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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Our mystery selections kick off with “A Matter of Trust,” N.M. Cedeño’s tale of a genetic genealogy detective trying to prove an illegitimate child’s claim to a family trust. Thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken for this one. And Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has a Halloween-appropriate tale in “Grimalkin,” by Mark Thielman, in which a cat may be more than it seems. We also have fantasist Phyllis Ann Karr’s first sale—which turns out to be a mystery!—and a novel by British master J.S. Fletcher. And, of course, no issue is complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
Continuing our seasonal celebration of all things Halloween, we have a pair of dark delights—tales by Adrian Cole and me. Have some ghoulish shivers on us!
For lovers of science fiction, we have a great tale by Norman Spinrad, plus classics by Charles V. De Vet and Lester del Rey. Great stuff.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“A Matter of Trust,” by N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Munificent Musketeer,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Grimalkin,” by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“An Economical Means of Murder,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
The Herapath Property, by J.S. Fletcher [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“In the Court of the Pumpkin King,” by Adrian Cole [short story, Nick Nightmare series]
“Sand,” by John Gregory Betancourt [short story, SCP series]
“Quarantine,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“Survival Factor,” by Charles V. De Vet [short story]
“The Band Played On,” by Lester del Rey [novelet]
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
A MATTER OF TRUST, by N.M. CEDEÑO
THE CASE OF THE MUNIFICENT MUSKETEER, by Hal Charles
GRIMALKIN, by Mark Thielman
AN ECONOMICAL MEANS OF MURDER, by Phyllis Ann Karr
THE HERAPATH PROPERTY, by J.S. Fletcher
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
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
IN THE COURT OF THE PUMPKIN KING, by Adrian Cole
SAND, by John Gregory Betancourt
QUARANTINE by Norman Spinrad
SURVIVAL FACTOR, by Charles V. De Vet
THE BAND PLAYED ON, by Lester del Rey
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“A Matter of Trust” is copyright © 2023 by N.M. Cedeño and appears here for the first time.
“The Case of the Munificent Musketeer” is copyright © 2023 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Grimalkin” is copyright © 2023 by Mark Thielman and appears here for the first time.
“An Economical Means of Murder” is copyright © 1974 by Phyllis Ann Karr. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine series of “first stories,” March 1974, under the editor’s title “For Cake with Clotted Cream.” Reprinted by permission of the author.
The Herapath Property, by J.S. Fletcher, was originally published in 1921.
“In the Court of the Pumpkin King” is copyright © 2015 by Adrian Cole. Originally published in Not Your Average Monster! Volume 1. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Sand” is copyright © 2023 by John Gregory Betancourt. Originally published in SCP Redacted, edited by Evelyn Kriete. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Quarantine” is copyright © 2019 by Norman Spinrad. First published in Freedom of Screech. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Survival Factor,” by Charles V. De Vet, was originally published in Infinity, September 1957.
“The Band Played On,” by Lester del Rey, was originally published in Infinity, June 1957.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
Our mystery selections kick off with “A Matter of Trust,” N.M. Cedeño’s tale of a genetic genealogy detective trying to prove an illegitimate child’s claim to a family trust. Thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken for this one. And Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has a Halloween-appropriate tale in “Grimalkin,” by Mark Thielman, in which a cat may be more than it seems. We also have fantasist Phyllis Ann Karr’s first sale—which turns out to be a mystery!—and a novel by British master J.S. Fletcher. And, of course, no issue is complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
Continuing our seasonal celebration of all things Halloween, we have a pair of dark delights—tales by Adrian Cole and me. Have some ghoulish shivers on us!
For lovers of science fiction, we have a recent tale by Norman Spinrad, plus classics by Charles V. De Vet and Lester del Rey. Great stuff.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“A Matter of Trust,” by N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Munificent Musketeer,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Grimalkin,” by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“An Economical Means of Murder,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
The Herapath Property, by J.S. Fletcher [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“In the Court of the Pumpkin King,” by Adrian Cole [short story, Nick Nightmare series]
“Sand,” by John Gregory Betancourt [short story, SCP series]
“Quarantine,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“Survival Factor,” by Charles V. De Vet [short story]
“The Band Played On,” by Lester del Rey [novelet]
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
A MATTER OF TRUST,by N.M. CEDEÑO
How could a case that started as a simple genealogical research problem go so sideways? My client, Bob Rolland, was hospitalized, and the half-siblings that I’d identified for him might be in danger, too. Parking in the hospital visitors’ lot, I leaped from my car. I needed to get to my client. Every instinct told me that his attacker would try again. All the while, a little voice in the back of my brain was pointing out the futility of trying to predict which cases would be simple archival work and which cases might drop me into a dangerous situation.
