EQMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The three missing people, all tourists, have been identified as Claude Boyer, of Paris, France; Jake Dugan, of London, England; and William Garson, of Honolulu, Hawaii. All three were registered at the Tiki Hotel in Papeete.

  The plane was rented by Boyer, who presented a certified pilot's license and paid for a one-day rental in cash. When last heard from by Faa'a Airport control, the plane was ten miles off the east coast of Tahiti. A two-day search and recovery effort by French boats found no survivors or wreckage.

  The respective consulates of the victims have been notified.

  * * * *

  When Leland came up from his daily dive the day the story broke, Duval and Tipton showed him the paper.

  “Tragic,” Leland commented.

  “Yes,” Duval agreed.

  “Quite,” Tipton seconded.

  The plane had actually landed off the northern coast of Makalea and coasted into a concealed lagoon, where it was dismantled and sunk.

  “Do you suppose someone will send other agents out here to investigate?” Duval wondered.

  Leland shrugged. “If they do, we'll spot them.”

  “Then what?” asked Tipton.

  “Then we'll see. But we're all agreed that we'll protect Makalea, right?”

  “Definitely,” said Duval.

  “Positively,” said Tipton.

  “At any cost?” Leland asked for emphasis.

  “At any cost, yes,” both Duval and Tipton replied in concert.

  The two men helped Leland off with his dive gear and he dried himself with a beach towel. From the dock end of the pier came the sound of a horn. Behind the wheel of a new yellow Jeep, Domi smiled and waved. And running along the pier toward him, her bright young face beaming, came Marama.

  “Beely!” she shouted. “Do you have my oyster?”

  He had brought up an oyster especially for her every day.

  Most days it had a black pearl in it.

  Copyright © 2012 by Clark Howard

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelette: NO FLOWERS

  by Martin Edwards

  Martin Edwards is a prolific anthologist as well as a celebrated mystery writer. In fact, he is listed as the editor on two new anthologies from Britain published this year: Guilty Consciences, a collection of stories from the Crime Writers Association (January 2012) and Best Eaten Cold, a Murder Squad anthology which he co-edited with Barry Forshaw (May 2012). Mr. Edwards's latest novel is The Hanging Wood, an entry in his award-nominated Lake District series (paperback edition 11/11).

  Sunlight burst through the arched windows. For an instant, Kelly was blinded.

  “Unbelievable, isn't it?” Brett asked.

  “It's . . . amazing.”

  Despite the sunlight, the house felt chilly. As she shaded her eyes, she couldn't help shivering.

  “I knew you'd love it!’ He nodded towards the brilliant light. “Those aren't the original leaded windows, but triple glazing in precisely the same style. There was never any stained glass in St. Lucy's, but no expense has been spared, promise.”

  “St. Lucy's?”

  “Name of the old church. The developer changed it to Meadow View. More appropriate, truly rural.”

  “And you want to move in soon?”

  “Today!” Decisiveness was a quality he prized. “The deal is done, contracts were exchanged simultaneously with completion.”

  “Already?”

  “I had to keep my plan secret, in case negotiations broke down.”

  “You're so thoughtful.” She hugged him. “And it really is ours?”

  “Down to the last maple floorboard.” He lowered his voice, and for a few seconds, it was almost as if the house were still a church. “I only hope it goes a little way towards making up for—you know . . . what happened.”

  Churlish and ungrateful to say nothing could make up for what happened. She was thankful that he cared so much. After she lost the baby, he might have abandoned her. But in his way, he had tried his best to offer comfort.

  “I want to put your name on the title deeds,” he said. “We can sort the paperwork once you give the landlord notice to quit your flat.”

  “I don't care about title deeds,” she said. Financial and legal stuff meant nothing to her, she was happy to leave bureaucracy to him. He was the banker, after all. She only worked in a florist's. “But . . . is there a bus route nearby? How will I get to the shop?”

