EQMM, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Ned, Earl, and Ray fired balls at them. For a moment, the floor looked more like bocce than bowling. One of Ray's balls caught the downed crook in the ribcage, knocking the wind out of him. His buddy ducked behind the trophy case.

  Salem grinned. He switched to his two-handed grip and let fly. The ball shot across the floor, passed the trophy case, and took a sharp left.

  "Oww!” screamed the robber. “Mother—” he yelled as Salem's follow-up ball wreaked damage. Realizing he wasn't safe behind the case, he limped out, firing his automatic at Salem, pinging a chip out of the ball Salem held. “No English, huh? Try this, sucker!” He aimed again.

  Salem backed down the alley as the gansta steadied. Ray snatched a ball from Ned's hands and slung it toward the gunman, but it clipped one of the seats.

  That turned out to be all Salem needed. He ducked and shot his ball up the alley.

  The instant it left his hand, I saw it would miss the bad guy. The crook knew it too. As a nasty grin spread across his face, he raised his pistol in that flat stance hoodlums adopt.

  Salem's ball nicked the edge of the gutter. It rocketed up the fairing of the ball return and went airborne. As sixteen pounds of ballistic cannonball flew at him, the bad guy gawked, frozen in disbelief.

  Salem's delivery was slightly soft. The ball knocked the guy unconscious instead of taking his head off.

  Salem broke into a huge smile, imitating the snap of his wrist for us. “Make English,” he said.

  Most of us stood with our mouths gaping, except Liam's girlfriend. She jumped on the first baddy and battered him with her shoe.

  "Damn! That is some English,” said Ray, grasping Salem by the elbow and pumping his hand. “Listen, my brother and I are thinking about a bowling team . . ."

  Salem absorbed media attention with a shyness that should be a lesson to the rest of us. Liam started a scrapbook with newspaper clippings and he brags to anyone who'll listen how he discovered Salem. Tarpit Lanes added a second trophy case and now a third. Salem's photo hangs above the front counter and rumor has it a framed picture hangs in the women's locker room.

  We started our team. My brother liked V-words, suggesting Vikings, Vandals, and Vampires, which the rest of us voted down. I wanted to go with Salem's Wizards, but in the end Salem himself came up with the team name.

  English.

  Copyright © 2011 by Leigh Lundin

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: NORMAL by Donna Andrews

  Agatha Award winner Donna Andrews’ latest novel, Stork RavingMad, released last July by Minotaur, is another entry in her Meg Langslow series. Booklist called the novel, “a fine blend of academic satire, screwball comedy, and murder.” She provides a very different kind of fare for EQMM this time, a tale of the paranormal. We hope even readers who expect rationality in their mysteries will appreciate this one; despite its cast of wizards, ogres, and trolls, its heroine investigates with only human faculties.

  "Which one of you's the P.I.?” the tipsy woman asked. She spilled a little of her fruity rum drink on Bart's trouser leg.

  "I am,” I said. “C.J. Grey, at your service."

  She blinked and stared at me. Okay, I look like a fourteen-year-old girl, especially in the Cave's dim lighting, but I was sipping wine. Did she think the bartender would risk the joint's liquor license to serve me?

  I liked the gloom—that and the general live-and-let-live attitude. As long as you paid and weren't underage, the bartenders couldn't care less what you did. The other patrons were either too drunk to notice anything strange or too drunk to worry. When they looked at my table, all they saw was an elderly wino, a badly dressed man with the bulk and battered nose of an ex-boxer, and a seven-foot albino transvestite.

  Magnus was arguably a wino, but in his occasional moments of sobriety, he was a half-competent wizard. In better light, people might not recognize Bart as a full-grown ogre, but they'd sure as hell know he wasn't from their normal reality. And Taigh wasn't an albino—elves are naturally pale. I wasn't sure about the transvestite part, since in the year the elf had been working as my secretary, I hadn't determined Taigh's gender. Maybe Taigh just had flamboyant taste in clothing.

  The woman stared at them briefly. I could almost see the moment when she stopped worrying and chalked up their odd appearances to the rum.