My name is Maya Laster, and I’m a former middle school teacher turned genetic genealogy detective. Most of my business in Dallas, Texas, revolves around genealogical research and investigating missing person cold-cases. I connect the genetically unmoored with family and investigate for people trying to locate missing relatives, many of whom died without identification and were buried as unknowns. Archival research, missing persons databases, and DNA databases are the tools of my trade.
Because my background isn’t in law enforcement, I’m not eager to take cases that might put me in the path of murderers or other serious criminals. I did everything I needed to get my private investigator’s license, but I wanted to keep my business focused on genealogy and research for connecting people and identifying people. My business was booming, so I could afford to be picky.
The Rummage Trust case started typically enough. I was sitting at my desk one afternoon, munching chocolate-covered almonds and mulling over a complex family lineage that began with the birth of an orphan of unknown parentage in 1756, when my office door opened and a white-haired, pink-cheeked, older woman in a wheelchair propelled herself into my office. A balding man with sparse white hair around his ears accompanied her, a telltale expandable file tucked under his arm. The couple appeared to be in their seventies or eighties. He was rotund with non-existent hips, necessitating both suspenders and a belt to support his pleat-front khakis, while she was petite and formal with matching cream purse and shoes.
People frequently entered my office carrying expandable files. Such files are the hallmark of the older generation of amateur genealogists who’ve hit a wall in research and decided to approach me for help. Seeing such a file suggested that the couple was bringing me a case suited to my skills and preferences. That morning, I’d refused an active murder investigation case. The family had seen news articles about cold case murders solved with genetic genealogy and hoped that I could solve the case faster than the police. I’d advised them to allow the police to investigate.
I rose and said, “Welcome to Laster Genetic Genealogy and Investigations. I’m Maya Laster. How may I help you?” My voice, always raspy, sounded even rustier since I hadn’t spoken in a few hours.
“I’m Bob Rolland,” said the rotund man, stepping forward. “This is my wife, Andie. I’m hoping you can help us prove a family relationship.”
I removed one of my guest chairs to make room for Andie’s wheelchair and gestured for Bob to seat himself.
Sinking into my own desk chair, I explained my process and fees and started a client file. “Tell me about your research.”
Bob eagerly dug into his accordion file and pulled out a copy of a will. “This is the Last Will and Testament of a lumber tycoon named Malcolm Robert Rummage. He died in 1937, leaving his money tied up in a trust for his flighty son, Malcolm Jr., until Malcolm Jr. turned twenty-five years old. If Junior died before age twenty-five, the money would be held in trust for any legitimate or illegitimate child of Junior’s who came forward to claim the money.”
A glimmer of humor crept into his voice. “Malcolm Sr. called his son ‘a loose screw who might leave heirs littering the countryside.’ If no child of Junior claims the money within one hundred years of Junior’s death, the trust will be dissolved, and the money will be donated to charity.” Bob placed the copy of the will on my desk. “The money is still being held in trust because Malcolm Jr. died at age twenty-three during World War II when his ship sank during the Second Battle of Guadalcanal in November 1942, and no child has come forward. I checked with the law firm responsible for maintaining the trust.” He grinned at me. “I think I’m the heir.”
I picked up the will and skimmed the terms. “Why?”
Bob reached into his file. Andie gave me a pensive smile but kept silent. She was letting her husband do all the talking. This was clearly his show. She was there to support him.
Bob removed several photocopied pages from the file and slid them across the desk to me. “These are pages from my mother’s journal. She met my father in San Diego when he was about to ship out to sea in April 1942. They had a whirlwind war-time romance. According to her, my father was a sailor in the Navy who promised her a ring and a wedding, but died before he could keep his promise. I was born in January 1943. Mom listed my father’s name as Robert Rummage on my birth certificate and named me Robert after him.”
“Robert? Not Malcolm?”
“Yes, Robert was Malcolm Jr.’s middle name. After he died, my mother married my stepfather, Homer Rolland, who adopted me.” He paused to extract more papers from his file. “Mom’s journal says she wrote letters to Robert Rummage on the USS Preston. The only person named Rummage on the Preston was Malcolm Robert Rummage Jr., and the Preston sank at Guadalcanal.” He handed me a Navy record listing the crew of the USS Preston and an article on its sinking. Then, he removed another sheet of paper from the file, “Here’s the obituary for Malcolm Jr. which lists him as the son and heir of lumber tycoon Malcolm Sr. and says he died with the sinking of the USS Preston at Guadalcanal.”
I studied the papers laid before me on my desk. Bob had his evidence well prepared. “Did you approach the law firm with the evidence you have?” I asked.