  “I'll buy you a car,” he said, “though really, sweetie, you don't want to stay stuck behind a counter all day.”

  “I like the job,” she said. “You know I love flowers.”

  “Why not design a floral arrangement for the sitting area? This space calls out for a splash of colour, make a contrast with the potted palm.”

  “A customer once told me palms symbolise the victory of the faithful over enemies of the soul.” She gazed at the exposed rafters of the ceiling. “How old is this place?”

  “A hundred and forty years old.”

  “When did it stop being a church?”

  “The last service was held three years ago.” He shook his head. “I bet there were scarcely half a dozen old folk in the congregation. The church authorities realised St. Lucy's was uneconomic. In the end, five parishes were merged, and the redundant churches put on the market. Sound business decision, the figures never added up.”

  “Sad, though.”

  “There comes a time when you have to rationalise,” he said.

  For a moment, she recalled those endless nights crying herself to sleep in her poky flat, when she feared he might rationalise her out of his life. Foolish of her, she should have shown more trust.

  “The conversion was a labour of love,” Brett said. “St. Lucy's was bought by a man called Dixon. He was born round here, but moved to London with his family. I gather he dreamed of coming back to the village. Not that there was much of a village left to come back to.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The school closed, along with the post office, and the pub was knocked down. Most of the cottages on the main street have become second homes or a base for commuting couples. According to the estate agent, hardly anyone has lived in the village more than five years.”

  “Pity.”

  “Progress, sweetie. By all accounts, the whole area cried out for an upgrade; investment was required. Don't fret, there's a retail park ten minutes away by car, they sell everything you could wish for. You won't have to depend on some grubby little village shop for overpriced groceries.”

  She squeezed past the potted palm, which was nearly as tall as Brett, and sank into the clutches of a leather sofa, one of three stationed at right angles to each other. An enormous television screen completed the square.

  “You can't see the wiring,” he said. “It's cleverly concealed, but we have the latest cinema sound system.”

  At a flick of a remote, the screen sprang to life. A rock band, performing in concert. Kelly didn't recognise their contorted faces; flowers were her thing, not music. The sound deafened her, the strobe lights made her want to shut her eyes.

  “The equipment is all to the highest specification,” Brett said, as he silenced the acoustic guitar. “Hot water underfloor heating. Zoned thermostats. And it's environmentally friendly, with a bio-treatment sewage system. Come and see the mezzanine gallery.”

  As she followed him up the stairs, he maintained a running commentary on their surroundings. “Matching maple treads, see? The black strings are made of steel. The safety glass meets the highest standards.”

  As they reached the top, Kelly found herself facing an enormous four-poster bed.

  “Silk curtains as well as sheets,” he said. “Over there is our en-suite bathroom. Mahogany-framed Shoji screens for privacy—not that we need worry about that when we don't have guests to stay.”

  “Guests?”

  “Sure. You know how important it is for me to entertain clients and colleagues. My p
rogress up the ladder depends on keeping them satisfied. You'll enjoy the company, honestly.”

  Kelly said nothing. Brett's best clients were from the Middle East, rich men who traded in oil. They oozed charm, but she didn't care for the way they looked at her.

  “Seriously, you'll be able to experiment.” He paused. “You know, you can try out all the appliances in that wonderful kitchen downstairs.”

  She gazed across the living space to the gleaming breakfast bar and state-of-the-art stainless-steel units at the far end of the house. She and Brett might have boarded a starship, where no germs and grime could survive.

  “This is where the organist used to play,” Brett said, waving towards the matching bedroom cupboards. “But when the place was converted, of course the organ had to go.”

  * * * *

  Later, Kelly took herself out for a walk while Brett made a few calls. He always had calls to make; he liked to say that he made sure his clients always got whatever they wanted. The grounds of Meadow View were smaller than she'd expected, though as Brett said, that wasn't a problem, since neither of them were gardeners. She could plant a few flowers at the back. He'd dig out a border to keep her happy.

