Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #8

by Marvin Kaye

  We spent the Fourth of July sticking close to the apartment and watching the fireworks from the window, which was better than spending it with one of us trying to murder someone and the other trying to hold him back. A little while later I read in the papers that Joe DiMaggio’s bat was “recovered” over in Jersey. And not a word about us, which was fine by me. Maybe it all scared Ward enough that he stayed out of trouble from then on, unless you count the War which started up for us late that year. When Ward came back from his hitch in the Navy he sure had grown up a lot. He also had a lot more money which he said came from shipboard poker games which he swore were totally legit. I didn’t know how much of that I believed but he’d shown me his best poker face that night with Romano, so I knew he could bluff with the best of them.

  Me, I spent the war in the Army. I even saw DiMaggio one time when we were both overseas. Of course I didn’t talk to him and I certainly didn’t bring up the subject of the stolen bat with him or anyone. And I’ve read since that they say the disappearance of DiMaggio’s lucky bat during his streak in the summer of ’41 might have been just a publicity gimmick.

  Of course, “they” never met my Brother…

  ______________

  Jeff Baker has worked in fast food, where he once had to dress up as a lobster; performed comedy in local clubs and driven a delivery truck carrying everything from amaretto to zucchini. He has been published in Space and Time magazine and Over My Dead Body. A 1983 graduate of Newman University, he lives in Wichita, Kansas with his significant other Darryl and “way too many Hawaiian shirts.” His Facebook page is at “Jeff Baker, Author.”

  TRAVELING LIGHT, by John M. Floyd

  Sheriff Lucy Valentine trudged up the muddy slope to find the first rays of the sun peeking over the horizon and an ancient purple gas-guzzler parked beside her patrol car. In the dim light it looked as long as a battleship. She walked to the open driver’s-side window, hooked her thumbs into her gunbelt, and said, “What are you doing here, Mother?”

  Frances Valentine shoved open the car door and climbed out. “Waiting for you,” she said. “The story of my life.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I heard you blow past the house. I was up already anyhow, so I hopped in the Purple Rocket and followed you.”

  “I didn’t use the siren—you telling me you recognize the sound of my car?”

  “I do when it’s going a hundred miles an hour.” Fran shut her door and leaned back against it.

  “I was in a hurry. Anyhow, thanks for not tromping all over the crime scene.”

  “I would have, but these are my good shoes,” Fran said. “Fill me in.”

  Lucy tossed her notebook and flashlight into her cruiser, sighed, and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles like a little girl. “Bad news. Dispatch got a phone call from Buddy Johnson an hour ago, saying he’d found Pete Purwell dead in a woodshed.”

  “Pete Purwell?”

  “Buddy said he’d been lost and looking for a place to sleep, and had tripped over Pete’s body. I called the rehabilitation center—Buddy’s been there since last month, remember?—and sure enough, they told me he’d escaped around three a.m.” She pointed toward the Purwells’s house and outbuildings, at the bottom of the hill. “And sure enough, Pete’s down there dead, shot twice. Nobody else at home.”

  Fran nodded. “That part makes sense. Pete’s no-account brothers have been bragging that they spend most nights at the casino, and their dad’s been in Jackson since March.”

  “What’s he doing down there?”

  “Nursing home,” Fran said. “Any sign of the murder weapon?”

  “No. Just the body, and drag marks. Whoever shot Pete must’ve done it somewhere else, then lugged him into the shed.”

  It was dead quiet on the hilltop. A wispy gray fog hung over the fields to the west, between here and town. A few stubborn stars still blinked overhead. Lucy could hear her stomach growling.

  “Let me get this straight,” Fran said. “Buddy escaped from drug rehab in the middle of the night, and then—while on the run—phoned the police to report a murder?”

  Lucy shrugged. “What can I say? He was probably scared. And nobody ever accused him of being smart.”

  “How’d he place the call?”

  “The people at the center told me he’d grabbed a cell phone off a nurse’s desk just before he flew the coop. But nothing else was missing—no pills, food, money, flashlights, weapons, anything. A guard saw him running away across the front lawn, dressed only in pajamas. And running pretty fast, apparently.”