“I did. The lawyer said it’s promising, but not sufficient. And, I should probably mention, he said we can’t seek a direct DNA match to Rummage Sr. because he was cremated and his ashes were scattered. His son’s body was lost at sea. We have to find a way to prove the link without a body for direct comparison.”
With a sinking feeling in my gut, I asked, “What would the lawyers accept as proof?”
Andie finally spoke in a soft voice, “Per the will, they would have accepted letters from Malcolm Jr. to Bob’s Mom, Vita, acknowledging paternity. The law firm has handwriting samples for comparison. Unfortunately, Vita burned her letters at some point. She didn’t want anyone else reading them.”
“How much money is in the trust?”
Andie said, “A lawyer told us it’s thirty million dollars. If we could claim that fortune, it would be life-changing. We could afford to modify our house to be wheelchair accessible so that I could do more around the house, like I did before I shattered my hip two years ago. And when we reach the point where Bob can’t help with my needs, and requires help himself, we’ll be able to afford to hire help for both of us.” She reached out and squeezed her husband’s hand with the bright light of hope in her eyes.
The potential obstacles were legion. If no one had attempted to claim the fortune over the decades, Rummage might have no living kin but Bob. If that were the case, finding a way to prove a direct genetic link might be difficult or even impossible.
As I opened my mouth to voice my doubts, Bob held out his hand to stop me. “We know it’s a long shot. I’ve done all the paper research that I can. Proving Junior was my father is going to be hard. That’s why we need a detective and genetic genealogist.”
Andie said, “We discussed this. We won’t succeed if we never try. If we try and fail, so be it. At least we tried.”
“Have you ever done a DNA test for ancestry purposes?” I asked Bob.
“Yep. Got those results here, too.” He dove back into his file for another printout. “The company found lots of maternal matches for me. I recognize a cousin or two and a few last names, but no one named Rummage came up, and most of the others are so distantly related, I don’t know how they can help.”
“That’s okay. I can submit your information to other DNA databases. This service that you used isn’t the largest on the market. We may find more relatives.” I mentally crossed my fingers.
As we wrapped up our conversation, Bob handed me his accordion file. “This is for you. It’s a copy of everything I’ve found so far.”
“Thank you. I’m sure it will come in handy.” I accepted the file, had my new clients provide a retainer and sign a contract, and saw them out of my office.
Then, I went to work, beginning with submitting Bob’s DNA profile to the largest databases. I spread the contents of his file on my desk and began sorting the papers. Bob had built a decent family tree for the Rummage family, following paternal lines, but he’d either neglected or not yet attacked the maternal lines. I began my research to build out the missing branches on the Rummage family tree.
The work was slow, but I enjoyed the hunt. I checked obituaries, birth and death records, and news articles. I searched out wills and legal records. After a few hours, I decided chocolate-covered almonds weren’t enough to satisfy my hunger and called it a day.
* * * *
The next morning, I was delighted to find DNA matching results for Bob Rolland had arrived in my email inbox. Many of the names listed were on Bob’s maternal side, but I almost jumped for joy over two half-sibling matches. Bob had two living half-brothers: Arnold Roberts, of San Diego, California, and George Malcolm of Phoenix, Arizona. Old Malcolm Sr. had been right. His son had “littered the countryside” with heirs.
I called Bob with the news.
“I have half-siblings! Two brothers! That’s incredible. Where are they? Can I meet them?” His excitement flowed through my phone and into my ear, each word vibrating with energy.
“Let me approach them first. If either of them has a letter acknowledging paternity, we can use that to get the inheritance for all of you. The money would have to be split three ways.”
“This is great news. Ten million is still more than enough for me. Hell, one million would be more than enough.”
I sighed with relief. At least, he wouldn’t be disappointed if more heirs appeared. We ended the call, and I returned to researching the half-siblings. I could prove that all three were related to Malcolm Rummage Sr.’s parents, but on their grandfather himself, I hit a snag. Rummage Sr. had a younger brother, who never married. I couldn’t prove Bob and his siblings weren’t descended from the brother because I couldn’t find a way to connect them genetically to Rummage Sr.’s wife, Eliza, who had been the only child of two Irish immigrants with no other family. Without a connection to Eliza, the lawyers could argue that the three siblings were all somehow descended from Malcolm Sr.’s brother.
I would have to contact the half-siblings and hope one of them had a letter admitting paternity, which caused a knot of worry in my stomach. What were the odds that either half-sibling had letters their father had written?
