Black Cat Weekly #107 E-Book

Norman Spinrad

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 408

Beschreibung

Our 107th issue has everything you could possibly want: police detectives, spacemen, cats, a man fighting an inner battle against cancer, boy detectives, an abandonned mill chimney, murder in space…. I could go on and on, but that would take all the fun out of it for you!

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

UP IN SMOKE, by Gregory Meece

POINT TAKEN, by Hal Charles

METHOD FOR MURDER, by Michael Mallory

THE BLUE LINE, by Hal Meredith

THE MYSTERY HUNTERS AT THE HAUNTED LODGE, by Capwell Wyckoff

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CARCINOMA ANGELS, by Norman Spinrad

NO HEAVEN WILL NOT EVER HEAVEN BE…, by A.R. Morlan

EARTH TRANSIT, by Charles L. Fontenay

DEADLINE, by Walter L. Kleine

ROCKABYE, GRADY, by David Mason

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

blackcatweekly.com

*

“Up In Smoke” is copyright © 2023 by Gregory Meece and appears here for the first time.

“Point Taken” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“Method for Murder” is copyright © 2017 by Michael Mallory. Originally published in Trigger Warning: Short Fiction #8. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Blue Line,” by Hal Meredith, originally appeared anonymously in Answers, March 13, 1909.

The Mystery Hunters at the Haunted Lodge, by Capwell Wyckoff, originally appeared in 1934.

“No Heaven Will Not Ever Heaven Be…,” by A.R. Morlan, was originally published in Twists of the Tale, edited by Ellen Datlow, Dell, 1994. Copyright © 1994, 2013 by A. R. Morlan. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Carcinoma Angels” is copyright © 1967 by Norman Spinrad. Originally published in Dangerous Visions, edited by Harlan Ellison. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Earth Transit,” by Charles L. Fontenay, was originally published in Infinity, September 1957.

“Deadline,” by Walter L. Kleine, was originally published in Infinity, September 1957.

“Rockabye, Grady,” by David Mason, was originally published in Infinity, July 1957.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 107th issue has everything you could possibly want: police detectives, spacemen, cats, boy detectives, a man (literally) fighting cancer, an abandoned mill chimney, murder in space…. I could go on and on, but that would take all the fun out of it for you!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Up In Smoke,” by Gregory Meece [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Point Taken” by Hal Charles [short story]

“Method for Murder,” by Michael Mallory [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Blue Line,” by Hal Meredith [short story]

The Mystery Hunters at the Haunted Lodge, by Capwell Wyckoff [novel]

“Earth Transit,” by Charles L. Fontenay [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Carcinoma Angels,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]

“No Heaven Will Not Ever Heaven Be…,” by A.R. Morlan [short story]

“Earth Transit,” by Charles L. Fontenay [short story]

“Deadline,” by Walter L. Kleine [short story]

“Rockabye, Grady,” by David Mason [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

UP IN SMOKE,by Gregory Meece

Benny always took the same route home. Creekside Junior High was only a few blocks from his house, if you consider the last “block” to be a shortcut by the old paper mill property. What is left of it, that is—a solitary smokestack that coughed out its final, smelly cloud long before Benny’s school, Benny’s home, or for that matter, Benny himself, existed.

The chimney’s four tapered sides of running bond brickwork ascend above the millrace, casting a single shadow, like a sundial gnomon, on the openness below. Its steady and predictable presence was a comfort to Benny on his familiar route in the slumbering town of Creekside. Today, however, would be quite different.

By habit, Benny craned his neck to take in the height of the stack. But instead of his eyes making the return trip back down, something fixed his gaze at its apex. A pair of brown loafers. They appeared to be attached to a pair of ankles.

* * * *

The paper mill’s main buildings disappeared from the Creekside community long ago. Like the milk truck’s early morning runs, TV antennas, and rotary phones, the old mill had become something to reminisce about, but its usefulness gradually faded away.

Changes were coming to the site. It was inevitable. But just like when the town’s drive-in theatre was torn down, and when the parking meters on Main Street stopped accepting real money, many of Creekside’s townspeople were nervous about what the looming changes might be. “Some of our folks want to go back to horses and buggies,” was Benny’s dad’s way of saying that the townspeople prefer to live in the past. Like folks in many small towns, they simply were comfortable with what was familiar to them. Keeping things as they are may be comforting, even if that’s not always a good thing.

The letters spelling “CREEKSIDE” painted down the length of the smokestack were too faded for visitors to read. But the “townies,” as the residents affectionately referred to themselves, knew that the name of their community was still there. Like an ancient obelisk, the architectural landmark stood for something, although it might be hard to remember exactly what it was.

The monument’s perfect symmetry was broken by the soot-coated firebox near its foundation. A narrow, iron ladder ran up the back side to the crown where it was anchored to an ornamental soldier course of bricks. These bricks were noticeably starting to crumble, leaving an uneven top reminiscent of the crenelated turrets of medieval castles. Weathering may have caused it to show its age, but the smokestack proudly stood erect—a sentry guarding the town’s identity.