  Both of them stood there a minute, picturing that.

  “So what do you think?” Fran asked.

  “It ain’t quantum physics, Mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s obvious. Buddy Johnson’s the killer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that woodshed was pitch dark when I got here,” Lucy said. “No lanterns, no lights, no windows. And remember, Buddy ID’ed the body as Pete’s, not one of the other brothers, or someone else’s. To know that, he had to have seen Pete’s face.”

  “Where would he have seen it?”

  “Who knows? Maybe outside in the moonlight. Maybe in the Purwells’s house. Wherever they were when Buddy killed him, before the body got dragged to the woodshed.”

  Another silence passed. Fran was gazing off into the hazy distance. Lucy caught a sweet whiff of honeysuckle.

  Behind them, in the direction of town, a motor growled and a pair of headlights emerged over the rise. “Here comes the coroner,” Lucy said. “I gotta go. My deputies are out looking for Buddy, and—”

  “What you should be looking for,” Fran said, “are the two brothers. Bernard and…”

  “Elwin. I know. We already left phone messages for them.”

  “No, I mean bring them in for questioning. They both hated Pete, you know that. He was the oldest, and their dad’s favorite. I heard he was set to inherit everything—and Old Man Purwell’s past ninety.” Fran paused. “In case you forgot, that’s called ‘motive.’”

  Sheriff Valentine stared at her. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? Buddy Johnson did it. He must have. Somehow he found a gun—probably Pete’s—and shot him with it, then dragged him into the woodshed. Otherwise, if Buddy had just stumbled across the body they way he said he had, in the shed, he would never have been able to see Pete’s face, and identify him.”

  Fran shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

  The county coroner had parked and was standing ten feet away, watching them. Arguments between the two Valentines were nothing new. “Morning, ladies,” he said. He sounded even sleepier than Lucy felt.

  She gave him a hold-on-for-a-minute finger wave and kept her eyes on Fran. “How am I wrong?”

  “You’re wrong because Buddy’s not the killer.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “What I want,” Fran said, “is for you to send somebody over to the casino and bring the Purwell brothers in for questioning.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to. And you better hope they didn’t get spooked and decide to drive straight to Mexico.”

  Lucy studied her mother’s face. “You’re amazing.”

  “In what way am I amazing?”

  “You’re convinced of this, aren’t you.”

  “I know Buddy Johnson, Lucy. He’s mixed up, sure, but he wouldn’t kill anyone. I also know his brothers. You’re looking for the wrong man.” Fran folded her arms the way she always did when she’d made up her mind. “Make the call, and bring them in. You’ll see.”

  Lucy hesitated. “Bet you a ribeye steak I’m right.”

  “The Longhorn,” Fran said.

  “You’re on.”

  The coroner cleared his throat. “You said you had a body for me, Sheriff?”

  “Yes, I did,” Lucy said. “I still do.” She gave Fran a final look, then stepped past her and headed down the hil
l. “Follow me.”

  * * * *

  Later that morning, back at the office, Sheriff Valentine found Fran in the break room, chugging coffee. She drew a deep breath, let it out, crossed the room to Fran’s table, and said, “Deputy Malone just called in. He picked up Pete’s brothers, like I asked him to.”

  Fran just watched her, waiting.

  “They were in their pickup truck, outside the casino,” Lucy said. “Sleeping it off.”

  “And?”

  She hesitated a moment. “The youngest—Elwin—did a Perry Mason and confessed on the spot. They killed Pete and stowed him in the woodshed. He said Bernard was in on it, too.”

  Fran nodded. No smile, no I-told-you-so look. “Anything on Buddy?”

  “He turned up at a cafe in Batesville. He’d been hitchhiking. Still in his PJs.” Lucy took off her hat and sagged into a plastic chair. “How’d you know, Mother?”

  “Know what?”

  “Don’t give me that. How did you know Buddy was innocent?”

  Fran shrugged. “I guess I didn’t, for sure. But I knew how he could’ve seen Pete’s face, and identified him, in that shed.”

  “How? I told you, it was pitch black in there.”