I booked a flight from Dallas to Phoenix and from Phoenix to San Diego. I’d see George, the oldest, and then Arnold. Most people ignore emails if they don’t recognize the sender, and no one answers the phone to numbers they don’t know anymore. So, I sent a registered letter to each half-brother, explaining that I was a genetic genealogist researching a family tree, and that I was trying to locate information on the man I believed to be their father.
* * * *
George Malcolm was a pleasant widower in his eighties with a bald pate and round belly that matched his brother Bob’s, but a stooped posture from the walker he used. “Need a knee replacement after thirty years climbing telephone poles and fifteen more years supervising others working the lines, but surgery seems like too much trouble and expense at my age,” he said as he invited me into his apartment. “I was surprised to receive your letter. I don’t know much about my father. My mother didn’t know much about him either. My son, Carl, tried to research him but didn’t get very far. My wife, rest her soul, said it didn’t matter to her if my father were a prince or a pauper. Lost her eight months ago now.”
We settled into chairs in his spartan sitting room inside a senior living complex. I offered my condolences and said, “Your son was researching the wrong name. I believe your father’s full name was Malcolm Robert Rummage Jr.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he squinted at me. “Mom said Robert Malcolm. Did she get the name wrong?”
“Or he lied to her about his name, which is the more likely circumstance.”
His bushy white eyebrows rose. “Why do you think that?”
“In my research I’ve found two other people, your half-brothers. One has the name Robert Rummage for his father on his birth certificate; one has the name Malcolm Roberts; and your birth record lists Robert Malcolm. All three names are variations of Malcolm Robert Rummage Jr.”
His body went rigid in his chair, his fingers tightening on the armrests. His eyes grew watery. “I have half-brothers?”
“Yes, sir. Two brothers.”
“Brothers.” He put one trembling hand over his mouth. “I always wanted brothers. Where are they?”
“One is in Dallas. The other is in San Diego. I was hired by the brother in Dallas, Robert Rummage Rolland. He gave me permission to give you his contact information. He was thrilled to discover he has siblings. Is it okay if he contacts you?”
Emotions tumbled across his face with shock, doubt, and hope widening, then darkening, then brightening his eyes. “Yes! Yes, that would be wonderful. I should call my son, Carl. He’ll be so surprised. Did I mention that he tried to help me research my father? We didn’t find any immediate family for me on my father’s side when we did genetic testing. At least, I don’t think we did.” He paused, his eyes unfocused, as he fought to remember.
“That’s because all three half-siblings used different testing services.”
“The brother in Dallas came to you looking for family?” he asked.
“Sort of.” I explained about Malcolm Robert Rummage Sr.’s will and the money that had been left in trust. Then I walked him through the genealogical research I’d done to connect the siblings to the Rummage family. “But we have to be able to prove the connection to the lawyers’ satisfaction, which is why I’m here. Did your mother exchange any letters with your father? Did he ever admit paternity?”
“Letters? No. As I understand it, they had a one-night stand after meeting at a dance. She only saw him the one time. She was a wild one in her youth.” He frowned, thinking. “No one gets the money if we can’t prove who our father is?”
“That is correct. If one of you can prove it, all three will likely be accepted as heirs under the terms of the will.”
He blinked several times. Shock seemed to have trumped the rest of his emotions.
“Mr. Malcolm, are you okay?”
“Give me a minute to digest this news. First, you tell me I have brothers. Then, you tell me we might be heirs to a fortune, but that we may never see the money.” He glanced around the room blankly. “I should call my son.”
I stood and handed him my business card, feeling that I’d overwhelmed him, and that he likely relied on his son a great deal after losing his wife. “This card has my contact information. Call me if you have any questions. I’d be happy to speak to your son, too. I’ll be traveling to see your sibling in San Diego tomorrow.”
“I’m… I’m flabbergasted. Thank you for coming to see me. Please call me with any updates.” He pushed himself out of his chair and used his walker to see me out the door.
* * * *
Arnold Roberts lived in a small house in a neighborhood on the western side of San Diego with his second wife, Winnie. Mrs. Winnie Roberts was tight-lipped and protective of her husband, watching me as she served lemonade like I was a snake who might bite. Arnold was of a similar height to his half-siblings, though slimmer. He wore a nasal cannula feeding him oxygen due to asbestosis acquired during a long career in ship maintenance. He was every bit as shocked as his older brother George when I explained the situation to him.
“Yes, mom had letters from my dad. He was on the USS Preston. It sank at Guadalcanal, if I remember correctly, so he never came home to marry her. That’s what she told me.” He wheezed slightly as he spoke.
“Do you still have any of those letters?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“No. They burned when I lost my last house to wildfires.”
I tried to contain my disappointment.