While the smokestack was an icon to some, it was an unacceptable eyesore to other community members. Over time, passions became inflamed, and neither side appeared to be inclined toward civil discourse on the matter. They drew their battle lines with fervor at boisterous town planning meetings. On one side, the smokestack was the last symbol tethering the present to fondly remembered days gone by. On the other side, the stack was Creekside’s single appalling blemish, marring an otherwise idyllic town—blocking progress and profit for some. The monster must be destroyed!

“We could turn that land into a fine park for the kids,” said the town manager, at the planning commission meeting. Mark Everly spread his arms apart, as if to illustrate the scope of his vision. “I see swing sets, picnic tables, barbeque pits. Maybe even one of those climbing things. But it remains a hazard as long as that monstrosity threatens to topple. I don’t know how many times we had to chase away kids who were climbing on that ladder. And those loose bricks at the top look like they could fall at any moment. That tower’s going to get someone killed.”

Jeff Sholls, one of the big developers from the city, had a different reason for hoping the smokestack would disappear. “What we need in Creekside is more low-rent housing for young city families who want to relocate to the suburbs,” he told the planning commission. “If the town council will give me the go-ahead, I’ll rip down that thing on my own dime. And I’ll be doing you all a favor in the process.”

When Gerald Smith, representing the Chamber of Commerce, expressed his desire to lure tenants to a new shopping center on the property, several attendees immediately squawked. The loudest being Isabelle Crompfit, leader of a group of townsfolk calling itself “S.O.S.”—an appropriate acronym for their “Save Our Smokestack” crusade.

“Greed! Greed! Greed!” shouted Mrs. Crompfit. Saying it three times seemed to be the magic number for getting everyone’s attention. “All you ever see is dollars! We S.O.S. members see our heritage being assassinated. It’s death by many cuts. First, the highway bowled through town, just so it could draw people to the new mall off the interstate. Next thing we knew, our beloved Main Street shops were leaving, one by one. I can only imagine what low-rent housing will do to our property values. If the bricks are loose at the top of the smokestack, then fix them for god’s sake! Don’t rip the thing down just to line certain folks’ pockets. And we already have a perfectly good park. It just needs some TLC.”

“TLC costs money,” said Mark Everly. “And the town doesn’t have it. Besides, Crompfit, you complain about everything new. You were against putting up lights on the high school’s football field. You said it might keep you awake at night, even though your house is on the other side of town. You wouldn’t even let us replace the clock on Main Street. It hasn’t shown the correct time for fifteen years.”

“Look,” said Jeff Sholls. “We can talk and talk, but I have a right to build what I want once my purchase of the property goes through. The land is already zoned for business and residential use since the original mill owners housed some of their workers on the parcel. I’ve checked with my attorney. We’ll sue if you try to stand in our way.”

“We’ll sue you right back!” shouted members of the S.O.S.

As tempers flared and the heat in the room rose hotter than the air outside town hall, one man sat quietly in the back of the room, taking notes, and rubbing his brow as if trying to figure something out. Douglas McKinney, a history teacher at Creekside Junior High, was trying to come up with a solution to end the town’s clash before verbal hostilities devolved into something even worse.

* * * *

Chuck Breerly, Creekside’s local sheriff, interviewed Benny, the boy who first discovered the body at the top of the chimney stack. “I’m not going to be charged with trespassing or anything?” the youngster asked nervously. “I always try to stick to the path that runs around the old mill.”

Sheriff Breerly assured Benny that he was in no trouble, and, in fact, he should be commended for reporting what he saw right away. “You can go home now, Benny,” he said. “Your role in this investigation is limited to being the unfortunate fellow who discovered that body wedged in the opening of the smokestack.”

When Benny opened the Sheriff’s door to leave, a man holding a pen hovering over a notepad immediately stepped inside the office. “Do we know the cause of death, sheriff?” asked the local reporter, poised to jot down the sheriff’s response.

“It’s just preliminary, you understand. But it appears to be smoke inhalation,” replied Sheriff Breerly.

The reporter started to put his pen to paper but stopped, as if a follow-up question were already forming in his mind. “You mean, like smoke from a chimney—like from a smokestack?”

“That’s all I can tell you for now,” said the sheriff. “I have a lot of questions of my own. Like why was the victim at the top of the smokestack in the first place? What caused the smoke? Was it an accident? Suicide? Or something else?”

“You’re not thinking it was murder. Are you?” asked the reporter. “In Creekside? That would be a first.”

“I called in branch detective Lieutenant Bill Metz from regional headquarters. If anyone can get to the bottom or, in this case, the top of this mystery, it’s Metz.”

* * * *

Kris Metz stared across the kitchen table. With a slight grin, but an accusatory tone, she asked her husband, “Do you have to do that here?” At first, he did not look up from the array of brightly colored fishing lures he was sorting, each according to its size, type, and function. Each lure will get its own special bin in his tackle box. It was this need to analyze details, and set them in their proper order, that served Bill Metz well in his many years as a detective. When all the pieces fit in the right places, his job is done.