  Fran drained her coffee cup, grimaced, and studied her daughter’s face. “Haven’t you ever dropped something on the ground at night and needed to find it, or had trouble getting your key into the your back door when the garage is dark?”

  “I suppose.”

  “So how’d you finally see to do it?”

  Lucy blew out a sigh. “I don’t know, I guess I fumbled around until I got it done.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about cell phones.” Fran took hers out of her purse and held it up. “You told me Buddy stole one from the rehab center before he left.”

  “And?”

  “And…” She flipped her phone open and showed Lucy the illuminated display. “They make good flashlights.”

  Sheriff Valentine blinked. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. After a long moment she nodded slowly. “I guess they do, at that.”

  “I agree that Buddy Johnson is no genius,” Fran said. “But he isn’t stupid, either.”

  Mother and daughter sat there staring at each other. It was suddenly so quiet Lucy could hear the hum of the electric clock on the wall of the break room.

  Apparently Fran heard it, too. “Come on, it’s almost lunchtime,” she said, and rose from the table. “You want to stop by the bank first?”

  “Why?”

  She grinned. “Because the Longhorn ain’t cheap.”

  * * * *

  DATE NIGHT, by S. A. Stolinsky

  I picked up the phone. I couldn’t imagine who’d be calling at eleven o’clock at night. My sponsor from AA usually called in the morning to give me hope for the day.

  “Hello?” I said, feeling queasy.

  “Hey, baby,” I could hear Clarence’s phony tone. He always sounded like that when he wanted girls to do things for him. He was an asshole, but he was the only asshole in town right now for me. One more DUI and I was through. They’d threatened to put me in Lynwood Correctional and throw away the key. Fuck them. Fuck Clarence. I put on my navy pea coat. I knew I was going to the bar. If I didn’t he’d fire my ass.

  “It’s a councilman,” he said. “A big, fat councilman. You can show him all you got.”

  I thought I’d puke. I yelled into the kitchen to my mother and said I didn’t know when I’d be back. I shoved my hair up into a loose pony-tail. I’d take it down at the bar.

  It was a rusty night. Lots of people think I talk funny, but when I say “rusty” I mean it was windy and brisk-like. You could feel the sharp edges of the wind on your face. I love that. I closed the front door. I don’t know whether my mother heard me or not and frankly I could care less. She wouldn’t give a rat’s ass anyway. Ever since they took my kid away. She hates me for giving up her grandchild. But I liked the couple that adopted him. They were professional, you know? People who had money. They’d do good by him, I knew that.

  Outside I got in the truck. The driver’s side door was stiff and creaky. Needed oil or something. If Eddie ever found out I was drivin’ it at night, he woulda kicked my ass. But hell, he’s in jail. He’s lucky somebody’s taking care of his old junk-heap anyway. And I’m still pissed at him for showing my picture to all his con friends inside. That was private. You never know who’s seeing your shit all over the net now. I swear. There I am in my birthday suit and he’s showin’ it all over the cell block. And he’s in the shadows of the picture. Probably embarrassed he’s got like a two inch dick. I hate that man sometimes.

  It’s only like ten minutes from the trailer park to the bar. Ma and me got lucky with the trailer. It was the only one left and it was newly painted. The guy who sold it to us even left the green awning. He went to live on his son’s boat or some shit, I forget.

  The evening was cold, but it was clear. I turned left out of the trailer park into the main street and it was empty. I mean, empty. Not a car in sight. I went slow. You never know when some dork’ll come slamming out of his driveway and t-bone you, especially if he’s been drinkin’.

  I drove a block to the interstate. I could see the neon flashing on and off in the distance. One of those tipsy electric cocktail glasses that flicker on and off with “Bar, Bar, Bar” under ’em. Like I say, the joint was only like ten minutes away. That wasn’t the point. I was just tired. My breath smelled like the bottom of a birdcage even though I gargled with mouthwash before I left the house.

  * * * *

  The interstate had some cars comin’ in the other direction, but it sure was quiet for a Saturday night. Suburbs outside L.A., man, you’d think there’d be more action. Sometimes they’re quieter than the boonies.