Where George and Bob were ready to meet their newfound siblings, Arnold was hesitant, tossing a perplexed look at his wife, who had her arms crossed defensively on her chest. “I’ll have to think about it. I’m not sure what I should do.”
“I’ll leave you my card and the contact information for your half-brothers. Take your time. The other two would be thrilled to speak to you.”
I left San Diego wondering what to do next. While the evidence supported that all three men were sons of Malcolm Jr., I couldn’t prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
When I returned to my office, I reviewed Malcolm Sr.’s will, looking at the phrasing regarding proving who was an heir. Nothing new appeared. Once again, I wished we could do DNA testing. Which gave me an idea. I read through all the provisions in the will and found the section dealing with personal belongings. Malcolm Sr. was afraid his son would give family heirloom jewelry to “floozies,” so the items were placed within the trust, to be held until Malcolm Jr. turned twenty-five.
I leaned back in my desk chair. If the jewelry had been placed in storage before Malcolm Sr. died and had not been handled since, the pieces might still carry his DNA. Fumbling for my phone, I decided to call the law firm responsible for the trust. The paperwork Bob had provided included the number for Smith, Smith, Williams, and Stevens, Attorneys at Law.
A receptionist forwarded my call to a lawyer named Williams.
I identified myself and said, “I’m a detective specializing in genetic genealogy. Could I ask you some questions about the trust left by Malcolm Robert Rummage Sr. who died in 1937?”
Mr. Williams asked, “What is your interest in that trust?”
“I’ve discovered three potential direct heirs to Mr. Rummage, and I need to know what sort of evidence your firm would be willing to accept as proof that they are the heirs to the trust.”
“Another lawyer is responsible for handling the Rummage Trust, but he’s traveling today, investigating investments. I’m not familiar with the trust. Give me a minute to look at the file.”
I heard shuffling noises at the other end of the line and the click of keyboard keys.
After a few moments, he said, “Mr. Rummage specified that his son’s admission of paternity in writing would be acceptable. He stated that evidence of ‘external appearance would not be acceptable,’ and that our firm must take ‘all precautions against false claimants.’”
“Is genetic evidence allowed?”
“I’m not sure how that would work. The file says Mr. Rummage was cremated and his ashes were spread in the sea. His only son died at sea during World War II, and his body was never recovered.”
I explained my idea. “DNA can be collected from almost anything these days. Mr. Rummage’s Will mentions a man’s ring with an onyx stone, and several other jewelry pieces that he left to his son: a necklace, a brooch, another ring. Are those pieces still in the firm’s care?”
“Let me do some digging.”
I waited impatiently, listening to the click of his keyboard keys.
“Ah-ha. I have an inventory. The jewelry is in storage.”
“Is your firm willing to have the jewelry tested for DNA?”
“I’ll have to consult my colleague about that. Let me get back to you.” He sounded skeptical.
Knowing Williams needed time to consult, I ended the call.
My wait only lasted an hour. Williams called requesting that I present my findings at a meeting with his firm. I would have to explain how I had identified the potential heirs, and I would have to convince the partners that the evidence was strong enough to merit having the jewelry tested.
A week later, I boarded a plane for Philadelphia, where I made my way to the offices of Smith, Smith, Williams, and Stevens, Attorneys at Law. The genealogy presentation went smoothly. The firm’s partners agreed that the evidence strongly suggested that the men may be the heirs. They agreed that testing the jewelry for DNA and comparing that DNA to my client and his half-siblings would be the best way to ensure the terms of the will were met. They decided to set up DNA testing for each potential heir. I provided the siblings’ names and addresses. The lawyer assigned to the trust, Bill Evans, would contact the brothers to arrange appointments for testing.
I rejoiced all the way to my hotel after calling Bob Rolland to tell him the good news.
Bob said, “I can’t wait to tell George. And Arnold finally contacted me yesterday. They’ll both be so excited.”
The next morning, I caught a flight back to Dallas, and lost a day to travel, unaware that while I traveled my client’s life was in danger.
* * * *
The morning after my flight home, I arrived at my office at the same time as a police detective.
“Ms. Laster?” He said, showing me his badge. “I’m Sgt. Ian MacIness. I’m with the Dallas Police Department Assaults Unit. Andie Rolland said you might be able to shed light on who may want to injure her husband, Bob. She said he was working with you, attempting to secure a substantial inheritance.”
“What happened? Is he okay?” My raspy voice squeaked like a rusty hinge as panic rose in my throat.
“Someone tampered with his vehicle, causing him to get into a wreck on I-35 yesterday. He broke several bones, including his leg. He had surgery this morning, and the doctors say he’ll live.”
“I spoke to him the day before yesterday to let him know how the case was going.” My mind was whirling, wondering who might want to prevent Bob from receiving his share of the money. Arnold? George? Or could it be one of their heirs?