Looking up from his tackle, he replied, “The light’s good in here. I need to keep my spinners separate from my crankbaits and my spoons from my jigs. Otherwise, I have a tangled mess when old Mr. Lunker swims by.”

“Really? Worms on the table? Where we eat? Honestly, if this is what your retirement is going to be like, we’re going to have to have a serious discussion about decorum in my kitchen.”

“First of all, they’re rubber worms. Second, what happened to it being our kitchen, my darling?” It was the “my darling” part that let husband and wife tell the difference between arguing and good-natured ribbing. The discussion over synthetic invertebrates fell into the latter category.

Before she could respond, a loud brrrrringgg interrupted the discussion. Mrs. Metz picked up the receiver from the wall phone. Recognizing the voice on the other end, she handed the receiver to her husband. “It’s Sheriff Breerly,” she said. “Maybe he wants to discuss the invitation list for your retirement party.” Mrs. Metz could not wait for Bill’s long career in law enforcement to end so he could stay at home with her. And be safe.

From her husband’s typically monosyllabic responses into the receiver—“Huh? When? Okay.”—she had no idea whether the chief detective and the sheriff were discussing a party or something else. It turned out to be something else.

* * * *

Inside the police station Sheriff Breerly greeted his soon-to-be former colleague with a big handshake. “Good to see you, Bill. Haven’t had to deal with anything like this since I’ve been sheriff. Thought that maybe you’d have more insight into something of this nature.”

“Something like a possible murder? What do we know?”

“Name: Douglas McKinney. Occupation: Teaches history over at the junior high. Age: 26. Married. No children.”

“Any connection to the smokehouse blow-up?”

“Not that we know of, other than what his wife mentioned. Mrs. McKinney told me her husband’s students were working on a history project that included research into the old mill. He attended the town planning meetings where it was discussed, but no record in the minutes of him speaking.”

“Suicide ruled out?”

“Let’s just say the typical depressed person doesn’t climb to the top of a smokestack in order to wedge himself head-down inside the flue liner. Why not just jump off if you want to end things quickly?”

“Suspects?”

“Just the very pleasant ladies and gentlemen who seem ready to kill each other—or maybe someone else. That old tower of brick is driving me crazy.”

“I’ll interview them. Cause of death?”

“That’s what’s so weird. Smoke inhalation. In a chimney that quit smoking long before anyone in this town did.” Sheriff Breerly could not hold back a small grin at his attempt at wit.

Detective Metz would have preferred to be on the lake fishing. Instead, he began a fishing expedition of a different sort. He figured he would begin by interviewing those who were present at the scene of the crime when McKinney died. He considered “persons of interest” to be those who were so worked up over the smokestack issue that they might blow their own stacks.

* * * *

Mark Everly walked into the interviewing room, displaying a wide grin of familiarity as he extended his hand to Detective Metz. “Bill, you and I have known each other, how long’s it been? You were our troop’s scoutmaster. Remember when you caught us boys swimming across the lake to the girls’ camp—”

“Mark, I wish I had time to reminisce, but I am concerned about something I read in the minutes of a recent planning meeting. Let’s see—got it right here.” The detective reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a folded page from the meeting’s official minutes. “This out-of-town developer. Sholls, I think. Threatens to sue the town. You respond as town manager, let’s see…” Metz peeled off his glasses and held the paper close to his face. “You say, ‘That tower’s gonna get someone killed.’”

“It’s a danger, Bill. Someone is gonna fall off that rickety ladder. Or those loose bricks will land on some guy’s head, and…”

While pointing to the paper in his hands, the detective interrupted, “This fellow, Douglas McKinney. People talk about your wife and him. How is Melissa? Still teaching at the junior high school?”

“She’s fine. But wait a minute. That business about her having some kind of ‘non-academic’ relationship with McKinney is just bunk. She’s old enough to be his mother, for god’s sake.”

“Don’t forget that I know you, Mark. I recall you once telling me if you ever discovered that Melissa might leave you for another man then someone was going to get hurt? I think, maybe, you could have been talking about the deceased?”

“It was Melissa who I didn’t want to see hurt. McKinney’s married too! There’s a lot of people in this town who would love to see the town manager brought low. I will not be made a fool of.”

“Folks tell me it was just something a school kid made up to get back at the teacher for a low grade.”

“Maybe so, but…”

“You were at the paper mill that day?”

“Look Bill, we’re friends. You can count on me not to lie to you. Here’s the extent of my involvement in this whole stupid thing. When I heard that old Crompfit lady was heading out to the smokestack to hang some giant banner up where the whole town could see it, I drove out there. I only wanted to show her the town’s code where it says that any advertisement larger than ten square feet needs a variance from the council first. As town manager, my intention was only to slow things down. This situation was heated enough already. When I got there, I saw Doug McKinney climbing to the top of the stack’s ladder. I figured maybe Crompfit got him to do the banner hanging for her. She could never get her fat rear end up that ladder. Then those rumors about him and Melissa got into my head, and I got all fired up again. I warned him to stay away from Melissa, but he just kept climbing like he couldn’t hear me. Now I was really ticked off, so I got on the ladder and went after him. But both of us on that ladder was too much, and it started to pull away from the stack. I was low enough to jump off, but McKinney was already at the top. I cringed, waiting to hear a thud on the ground. Strangely, there was no sound. So, I figured that he was stranded up there, on top of the stack, ‘Good. Leave him stuck up there with no ladder,’ I said to myself. Serves him right. When he gets discovered, who’ll be the laughingstock of the town then? And that’s the truth. Scout’s honor.” As he said this, Mark Everly extended his right arm and gave the three-finger scout salute.