  "What can I do for you?” I asked as I studied her. She was plump but pretty. She'd look better in clothes that weren't two sizes too small. Her hair probably wasn't naturally blond.

  "I need a P.I.,” she said. “I think maybe my husband is . . . you know."

  Yeah, I knew. If I ever got my agency on solid financial ground, the first thing I'd do was cut out domestic work. But for now, it kept all of us from starving.

  "Maybe you could come around to my office tomorrow,” I said.

  She looked anxious.

  "I'd rather not be seen there,” she said.

  She'd rather be seen in a dive like the Cave? No accounting for taste.

  "Have a seat, then,” I said. “Bart and Magnus are my operatives, and Taigh's my administrative assistant. Taigh, would you take notes on my conversation with Ms.—?"

  "Mrs. Candee Brown,” she said. “That's C-A-N-D-E-E."

  Taigh pulled a steno pad and a pen out of the immense leather tote at our feet and began scribbling rapidly, the picture of efficient discretion. Bart tried to look reassuring, and to my relief, he smiled the faint, close-mouthed smile we'd been working on, the smile that did not reveal his razor-sharp, pointed incisors. Magnus just polished off his drink and signaled to the bartender for a refill.

  Magnus had time for several refills, and our client accumulated several more paper parasols before she finished telling us, in infinite detail, the sad story of her marriage to Oleg Brown. Honestly, if you marry a bartender who wasn't quite rid of his fifth wife when he started dating you, do you have a right to be surprised when he starts auditioning waitresses for number seven?

  But if people always did the sensible thing, P.I.s would have a lot less work. Taigh ran back to the office to fetch a standard contract. Candee handed over a sufficiently large cash retainer, along with blurry photos of Oleg and the cocktail waitress, the waitress's address, and the name of the joint where they both worked.

  "We'll get started right away,” I assured Mrs. Brown. We watched her stumble up the steps out of the Cave.

  "Want me to take the first surveillance shift?” Bart asked.

  "Monday will be good enough,” I said.

  "But you told her we'd start right away,” Bart said. I sighed. Ogres can be so literal.

  "And we start by checking her out,” I said. “We only have her word for it that she's married to this guy and has any kind of right to know about his whereabouts. What if she's some crazed stalker? I'll hit the courthouse Monday."

  "I can start a background check on the computer right now,” Taigh said.

  "I don't mind scoping out the bar on my own time,” Bart said.

  "Remember, the sooner we start, the sooner we can bill her for more hours,” Magnus agreed. “We need the money."

  "Okay,” I said. I hated it when they were right. “Bart, Magnus—you go over to the bar and start figuring out if there's anything between the husband and the alleged girlfriend. Taigh, do your magic on the keyboard."

  Taigh happily waved the three-inch fake talons that somehow didn't interfere with typing.

  "What about you, boss?” Bart asked.

  "I'll see what I can do tomorrow,” I said. “Tonight I'm having dinner with my mother, remember?"

  That put a damper on the conversation. Taigh had never met my mother, but had heard all the stories. Bart and Magnus both knew exactly what a horrible time I was in for.

  Mother is a sorceress and queen of a minor kingdom in the world where I was born. My complete lack of magical skill is a never-ending source of embarrassment to her. As soon as I came of age, I formally renounced my place in the line of succession and fled h
ere, to the world that had created my idols—Hammett, Chandler, Sayers, and Christie. Growing up, I'd fantasized about them the way kids in this world dreamed about dragons and unicorns.

  I brought along Bart, my childhood bodyguard, and Magnus, my tutor. Magnus actually gave me a decent magical education. I know all the standard spells—the words, gestures, props, and ingredients—but they just don't work for me. Spells, potions, charms, curses, amulets—nothing.

  Magnus didn't cause my lack of talent—he only diagnosed it. Even so, Mother, irrationally, never quite forgave him. I'm not sure he ever forgave himself. At any rate, his career, never exactly spectacular, stalled and then went down in flames after he became my tutor. He was making a fairly successful attempt to drink himself to death when I finally decided to emigrate to this world.

  Actually, he was still doing a pretty good job of it.

  "Which reminds me,” I said. “Magnus, I assume you'd have mentioned it by now if there was something unusual about our client."