  There were no gravestones. Another selling point of the property, Brett explained; it was rare to find an Anglican church in this part of England without an accompanying graveyard. St. Lucy's cemetery once sprawled behind the rectory, he'd heard, but the parish allowed it to become overgrown, a haunt for the village's few indigenous teenagers to misbehave with each other and take drugs at night when no adults were around. The planners insisted it be tidied up as part of the regeneration project. Now the gravestones lined a neat formal garden that linked the lane to the main street. Brett wasn't sure if the remains were left under the redeveloped land or reinterred elsewhere, but the whole garden was monitored by CCTV and the gates were locked as soon as darkness fell. Much more respectful.

  Beyond the meadow, a string of industrial units lined the horizon. Sun glinted on their dark metal roofs. A throaty rumble came from vehicles queuing on the slip road, although the new motorway was invisible. Across the lane from Meadow View stood a large building almost as old as her new home. At first she thought it was another house, and wondered what her new neighbours would be like, but then she saw the front garden had been turned into a car park with spaces marked for half a dozen cars, and spotted a freshly painted board announcing the place as headquarters of Old Rectory Technology Solutions. A sign indicated the way to The Meadow Memorial Garden, but Kelly ignored it. The memory of her lost baby was too raw for her to wish to confront fresh reminders of mortality.

  The lane was narrow, and lacked a pavement. Three times in as many minutes, Kelly pressed herself into the hawthorn hedge as a lorry raced round the bend on the wrong side of the road, taking a short cut to the business park. At least there was no need to worry about traffic noise in the house. Brett said the triple glazing made it soundproof.

  A couple of hundred yards further on, the lane dog-legged and Kelly saw the junction with the main street that ran through the village. A shame the school had closed. A quiet place in the countryside was perfect for bringing up youngsters. She wanted to try again soon for another baby, even though her pregnancy had been an accident. To begin with, she'd dreaded Brett's reaction when she broke the news. He admitted thinking he was still too young for fatherhood, but after that first fraught conversation, he'd never raised the possibility of abortion again. The miscarriage was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, worse even than her mother's death from cancer—Dad had deserted them when she was five, and she'd never heard from him since—but at least she had Brett. He wept when she lost the baby, though he soon seemed to get over it. She rid herself of any impression that his generosity was tinged with relief. Her mother used to be fond of saying that everything happens for the best in the long run, though Mum's own troubled life scarcely proved her point.

  “Are you the new person?” a hoarse voice asked.

  Kelly's thoughts had wandered, and she hadn't seen the old woman leaning on the gate of a dilapidated cottage close to the junction. The woman's white hair was untidy, and her lined face reminded Kelly of parchment. Her misty grey eyes were fixed on some point far away. She wore an ancient black overcoat that seemed too big for her. An unlikely soul mate, but if the village was to become her home, Kelly must make friends, and this old biddy would have forgotten far more about the neighbourhood than incomers would ever know.

  “My partner and I have just bought Meadow View, yes.”

  “Meadow View?” The woman closed her eyes for a moment, as if determined to shut out the here and now. “St. Lucy's, you mean.”

  Kelly hated causing offence. Better make it plain that she was an ignoramus. Most people liked to give help to others who were in need. It made them feel superior.

  “I wasn't even aware there was a saint called Lucy,” she said with a friendly smile. “Sorry, I wonder, can you tell me if . . .”

  “You don't know about St. Lucy?” The woman shook her head. “And we didn't have partners in my day, either. You either lived in wedlock or sin, and that was an end to it.”

  Kelly said hastily, “This is such a lovely part of the world. I feel so lucky to be moving here. Becoming part of the community.”

  The old woman resumed her contemplation of an invisible spot in the distance. “We used to call the church a house of God. Not any longer.”

  “The man who designed our house made a spectacular job of it,” Kelly said. “Would you like to come and visit us, have a look round? We'd be happy to offer a cup of tea and scones.”