* * * *

Mrs. Isabelle Crompfit was a sight as she bore her impressive dimensions into the tiny room and sat on a folding chair. Detective Metz wondered if the department was properly insured for a potential collapse of both the chair and its companion.

“Mrs. Crompfit, did you know the decedent?”

“Never heard of him until this happened.”

“You admit to being on the scene where he died.”

“Only to get my excuse for a husband to hang that banner for us.”

“Us?”

“My S.O.S. group. We are going to make things mighty hot for those greedy villains who want to rape our town of its heritage.”

“What did your group’s banner have written on it?”

“The printshop guy said to make it out of vinyl instead of paper so it would last. Vinyl costs a lot more, of course, but I imagine the wind blows mighty fierce that high up. A paper banner would have been shredded in no time. We had to pay extra to get a banner long enough to print, ‘SAVE OUR SMOKESTACK: SAVE OUR COMMUNITY.’ But we figured ‘Go big or not at all.’”

“But you never put up the banner?”

“As I said, I dragged Wilbur along to climb up the ladder. He’s half my size, you know. I wasn’t sure that old ladder would hold. Well, never mind about that. Anyway, first he whines that he’s afraid of heights. Then he sees the ladder’s lying there, and he gets all relieved and says, ‘Now I can’t go up.’ Then came the groan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t you know, the little fellow jumps back about six feet. Says he heard the stack groaning. Just like in one of those horror flicks on TV. He took off like a scared rabbit. I chased him to the car. It’s a wonder we didn’t get pulled over for speeding. I must have dropped the banner before we left.”

* * * *

Gerald Smith handed detective Metz a business card along with a ceramic coffee mug with the Chamber of Commerce’s logo and the catchphrase “Creekside—A great place to do business” imprinted on it. “Here’s a little gift from the chamber. I hear you’re retiring.”

“Mr. Smith, I understand you planned to build a shopping center on the old paper mill property?”

“The town isn’t getting any revenue from an ancient chimney stack. That’s for sure. My plan is to lure businesses. Not to mention tax dollars for the town, and jobs. Now, tell me, Mr. Metz, is there a crime in that?”

“There is with murder. I understand you had a beef with the deceased, Mr. McKinney?”

“My son is in his history class. Or, should I say, he was until I pulled him out. Anyway, this McKinney fellow was having the kids do research on the paper mill, filling their head with notions about historic registers and such. We don’t pay our taxes to support an educational system that’s anti-progress, anti-business. Look, the chamber’s board just wanted me to have a word with him. That’s all.”

“His wife tells me you paid a visit to their home.”

“Just to talk. But the wife told me McKinney had gone over to visit the smokestack. Can you believe it? Seems like he was fixated on the thing.”

“But you didn’t go to the mill first. You went to the school district office to speak with the superintendent.”

“Aren’t you a good snooper. Guess that’s what you get paid for. Yes. Since you undoubtedly talked to Dr. Williams already, you know that I tried to get McKinney relieved of his teaching duties. Or, at least, assigned to a school outside Creekside. That nut was filling the kids’ heads with anti-commerce propaganda.”

“You mean historic preservation?”

“Call it what you want. If liberals like McKinney had their way, we’d still be in the stone age. A pile of rocks isn’t going to bring in the cash. I simply drove out to the paper mill to explain that to him. I looked around for a good ten minutes, but there was no sign of him.”

* * * *

Mr. Sholls sauntered into the room with a lit cigar clenched in the corner of his teeth. He straddled the chair opposite the detective and puffed a breath of smoke in his general direction.

“Do you mind putting that out? No-smoking rules.”

“I wish you told me that before I lit it.” The developer slowly snubbed out his cigar in the detective’s new Chamber of Commerce coffee mug that the previous interviewee had left on the detective’s desk as a gift.

“Mr. Sholls, you told your secretary you were going to the paper mill site the day of the unfortunate event. May I ask why?”

“You may, and I’ve got a good answer. Everyone knew that Crompfit lady was heading over there to hang her banner. Talk about prejudicing the council before they even heard the issues concerning my permit. I plan to knock down that eyesore. Attractive nuisance. That’s what they call it. The kids already climb on the ladder. It’s only a matter of time before you start seeing graffiti sprayed up and down.”

“Back to my question, please.”

“Okay, so I thought I would go over to stop Crompfit and that wimpy husband of hers.”

“By any means necessary.”

“Let’s just say, I’ve had enough of her and that S.O.S. group.”