  "She's normal,” he said. “Human. Nothing hinky.” That was one of his main jobs—warning me if I ran into anyone who wasn't exactly an ordinary human. Taigh and Bart could do the same thing sometimes, but not nearly as well as Magnus. And it was surprising how often I needed him to use that talent. In addition to the Chandler and Hammett connections, I'd picked this universe because it was the most mundane one I could find, but every time I turned around I ran into someone from another, more exotic reality. Maybe they sought me out.

  Maybe my entourage attracted them. Maybe if I didn't hang around with ogres, elves, and wizards—

  I shoved the thought aside. Right now, I needed them, and more important, they needed me.

  "Okay, you three get started,” I said. “I'll dive in first thing in the morning, assuming I can avoid committing matricide tonight."

  "Don't let Her Majesty get you down,” Magnus said, as we paused for a moment on the sidewalk outside. “Magic isn't everything. Remember, you have a first-class brain."

  A first-class brain that, according to Mother, I'd wasted by filling it full of noir P.I. stories and English manor-house mysteries. And so far I hadn't figured out how to use my superior brain to make more than a meager living. If I couldn't make a go of my agency, we were all in trouble. It wasn't as if any of us knew how to do anything else.

  I put on the confident, happy face I always tried to wear when I went home for a visit. The nearby church clock began chiming. I ducked behind a dumpster just in time to hear the seventh and last chime before Mother's teleportation spell hit me.

  Dinner was ghastly, but only the familiar, normal sort of ghastly. I politely declined another offer to meet a minor princeling who didn't care if his wife had magical power or not. I smiled politely as my kid sister showed off her latest spells. We were waiting for dessert when my cell phone rang.

  "That's weird,” I said. “Who'd have thought I could get a signal here?"

  I pulled the phone out, and everyone else averted their eyes as if I'd suddenly thrown a dead hedgehog on the table. I checked the caller ID. Bart.

  "This better be good,” I snapped by way of a greeting.

  "No, it's bad,” Bart said. “Very bad. Something's happened to Magnus. He's been shot."

  Mother was sympathetic, or pretended to be. She sent me back immediately. A few minutes after I materialized behind the dumpster, startling a mangy tom cat, a small paper bag popped into being a couple of yards away. A doggie bag. My stomach churned at the sight, and I left it for the cat or any other scavenger that wanted it.

  It was nearly two by the time I made my phone call to the police, and just before dawn I found myself standing in the morgue, looking down at Magnus.

  "Yeah,” I said. My voice was surprisingly rough. The detective shifted uneasily. He probably thought I was about to cry. I wasn't sure he was wrong. “That's Magnus. Magnus Albertson. He worked for me."

  "Sorry for your loss, Ms. Grey,” the detective said. “You were close?"

  "He was like a father to me,” I said. And I realized it was true. My own father had barely stayed around long enough to produce me, which given the way my mother usually treated unfaithful lovers was probably wise. Magnus had been the one who read me bedtime stories, lifted me onto my first pony, and tried, in vain, to share his magic with me.

  "What happened?” I took refuge in a businesslike tone.

  "Shot twice at close range with a small-caliber weapon,” the detective said. He sounded relieved that the threat of tears had vanished. “Probably a twenty-two. Once in the abdomen and once in the throat. He'd have bled out pretty quickly."

  He was trying to reassure me that Magnus hadn't suffered much, but I already knew he'd died quickly. If the killer had just left Magnus bleeding in that alley, he probably could have healed himself.

  The detective led me back to his office and stuck a cup of coffee into my hands. I don't drink coffee, but I locked my fingers around it. The warmth felt good.

  "Can you tell me what he was working on?"

  Yeah, I could. I'd stopped by the office on my way to make a copy of my case file. Which hadn't taken long, since it contained only the contract, the photos, and addresses Candee Brown had given me, and a few articles Taigh had found online that mentioned the bar where Oleg and his girlfriend worked.

  The folder was so thin the detective looked inside to make sure it wasn't empty.

  "Not much here,” he said.

  "She's been a client for about ten hours,” I said. “How much could we find in such a short time?"