The sergeant asked, “Can you tell me about this inheritance? How much money are we talking about?”
“I was told thirty million dollars, split three ways. Bob and two half-siblings are the heirs. Both half-siblings are older than Bob. George uses a walker because of bad knees, and Arnold is on oxygen due to asbestosis. I can’t see either of them doing this. But while Bob has no children, both of the other two heirs have children and grandchildren. Someone might be hoping that by killing Bob, they’ll increase one of the other heirs’ share of the money.”
“Thirty million is definitely incentive for murder.”
“I have a family tree inside. I can give you the names of all the people who might inherit more money if Bob dies.”
We entered my office, and I laid out the massive family tree that I’d constructed for Bob and his half-siblings. The list of people who might want to increase their share of an inheritance was long. I gave the list to the detective. “Eliminating all the children, I count thirteen adults in line to inherit. I don’t know who might be capable of traveling here to try to kill Bob.”
After the detective took the list of potential suspects and left, I began my own search, whittling down the list, researching each heir. I did background checks and reviewed social media. But no one stood out as a possible killer. I began to wonder if I’d missed something. Looking back at the list, I realized that if Arnold Roberts died after he inherited his money, his wife Winnie would likely inherit. That put her children and grandchildren on the suspect list as well. I hadn’t researched them since they weren’t direct descendants of Malcolm Robert Rummage Sr.
My fingers flew on the keyboard as I searched, looking for any suspects that lived in Dallas or within a short drive. Whoever injured Bob had been able to act within a day of my telling the siblings that they would have to have DNA tests. That someone had managed an attack so quickly argued for proximity.
Otherwise, how had they found Bob so quickly?
The thought hit me hard, stopping me.
How had they found Bob? I hadn’t given either half-sibling Bob’s physical address. Did Bob’s half-brothers even have his physical address, or did they only have his email and phone number, which I had supplied?
I decided to take a risk and called Arnold Roberts. “Mr. Roberts, this is Maya Laster, the genealogy detective. Did your brother Bob give you his home address?”
“No. I haven’t needed it. I know he lives in Dallas somewhere.” A dry cough interrupted him. “Excuse me. Why?”
“It’s a long story, sir. Bob was injured in a car accident. Someone tried to kill him, possibly to keep him from inheriting.”
“Is he okay?” I could hear the fear in Arnold’s voice. “Who would do that? We don’t even know if we’ll get any money yet. What if there’s no DNA on the rings and things? Why would someone attack Bob when it may all be for nought?” Arnold’s voice was shaking. He began to wheeze, fighting for air.
“I don’t know. Do you know of anyone who might take action to try to increase your share of the inheritance?”
“No! My children don’t even know about the inheritance. I only told them that I found two brothers, not the rest of it. I didn’t want to get their hopes up.” His wheezing worsened. I could hear Winnie in the background, asking him to calm down and focus on his breathing.
“Could your wife have told her children?”
“She told them both. But they don’t inherit.”
“If you die, your wife inherits from you. As her heirs, they would get some of the money.”
“That’s not how we left our wills,” Arnold gasped.
“What do you mean?”
He was having difficulty speaking, pausing to breathe every few words. “We set it up so her money…goes to her kids, and my money goes to mine. She came into the marriage…with more money than I did. We decided to make sure…her kids inherit the money that came from their father.”
“Do the kids know that?”
“We explained it. Smoothed over hard feelings when we got married. I didn’t have much. They were afraid I would take advantage…of Winnie’s money.”
Stumped by the fact that my most-likely suspects had evaporated, I ended the call and dialed George Malcolm. But he also assured me that only his son, Carl, knew that an inheritance was possibly coming. They had discussed it the previous evening when his son had come to visit him, and they’d decided not to tell the grandchildren unless the DNA evidence succeeded.
If George’s son was with him that day, he couldn’t have been in Dallas tampering with Bob’s car. I was out of suspects.
As Arnold mentioned, the DNA tests hadn’t been completed. The attacker didn’t even wait to see if DNA was found on the jewelry. Why strike before the testing was done?
My mind raced. Who benefited if the heirs died before the testing was done? Would the inheritance go to the next generation?
I thumbed through Bob’s expandable file folder looking for the copy of the Will again. The wording said only a child of Malcolm Jr. could inherit. Later, it referred to the heirs as Malcolm Sr.’s grandchild or grandchildren. The Will could be interpreted to mean only Malcolm Jr.’s children could inherit, not his grandchildren or great-grandchildren. The trustees were to disperse the money to a handful of charities one hundred years after the death of Malcolm Jr. if no child of his came forward. If all three half-siblings died, no one would inherit.
