows her dad from work and that’s how she started coming to sit for me last winter. Dad and Mom took me to some of her games last spring. She doesn’t look that big, but boy, she hit the ball so far I could hardly see it. She showed me how to bat and catch better last summer, too.

  I wrote Santa Claus and asked him for a new bat and glove like Derek Jeter’s before Dad told me he’s just made up. I was really sad then, but when he brought Shenka back tonight, she brought a long thin package wrapped in green paper with gold designs on it, and a big green bow that has gold running through it, too. The tag had my name on it. I’ll bet it’s a bat.

  I ran upstairs to get my present for her. It’s a little heart on a chain and Dad helped me pick it out. He helped me pay for it, too. I wanted to get her something really nice ’cause she’s so nice. Dad said I was posolutely absatively right. That’s how he talks when he’s being funny. Shenka’s so pretty I wondered why she was sitting with me on Christmas Eve and not out on a date with some guy.

  When she read the part about dry leaves and hurricanes, it felt like I had dry leaves in my throat and I coughed. I couldn’t stop for a minute.

  “Are you all right, Daniel?”

  It hurt too much to say anything. She laid the book on the coffee table and put her hand on my forehead again. The room felt hot, but I was shivering. She pulled the comforter from the back of the couch and wrapped it around me.

  “Let me make something to help you feel better.”

  “I don’t want anything.” My voice felt thin as a wire. “I don’t like medicine.”

  When I have to take medicine, Mom hides it in candy or ice cream, even my Flintstones vitamins. But I still know it’s there. Yuck.

  “This isn’t medicine,” she said. “Let me go get it started, then we will finish the story, all right?”

  She wrapped the comforter around me nice and tight and glided through the dining room arch in her tight blue jeans and fuzzy white sweater so she looked pretty as Mom. Dad says she looks really hot, but I was the one who felt hot and cold at the same time. Through the window, I saw white floating around the streetlight at the end of our driveway. After a minute, I knew it was starting to snow, little tiny flakes. I could hardly see
them except around the light.

  I didn’t even hear Shenka come back until she helped me sit up again and I felt really heavy. She stuck the thermometer under my tongue. When she pulled it out, her eyes turned sad.

  “Oh, Daniel, I think you are coming down with a cold. And on Christmas Eve.”

  She hugged me and I was afraid I’d give it to her, too. I could feel the soft bumps under her sweater while she read about Santa Claus getting to work and filling all the stockings. I wanted to ask her to skip that part because it made my eyes feel all gooey, but I figured it would mess up the rest of the story, so I just watched the fire getting smaller in the fireplace and listened to her voice snipping in my ear. I know the story pretty well, anyway, and it felt good laying against her.

  “Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night.” She held the book open in her lap and I looked at the picture of Santa Claus and his reindeer flying toward the big white moon and felt bad again because he wasn’t real. When I looked out the window, the streetlight looked like a big white moon, too, with snow falling around it. The ground was already white.

  Shenka went to the kitchen and came back with a cup and saucer. I could see steam coming from the cup.

  “Shenka, I’m too little to drink coffee.”

  She helped me sit up again.

  “It is not coffee, Daniel.” Her voice sounded soft like Mom’s. “It will make your throat feel better. Just take a few sips.”

  “I don’t like medicine.”

  “Silly.” She gave me a big smile and she looked even prettier than Mom, even prettier than Santa’s elf. But there’s no Santa, so I guess she looked prettier than anything I could think of. My head felt like I had rocks in it.

  “It is not medicine,” she said. “It is warm tea, and I put in it some honey. It will make your sore throat feel better.”

  “I don’t like tea.” I didn’t know that, but I don’t like to try new things. It’s like when she made me change how I held the bat last summer to help me hit better. It felt strange at first, but it worked, so maybe this would work, too.

 

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