  "Maybe your partner found something,” he said. “Then again, more likely his murder had nothing to do with your case. In a neighborhood like that . . .” He shrugged. “Thanks anyway,” he added. “Can we give you a ride home?"

  "Some friends are waiting outside,” I said. “Thanks anyway."

  To my surprise, I hadn't lied. Bart's battered van was waiting down the street. He and Taigh were in the front seat.

  "What the hell happened?” I asked as I climbed into the back.

  "Magnus got shot,” Bart said.

  "I know that,” I snapped.

  "I was parked in front of the bar, waiting to see if they left that way,” Bart said. “Magnus went to do the back door."

  I nodded. By doing the back door, I assumed he meant that Magnus was going to cast some kind of spell on it. A ward to notify them if the husband or the girlfriend left through the back door, or maybe some subtle spell to make them disinclined to use it. This wasn't the time to lecture Bart and Taigh about the stupidity of using methods that were alien to this world and, more important, couldn't be taken to a mundane court.

  "He didn't come back,” Bart continued, “and I waited a long time. Then I saw the police and the ambulance go by. I asked someone what was happening, and they said someone had shot an old bum in the alley. I figured they meant Magnus."

  "What should we do now?” Taigh asked.

  I knew the smart thing to do was mind our own business and let the cops solve Magnus's murder. But I rebelled at the thought. They killed Magnus. Whoever they were. As a wizard, he may have been a burned-out, gin-soaked has-been, but he was my burned-out, gin-soaked has-been, and I resented like hell that someone had knocked him off.

  "Okay,” I said. “We operate on the assumption that Magnus's murder had something to do with our case. Bart, you do surveillance on the husband. I'll stake out the girlfriend's place. Taigh, find out everything you can about those two."

  "Right, boss,” they said, almost in unison.

  They probably thought I knew what I was doing.

  I lucked out. Across from the girlfriend's apartment building was a small coffee shop with a free wireless connection and almost no customers. I fetched my laptop and some books from my trunk, snagged a table in the front window, and settled in to give a convincing imitation of a student trying to pound out a term paper in a hurry.

  About noon, Bart called me.

  "I think we've got problems
, boss,” he said.

  "Tell me something I don't already know."

  "New problems,” he said. “You got your cell phone? I could send you a picture from mine."

  There was the predictable delay while Bart fumbled with buttons that were not designed for fingers as large as his. Then a picture came into view on the tiny screen. It was tilted to the left and slightly fuzzy, but still a lot better picture of Candee's husband than the one she had given us. I could see what Bart meant.

  "Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?” I asked.

  "Yeah,” Bart said. “He's a troll."

  I studied the photo. Natives of this world probably just saw a large, heavyset man with Neanderthal features and overlarge teeth. I wondered what Candee saw in Oleg. I could guess what he saw in the aptly named Candee—to a troll, a plump young human was better than filet mignon and lobster.

  I sent the picture to Taigh with orders to focus the computer search on Mr. Brown's past.

  About two p.m., I got a call from my client.

  "The police came to talk to me!” she said. “Thank goodness Oleg was out when they got here! What's going on?"

  "One of my operatives was killed last night while following your husband,” I said.

  A gasp. A few moments of silence.

  "Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “Do you think I'm in danger?"

  Thanks a lot for your sympathy, Candee. She babbled hysterically for several minutes, and I made appropriate reassuring noises while trying to decide whether to spill what we'd learned about her husband. Finally I made an appointment to see her in the morning. I'd sleep on the question.

  Or maybe I'd just continue to fret about it while watching the girlfriend's door. Sooner or later she had to come out. Or come home.

  A patrol car pulled up and two uniformed officers accompanied a suit-clad man into the building. They came out again a few minutes later, and I recognized the suit as the detective I'd spoken to. They left, but it only took me half an hour to spot the car with the surveillance team.

  The day wore on. By nightfall, the wait staff were definitely giving me the evil eye, even though I'd consumed several gallons of coffee and at least a dozen pastries. But at last my luck changed. The front door of the apartment building opened and the tall, slender, but shapely figure of the troll's girlfriend emerged.