  The woman coughed. “You don't understand.”

  Kelly felt a nip of wind on her bare cheeks. “Well, I mustn't keep you. But it was nice to say hello. I'm called Kelly, by the way. Sorry, I don't know who you are?”

  “My name is Honoria,” the woman said.

  “Lovely.” Kelly stretched out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Honoria. And I look forward to seeing you again. Don't forget to look in next time you're passing, the tea and scones are a standing invitation.”

  The woman stepped back from the gate and ignored Kelly's hand. “Do not sleep in that house tonight.”

  Kelly stared. “Sorry?”

  The woman limped back up the path towards her front door. The garden was a mess of nettles and ground elder, and the house cried out for a lick of paint. One of the ground-floor windows was cracked.

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Kelly hurried back in the direction of Meadow View.

  * * * *

  “If you insist,” Brett said.

  “It's not a matter of insisting,” Kelly said. “Only, I didn't expect any of this. I have stuff to do back home.”

  “This is your home now.”

  “Yes, I mean the flat.” She stroked his hand. “Look, it's only for one night. If you run me back, we can stay over. . . .”

  He sighed heavily, and she knew she had persuaded him. What she didn't know was why a stray remark from a stupid old woman had bothered her so that she didn't want to spend tonight in their new dream house. Honoria must be jealous of them. Two young people with their lives ahead of them, everything to look forward to. The old cow would be reduced to a meagre state pension, surrounded by strangers in a village that had changed beyond all recognition. No wonder she was bitter, and prepared to spoil the innocent pleasure of others.

  But spoil it she had. Kelly was determined not to stay here tonight. Of course, she couldn't explain to Brett. He would only laugh and say she was a gullible fool. It might make him wonder again what a tall, handsome Rhodes scholar from Sydney had in common with a shy English girl who worked in a florist's shop. Things would be different in the bright light of morning. Honoria hadn't warned her against sleeping here in future, she reasoned. Nor would the woman have a second chance to make a nuisance of herself. From now on, Kelly meant to give her a wide berth.

  When they were in the car, she asked, “W
ho was St. Lucy, then?”

  “I looked her up,” Brett said, as he zigzagged past smaller vehicles into the fast lane of the motorway. He always relished parading his knowledge. They had first met twelve months ago, in a posh London bar, when she was on a night out with a friend from school. Brett captained the winning team in a quiz, and he bought the girls champagne to celebrate his success. He was six feet seven, with bleached blond hair and the bluest eyes Kelly had ever seen. That night, he and Kelly made love for the first time. They had been together ever since. “I like to do my homework. Lucy is patron saint of the blind.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She was a Christian martyr who consecrated her virginity to the Lord.” He sniggered. “When her marriage to a pagan bridegroom was arranged, she turned the fellow down. He took his revenge by denouncing her to the magistrate. She was ordered to burn a sacrifice, and when she refused, her sentence was to work as a prostitute.”

  “Poor wretch!”

  “Yes.” He considered her, blue eyes gleaming. “But the guards found they could not move her, even when she was hitched to a team of oxen. In their anger, they gouged out her eyes with a fork.”

  She put her hand to her mouth, too shocked to speak.

  “You did ask,” he said. “Maybe she should have been more cooperative. Anyway, it's good to know the history of your own home. If we don't understand the past, how can we prepare for the future?”

  For a few miles, Kelly did not say another word. Something puzzled her. When they were a couple of streets away from the flat, she asked, “How come you managed to buy the house so quickly? I heard on the news that the property market is depressed.”

  “This is a buyer's market,” he said. “I put in a basement offer, non-negotiable, with a twenty-four hour deadline. The woman who was selling had to make her mind up on the spot. Take it or leave it, yes or no. She said yes, and that was that.”

  “I thought you said the house was converted by a man called Dixon.”

  “Yeah, but my vendor was a woman called Hitchmough, all right?”