I bit my lip. The lawyers had all three heirs’ addresses. What if a lawyer, as the trustee, was skimming from the trust fund, betting no one would step forward? What would he do if someone did appear? I called the law firm’s main number and asked to speak to Mr. Williams, reasoning that if he were guilty of embezzling, he wouldn’t have set up the appointment for me to present my findings. He’d have delayed me somehow, perhaps insisting I provide more evidence. He also wasn’t personally handling the trust.
“Mr. Williams, this is Maya Laster. I met you a few days ago when I presented my findings on the potential heirs for Malcolm Robert Rummage. One of the heirs was the victim of attempted murder last night. He survived, but he may still be in danger. What happens if the three heirs die before DNA testing is done? Who gets the money?”
“I reviewed that right before your presentation. No one will inherit. The money will sit untouched until the term set in the will expires. Then it will be given to several charities.”
“That’s what I thought. As I understand it, if the three men turn out to be the heirs, they can ask for an accounting of the trust fund. Any missing money will come to light. Could a trustee have tried to kill my client to hide embezzlement?”
“That can’t be. You must be mistaken.” Mr. Williams sounded angry.
“I hope I am, sir. But I can’t protect my client if I can’t figure out who is threatening him. In a case like this, with thirty million at stake, I must follow the money, and the other heirs aren’t in a position to harm my client.”
“Who told you the trust was worth thirty million?” Mr. Williams growled.
“My client.”
“That fund is worth far more than thirty million. It has been well-invested in growth funds since 1937. Some of the original investments were in Bell Telephone and International Business Machines, IBM.”
I said, “Then someone lied to my client about the amount of money. That much money, just laying around unclaimed must be an awful temptation. Only a trustee would know where the money goes and what fees are paid. Only an heir would be able to ask for a full accounting. If the heirs die, no accounting will be done. Could you, as a member of the firm responsible for overseeing the trust, see how much is being charged against the trust per month?”
“Just a minute. You must be wrong.”
Silence again, as Mr. Williams put me on hold.
A few moments later, he said, “You may be right.”
“Too many billable hours?”
“Worse than that. The lawyer handling the trust, Bill Evans, has been traveling around the world and charging the trips as travel to investigate investment opportunities for the trust. He billed by the hour for the trips and added exorbitant per diem expenses for hotels and food. At three hundred dollars an hour, plus inflated costs for hotels and dinners, he’s charged over $10,000 per month. I’d be surprised if any of the trips resulted in actual investments for the Trust.”
“Where is Mr. Evans right now? Is he in the office?” I asked.
“He called in sick.”
“He may be the one trying to kill my client, or he may be paying to have someone kill all the heirs. I have to warn the heirs.” I ended the call.
I called Arnold and then George and warned them to be on guard until I called back. No one answered Bob’s cell phone. I ran to my car as I called Sgt. MacIness. Bob needed someone guarding him. If Evans was intent on killing the heirs, he might try again. The sergeant didn’t answer, so I left a message as I raced toward Parkland Hospital. My simple genealogy case had segued into an active attempted murder investigation, the kind of case I tried to avoid.
* * * *
Racing through Parkland Hospital’s corridors, I found Bob’s room. Andie sat in her wheelchair by his side, moving the beads of a rosary through her fingers as she prayed. She looked up, startled, as I burst into the room. Bob appeared to be sleeping or unconscious with one leg in traction.
“Andie, how is he?” I croaked, out of breath from running.
“He had surgery to repair a broken femur this morning. He’s sleeping now. The doctors say he’ll need physical therapy after his leg heals. He has a few broken ribs too, but those will heal.”
“One of the lawyers in charge of the Rummage Trust has been stealing money from it. He may have tried to kill Bob to hide the embezzlement. I’m afraid someone may try to kill Bob again.”
“Oh! What do we do?”
“Keep Bob safe. I’ve already warned the other heirs and called the police.” I pulled a chair over by the door and sat down, wishing I had a weapon. I calmed my racing heart as I sat with Andie. Nurses came and went, checking on Bob, changing his IV bag.
As the hours passed, I fought with the realization that I couldn’t predict when a case might turn violent. This one had seemed like a simple genealogy research problem and, still, my client was almost killed. I had refused multiple cases, fearing that I would end up in exactly this situation. I could feel Andie’s eyes on me. She was trusting me to help her protect Bob. As much as I wanted to help, this wasn’t the job I’d intended to do. Part of me wondered if I should give up my business and go back to teaching middle school.