“Did you stop her?”

“Didn’t have to. When I got there the banner was lying on the ground. No sign of Mr. and Mrs. Wimp. I figured I’d get rid of the banner. Oh, and before you ask, I never heard of Douglas McKinney before. Someone told me he was at the last planning meeting, and that’s all I know. When I left the mill site, everything was quiet.”

* * * *

Kris Metz watched her husband pick up where he left off with an arsenal of angling tackle at the kitchen table. “So, what was the outcome of the case? Hopefully your last.”

“What do you mean by outcome?”

“You know what I mean. Was it murder? And, if it was, not to overuse the cliche, but ‘Whodunnit?’”

“Was it murder? Sort of. Doubt the DA can file murder charges, though. Although, you can be sure there were opportunities and plenty of motives to be found among the ‘persons of interest.’ Whodunnit? I guess you could say it was the town.”

Mrs. Metz waited patiently for some measure of elaboration to follow. After a respectful half minute, she conceded by adding a follow-up question. “Are you getting senile?”

Putting aside his treble hooks and sinkers, Lieutenant Metz pushed the glasses back on his nose, folded his hands, and took a deep breath. “The whole town is guilty. Of what? Let’s start with meanness. How about greed? Incivility. Bullying.

“The Town Manager was willing to run his wife’s teaching colleague up a death ladder over town gossip. He left him there. And the man died. To think I once recommended Mark for Eagle Scout.

“Mrs. Crompfit, who might protest sunshine if it were on the town’s planning committee agenda, shames her husband to climb a ladder that would have either given him a coronary from fright or else a plummet to earth that would have stung even more than his wife’s sharp tongue.

“A fine representative of our chamber of commerce attempts to get a well-liked and respected teacher to lose his job. And for what? For teaching the value of history and relating it to current affairs. Seems to me, that’s what good history teachers should be doing.

“A developer decides he has the right to stop a community group from exercising their freedom of speech by any means necessary.

“The one person who gets killed was trying to be a peace maker. There’s irony for you. Douglas McKinney’s wife told me that he went to the old mill to collect a few of the dislodged bricks at the top of the smokestack. His plan was to engrave them with names of the most virulent members on both sides of the demolition/preservation issue. By personalizing the bricks, he hoped to demonstrate how the town could remove, but recycle, the smokestack. Mark could get his park, with pathways made from the salvaged brick. Local businesses could support the town, advertise their companies, and demonstrate their goodwill by purchasing bricks with their businesses’ names on them. McKinney’s ‘buy-a-brick’ campaign, with townspeople purchasing their own engraved bricks, would help fund amenities, like benches and swings. Jeff Sholls could be paid to develop the park, with maybe some affordable housing constructed on the acreage as part of the bargain. And the chamber of commerce knows that this would be just the kind of project that will make other businesses want to come to a town like Creekside, where people work together to support their community.”

“Sounds like a wonderful compromise. Everyone gets something but no one gets everything. And the paper mill’s legacy is honored in a useful, non-hazardous way. But how, exactly, did Mr. McKinney die?”

“During his altercation with Jeff Sholls, the ladder collapsed. McKinney was forced to grab on to the chimney’s crown. Because the bricks were loose and crumbling, he failed to gain purchase. His momentum likely carried him headfirst into the chimney. He got wedged in the steel flue. Even the EMTs had trouble pulling the body out of the stack. Fighting gravity, all the history teacher could do was cry for help. But the long tunnel muffled his cries. Down below it sounded like groaning to Mr. Crompfit.”

“So, if falling into the stack didn’t kill him, what did?”

“That’s what puzzled me. It was when Jeff Sholls stubbed out his cigar in that Chamber of Commerce coffee cup that the pieces started falling in place. That’s what gave me the idea of asking him how he got rid of Mrs. Cromfit’s banner. The smokestack itself may have been the murder weapon. But the ‘smoking gun,’ so to speak, was the fire below. When Sholls decided to dispose of the S.O.S. banner, he took out his cigar lighter and set it ablaze. The most convenient location for burning materials, like an oversized ashtray, was the firebox opening at the base of the smokestack. But when vinyl catches flame it emits toxic hydrogen chloride and carbon monoxide fumes. Deadly fumes quickly rose to the top of stack, displacing any oxygen that was inside. And, sadly, that was the end for one well-meaning history teacher.”

Mrs. Metz shook her head in disgust, provoked that such a thing could happen to a good person. “So, everyone played a part in Mr. McKinney’s death, but nobody is guilty of anything? That’s awful.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say they got off completely,” said her husband. “Sheriff Breerly got the idea from the that young boy, Benny—the one who first came upon the crime scene.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Sheriff charged them all with trespassing.”