  I turned left into the bar’s parking lot. One of the red lights of the neon was out, of course. God forbid Clarence, the owner’d, spring to get it fixed. It’d probably cost him a dollar to do that. Uh uh. Not Clarence. He’d rather have the place look like the out-of-town dump it was.

  I got out of the car and let my hair down. It’d grown at least four inches since I got out of rehab. Practically down to my waist. Everybody always says when you’re in your early twenties your hair grows like crazy. When you hit thirty it slows down. Man I’m only twenty-four. I can’t even imagine hitting thirty. I walked toward the entrance.

  You should see this place. The door’s got these little square-like peek-a-boo windows surrounded by wood. Like it’s been hand carved, right? Probably mass produced in some half-lit garage somewhere downtown L.A. The door handle is this big old brass thing you have to take in both hands and then press a lever to make it open. It’s a bar and a pool hall, for Criss’ sake. Not the entrance to Graceland. The entrance is like hidden under a wood roof that kind of hangs over the front door. I guess to save people from getting wet if it rains. I pulled the door open. It was a heavy sucker.

  Inside there were three or four heavies, you know the big guys, too much pumping iron at Gold’s Gym, maybe ’roids, although with the guts these guys had, maybe not. I walked to the bar and lifted the rail. Philie was tending bar—servin.’ Her real name is Philimina. She’s from one of those islands in the Pacific. Her skin’s nice, and she has huge black eyes and shoulder-length straight black hair, but I know she’s not as pretty as me. That’s why Clarence got me out here. I’m tellin’ ya, for him—anything for a buck. Clarence was in the office, a cubicle room with no windows hidden behind dirty maroon-colored curtains on a rod.

  “Hey,” Philie says to me, like I’m her best friend now. “So you made it, huh?”

  “I’m here,” I says, “so, yeah, I guess I did.”

  She comes in close. I hate that, people who come up real close to you like they’re gonna tell you the secret of the ages or some shit. The three assholes drinking beer from the tap look up. One of ’em gives me the smile that says my ass is tight.
I think I know that, dorko.

  “Hey, baby,” one fat slob says. “How much?”

  “Shut the fuck up.” I says.

  Clarence yanks the curtain aside and comes out just as this guy slips off the stool, like he’s gonna come at me. I don’t think so. Not with Clarence right there.

  “Tell your ’hoes to watch their mouths, C,” he says.

  Clarence nods and then comes up to me and opens a couple of buttons on my coat so my cleavage shows good. I’m wearing what I wore to work this morning, but nothin’ underneath, you know?

  He says, “Hey, baby, get in something comfortable. I’m gonna introduce you to Mr. Right.”

  “Mr. Right? Is that his real name?”

  “No, baby, but he wants anonymity.” Clarence says, putting his face close to mine like we’re gonna rub noses. He pushes my hair behind my ears. Then he kisses my forehead. “Big pay day tonight.”

  I don’t know why, but I could feel myself gettin’ madder and madder. I like money and when the woman who adopted my kid sends me a picture at Christmas I’d like to send a little extra cash to the kid, with a note, if she’d let me. I suddenly feel like crying. I take things real hard.

  Anyway, Clarence goes in the back and I go to the ladies room and there’s this off the shoulder spandex thing with sequins around a real low neckline and the same sequin pattern on the sleeveless arm-holes. It’s hangin’ on a rod that must have been a shower fixture at one time. The bustier is a size small and usually I take a small to medium, but I mean, this thing’s small. There’s no pants, so I’m assuming Clarence doesn’t care what I wear on the bottom. The thing is see-through, too. Like that clear handkerchief type see-through. It looked like a rodeo skank’d wear it. It wasn’t L.A.

  In L.A., you’d go down to Melrose and Robertson, you know, and go into some of those shops and even if you couldn’t really afford it, you’d put something sexy and nice on your credit card, cause, like those pieces are nice. I read Elle and they call the good stuff “pieces.” I pulled off my top and laid it across the filthy sink he never has cleaned. I suppose that’ll end up being one of my jobs pretty soon, too.