Mr. and Mrs. Metz resumed their time together in silence. One was wishing her husband’s retirement would start today instead of next month. The other regained his focus on the puzzle before him. Should crankbaits be grouped in the tackle box by color, by size, or how deep they dive? Each lure fitting logically into its own place.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A lifelong educator, Gregory Meece served the last 20 years of his career as head of Delaware’s largest public school. He graduated from the University of Delaware, where he earned degrees in English, communications, and educational leadership. Upon his recent retirement, Greg returned to his love of creative writing. His first short mystery, “Birds of a Feather” appeared in Malice Domestic’s 2023 Anthology: Mystery Most Traditional. Woodcarving is Greg’s other creative outlet. He and Rosemary, also an educator, live on a former Christmas tree farm in Landenberg, Pennsylvania.

POINT TAKEN,by Hal Charles

Detective Mandi Rhodes hated to leave the wild celebration following the nail-biting finish of Simmons College’s first conference championship game. Heavy underdogs to perennial powerhouse Hastings, the Seahawks had touched off delirium when back-up kicker, Kelly Long, booted a field goal as time expired.

Instead of toasting the victors, Mandi was headed to the office of the Athletic Director, Abe Belton. Entering the large office filled with trophy cases and team pictures, Mandi was greeted by an obviously upset AD. “Coach,” she said to the heavyset man she had known since her days as captain of the Seahawks’ volleyball team, “what’s the problem?”

Belton shook his head. “We’ve had a theft. Somebody took the receipts from tonight’s game. I put them in the safe just after halftime, then returned to the stadium for the second half. After the game ended, I came back to the office, and the money was gone.”

“Was the office locked?”

“I was so excited to get back to the game that I can’t say for sure.”

“Who knows the combination of the safe besides you?”

The AD thought for a second. “Ruth Henson, my administrative assistant, of course. And my Assistant AD, Rob Adams.”

“Anyone else?” said Mandi.

“I believe Ruth gave the combination to Donny Cummings, our student worker.”

“How much money was taken?”

“I was planning to count the receipts tonight,” said Belton, “but I can tell you it was a lot.”

Mandi left Bolton wringing his hands and returned to the stadium. On the way across campus, she called Ruth Henson at the number the AD had provided. Mandi immediately eliminated the administrative assistant, who was currently visiting her sister in another city.

Mandi found Donny Cummings celebrating with a group of fraternity brothers in the stadium parking lot. “Mr. Cummings,” she said, flashing her badge as she approached, “could I speak with you?”

Setting a bottle of beer on a nearby folding table, the startled young man blurted out, “Officer, we’re all of age here, and the college designated this area for tailgating.”

“It’s Detective,” said Mandi, “and I’m not here to hassle anybody for celebrating the big win. I just need to know what you were doing during the second half of the game.”

Cummings looked at his frat brothers. “In the stands watching the Hawks take down the Bulldogs. What a game!”

His companions confirmed the claim with a chorus of “for sures” and “right ons,” punctuated by multiple high fives.

When Mandi caught up with Rob Adams, the Assistant AD was closing the concession area beneath the stadium. He was wearing a ketchup and mustard-smeared apron over his polo shirt and jeans. “Mr. Adams,” she said as the tall young man snapped a padlock on the door, “I’m Detective Mandi Rhodes, and I need to speak with you.”

“Didn’t you used to play volleyball for Simmons?” said Adams.

“I did, but that’s not why I’m here,” said Mandi, looking him in the eye. “There’s been a theft at the AD’s office, and I need to know where you’ve been tonight.”

Adams looked down at his apron. “Isn’t that obvious? I opened concessions an hour before the game started and closed it ten minutes ago. An Assistant AD at a small school wears lots of hats…and aprons.”

Feeling more than a bit frustrated, Mandi returned to Belton’s office. “Coach,” she said, “are you sure nobody else knows the safe’s combination?”

The AD said, “Absolutely.”

“Well, there’s not much more we can do tonight,” said Mandi, heading for the door. “I’ll get the techs out here in the morning.” She smiled. “At least we can celebrate the biggest win in Seahawks history. A field goal in the final seconds. Wow!”

“I guess it pays to have an All-American kicker. He sure earned his accolades tonight.”

Mandi turned to face Belton. “Coach, I’m afraid you’ve earned a trip downtown.”

SOLUTION

When Belton gave credit for the winning field goal to the Seahawks’ All-American kicker, Mandi realized the AD hadn’t seen the game’s final moment or he would have known that Karl Michaels had sprained his ankle earlier in the game and was replaced by his backup for the kick. Confronted, Belton admitted that he had taken the money to cover some bad investments.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

METHOD FOR MURDER,by Michael Mallory

“Jesus, Dev, you startled me,” my wife, Becca, said. “Why are you still here? And why in hell are you—”

She never got to finish the last question. I was too quick in bringing the claw hammer down on her head.

My wife slid out of the chair and flopped onto the floor like she had been deboned. I raised the hammer again and tenderized her temple, which made her eyes bulge slightly.

Maybe Becca’s unfinished question had been prompted by seeing the hammer raised over her head, poised to strike. Or maybe it had sprung from the fact that, except for a pair of latex gloves, I was completely naked.

I guess I’ll never know. Darn.

The reason I was completely naked a little after eleven in the morning would have been easy to answer. I had done an episode of Forensic Files on television one time in which a man committed a murder while wearing a yellow rain slicker, which he then washed down, only to be tripped up when drops of blood were discovered on the band of his wristwatch.

I decided to remove any possibility of missed blood spatter. Not only had I removed my watch, I removed everything else, top to bottom. If there was any blood on me, a quick shower would remove it. I had prepared for this death scene meticulously. There are perks to working through the Method, even if other lesser actors consider you a self-indulgent pain in the ass. What do they know? Let them murder someone without the preparation and see how far they get. Still, it’s the actual performance that matters, and my portrayal of a devoted husband who had no idea that his beautiful, if increasingly distant, wife was screwing around on him had been one of my best.

The curtain had just come down on that performance.

Like a hammer.

I checked Becca’s pulse to make sure she was dead and not simply unconscious. It turned out she was playing her part admirably, particularly for someone not trained in the Method.

I could hear the television blaring in the other room. I had turned the volume up so as to cover any noise that Becca might have made while I killed her. The voice of a local newscaster droned on about an overnight structure fire somewhere, like that was the biggest problem in Los Angeles. Not homelessness, not traffic, not the lack of affordable housing. I left the television on, even though I had already tuned out the audio. I had no interest in the news. How could I? Officially, I was not even here.

Officially, I was out watching a movie, because the SAG Awards were coming up and I wanted to see everything so I could vote responsibly. I even had proof that I was out watching a movie, thanks to a very enterprising independent theater owner who offered post-dated ticket stubs as alibis, no questions asked, for a price. I’d heard about the guy and his services from another actor some time back. Usually this sideline was offered to facilitate trysts, but no questions asked meant no questions asked, so when I went down to the theater two days ago, the guy had no idea he was selling me a ticket to kill.

The blood from Becca’s head wounds was now seeping onto the floor. Some of it was spreading to her clothing, which she would have hated. Becca was very particular about her wardrobe. It’s too bad she wasn’t naked too.

Then again, had she not been so naked in that sex video I was not supposed to find, the one that co-starred our next-door neighbor Steve Barrier, she might still be alive.

I carried the hammer into the kitchen and ran hot water and bleach over it. That would not completely eradicate all traces of blood, hair, and tissue, but that did not matter. The goal was to make it look like someone had tried to completely eradicate them. Steve Barrier, to be precise, since it was his hammer.

Going into the bathroom, I checked myself out in the mirror and saw no visible blood spatter, but I took a shower anyway. Afterward, having dressed again, I used a paper towel to pick up the hammer and then went over to Steve’s house. I knew he’d be gone because it was Friday morning. He went grocery shopping every Friday morning, without variance. For as long as I’ve known him he’s taught night classes, which left his days free—not unlike me, unless I’m on set—and each day had its own routine. One could set their clock by Steve’s actions.

Suddenly I wondered what day of the week had been earmarked for Steve and Becca’s fuckaramas. Saturday was my guess, since I was part of an acting workshop that met in Hollywood on Saturday afternoons, and she was frequently in a better mood when I got home.I let myself into Steve’s house with the key he had given me some months back, before he broke his routine to go out of town for a funeral, so I could feed, water, and walk Trevor, his golden retriever.

I liked Trevor.

I used to like Steve.

Judging from Trevor’s tail action, he was happy to see me again. After giving the dog a few head-scritches, I made my way to Steve’s garage and replaced the hammer on the hook from which I had taken it earlier.

It was now 11:36 (yes, I had put my non-bloody watch back on after my clothes). Steve would be returning from the store before long.

Just before I left his house, I shoved the latex gloves in my pocket, jammed on the thrift-store bucket hat I’d bought specifically for this morning, and put on a pair of sunglasses. Keeping my head down and my hands in my pockets, I adopted a hunched stance and a long-striding lope for the three-block hike to the place I had parked my car earlier this morning. A lot of people don’t realize how important affecting a specific walk is in creating an overall performance. Oh, no, officer, it wasn’t Devin Maguire that I saw, I imagined another neighbor telling the police. I know the way Dev walks, and there’s no way that was him.

Once I arrived back at my car, I got in and drove around for a while, exploring some unfamiliar areas of Los Angeles, before stopping for lunch at an Italian restaurant on York Boulevard that I had never before patronized. After eating, I walked around the neighborhood looking for a trash can in which to ditch the gloves, hat, and sunglasses.

At the proper time, meaning when the movie I was supposed to be watching let out, I headed home to “discover” the murder of my wife.

It was about two-thirty when I got there, and I made a point of running up and down the stairs of my house several times before putting in the 911 call, so I would sound breathless and panicked from the shock.

By the time the first wave of police arrived, my eyes were red from crying. It was genuine too. I don’t employ cheap actor tricks like palming onions. But I knew that cops were trained to automatically suspect the spouse in any murder case, so the performance had to be flawless.

I was sitting in the kitchen, staring at my feet, when the homicide detectives arrived.

After examining Becca’s body, they came to me and asked for my story. I underplayed the scene, making sure to dwell on the fact that I couldn’t understand what had happened to Becca.

One of the detectives, a large, florid-faced man named Michelson, said, “Well, we won’t know precisely until the ME examines her, but blunt-force trauma to the head looks like the cause. Based on the size and shape of the wounds, I’d say it was something like a hammer.”

“My god…” I moaned.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Maguire. You don’t happen to keep tools, do you?”

“What? Oh, no, not very many. If I need something I borrow it from my neighbor. He owns every tool there is.”

Michelson’s partner, a young Hispanic guy named Acosta, sprung the question I had been expecting: “Would you tell us where you were this morning?”

I told him I had gone to see the early showing of Multiverse: The Rise of Galactus at the Figueroa Theater. “Of all the mornings to go see a damned movie.”

“Was it any good?”

“What?”

“The movie. Any good?”

I had read enough online reviews of the film to fake it for him, but I introduced a shade of annoyance for realism.

“Why are you asking that now?” I demanded. “Yes, it was good, better than the last Marvel epic, though it had one too many endings. The reason I went is so I can make an informed vote for the SAG Awards.”

“Oh, you’re an actor?”

“Yes.”

“And you think a superhero movie is going to be up for a SAG Award?” Acosta asked.

I’ll admit it; that question took me by surprise. “For the stunt category,” I ad-libbed. “What does it matter? My wife’s been killed!”

“Right, sorry, sir,” Acosta mumbled.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted your wife dead?” Michelson asked.

I lowered my head and squeezed out one last tear. “No, I really… Oh god, oh no. No, Steve wouldn’t do this.”

They took the bait.

“Who’s Steve?” Michelson asked.

“Our neighbor. Things have been a little tense lately because he works nights and his dog barks while he’s gone, and that’s been annoying Becca. But…no, forget I said anything.”

“If you know something, sir, you need to tell us,” Michelson said.

“Well, she was talking about contacting the city to try and have the dog removed, but that’s hard to do. She confronted Steve about it last week, but he brushed her off.”

All of this was bullshit, of course, but Becca was no longer around to contradict me.

“So you think your neighbor might have killed your wife because of a dog?” Acosta asked.

“I…no, I can’t believe that. Never mind. It’s too absurd.”

“Would this neighbor with the dog be the same one with the tools?” Michelson said.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, after a suitably shocked pause.

“Tell us about this neighbor of yours, Mr. Maguire.”

I answered their questions in a convincingly shaky voice. When they were done, Michelson asked if I would mind going to the station to make an official statement. I agreed, saying I didn’t want to be in the house with Becca’s body, which could not be moved until the medical examiner had investigated.

I also knew that the police were going to talk to Steve. He would deny everything, of course, but that wouldn’t matter much once they found the hammer.

Down at the station house I dictated my statement to a young policewoman, and after reading the print out, I signed it. Then I asked if I could stay there a little longer until I got my head together. The policewoman brought me coffee and let me sit in an empty room, where I figured I was being watched.

That was fine; I could continue the performance.

After an additional half-hour of dry-sobbing, shaking, and wiping away imaginary tears, though, I was getting a little antsy.

I stepped out of the room to let them know I was leaving and ran into Detective Michelson.

“Oh, Mr. Maguire, I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “I have some information for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Let’s go back in here so we can talk privately.”

He ushered me back into the interrogation room and asked me to sit down, then closed the door.

“Now then,” the detective began, “I’ve spoken with your neighbor, Mr. Barrier, and we found what we think might be the murder weapon in his garage. My guess was on the money. It was a hammer.”

“Oh my god.” I groaned. “I still can’t believe Steve would do anything like this.”

“Were you aware that he and your wife were having an affair?”

I let the shocked expression bloom over my face.

“My god,” I uttered. “I…no, I didn’t. But if they were…why on earth would he kill Becca?”

“Well, sir, about that. It turns out that he didn’t kill your wife. He couldn’t have.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means we’ve cleared him as a suspect.”

“How… I mean why?”

“Because in your statement you said that you left your house about ten-thirty this morning, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, that would be about right,” I said. “The movie started at eleven-something. Wait, I can tell you exactly.” I pulled the stub from my pocket. “Eleven-ten.”

“And you returned home about…”

“Two-thirty, somewhere around there.”

“So the movie was, what, two-and-a-half hours long?”

Before answering, I strove to analyze the question. Was he trying to trip me up on the length of the movie? I knew it was over two hours, but how much over I couldn’t say. “It was long, yes. And there were previews before it started. Why are you concerned about its length, Detective?”

“I just want to make certain I have the timeline right. Your wife was alive when you left at ten-thirty and dead when you returned at two-thirty, right?”

“Yes, and then I called nine one one.”

“That verifies Mr. Barrier’s alibi. You see, your neighbor was on jury duty today, serving from eight in the morning until he was dismissed at three in the afternoon. Within that time he never left the courthouse. He even ate lunch at the courthouse café with some of the other jurors. His presence there has been documented by the jury clerk.”

“Oh…well, that’s a relief,” I muttered. “I didn’t want to think that Steve did it. But what about the hammer you found in his garage?”