I was on edge, considering going for coffee to help keep me alert, when yet another person in medical scrubs entered the room. I stood to stretch. He turned to look at me, and we recognized each other. He’d been one of the lawyers sitting in the room for my presentation two days earlier.
He reached under his shirt, and I glimpsed a gun as I lunged toward him. “No!” I yelled.
He tried to dodge me, but I caught his shoulders. We went down in a tumbled heap.
I held his gun arm with both hands. He rolled on top of me, pinning me. Evans’s other fist was coming toward my face when a heavy glass vase of roses crashed onto his head. His full, unconscious weight crushed my chest as shards of glass, water, and the thorny stems of roses showered me.
Blinking, I saw Andie in her wheelchair above me. She had a satisfied look on her face as she surveyed her work. “That’ll do him.”
A moment later a nurse arrived, followed by hospital security, and the police.
* * * *
Two months later, I sat in my office on a video call with Bob and Andie, Arnold and Winnie, George with his son Carl hovering behind him, and the attorney, Mr. Williams, to hear the results of the DNA testing.
I had my fingers crossed under my desk, hoping that some of the jewelry held usable DNA.
Mr. Williams said, “All the jewelry was placed in a safety deposit box by Malcolm Robert Rummage Sr. himself. The necklace and the brooch which had been worn by his wife were found to carry female DNA. The onyx ring provided a DNA sample from a male. The samples from Mr. Rolland, Mr. Roberts, and Mr. Malcolm were compared to the DNA from the jewelry and found to have a familial match to both the male and the female DNA. We accept that you three are the grandchildren of Mr. Rummage and his wife, and that your father was their only son. As such, you are heirs to the Rummage Trust.”
Bob asked, “How much money is left in the trust? I understand that a trustee had been siphoning money from it for some time.”
Mr. Williams inclined his head. “I’m sorry about that situation. As you know, Evans has been arrested for the attack on Mr. Rolland. Even though he charged the trust millions of dollars in unnecessary expenses, the value of the trust is still around seventy-five million dollars.”
Everyone gasped.
Bob said, “That would be around twenty-five million dollars each.”
I said, “I suggest you all speak with financial advisors about how to handle the money. Many lottery winners have gone broke because they didn’t know how to handle such large amounts of money. Not to mention, people looking for handouts and donations will appear from everywhere. You each need to have a plan in place.”
I could see Arnold nodding at me thoughtfully with Winnie by his side. George still looked stunned, but his son, Carl, put his hands on his father’s shoulders. He said, “Dad, we can ask Joe to help.” Carl said, “One of my cousins is a financial planner. We’ll see to it that the money is handled properly.”
Andie, next to Bob, had tears streaming down her face. “We’ll be able to fix the house and plan for long-term health expenses.” Bob, whose leg was in a full cast, put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezed her to him.
As the video conference ended, I returned to contemplating the future of my business. I loved making a difference in people’s lives. I loved the feeling I got from identifying the missing dead so they could be properly buried by family. I loved the satisfaction of discovering truths and family connections that had been lost in time or through adoption. But I had reached the conclusion that I couldn’t predict when a case might turn violent. Wrestling with murderers wasn’t something I’d envisioned when I set up my business, but that was my messy reality.
I switched my laptop screen to a tab I’d been reading before the video conference call. It displayed a list of start dates for self-defense classes. Clicking the enroll button, I filled out my information and paid the fee. Any case could bring surprises: good ones like finding lost family and delivering sudden inheritances or bad ones like attempted murder. Since I loved my job and wanted to continue doing it, I needed to work on my preparedness for the unknown. I planned to avoid current, active crimes. I couldn’t foresee myself accepting anything but cold cases. Of course, my foresight may have been lacking.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
N. M. Cedeño is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and Sisters in Crime: Heart of Texas Chapter. Her stories have appeared in anthologies and magazines, including Analog: Science Fiction and Fact, After Dinner Conversation, Black Cat Weekly, and Black Cat Mystery Magazine. She blogs at InkStainedWretches.home.blog. For more information, visit nmcedeno.com.
THE CASE OF THEMUNIFICENT MUSKETEER,by Hal Charles
Anita Collins could feel the old juices starting to flow as she stepped into the rec room of the Glades Towers, where she had been living since her retirement as a detective with the Harbor City Police Department. Julia Evans, the manager of the complex, had asked her to stop by the office before she left to spend a long weekend with her daughter’s family in Atlanta. All Julia had said was, “I have a real mystery on my hands.”
“Anita,” said Julia, almost running toward her, “you’re not going to believe what happened!”
“Why don’t you settle down a bit and tell me.”
“You know the wide screen television set in the rec room breathed its last a few days ago,” said Julia excitedly.
Anita nodded.
“And, as I told you, after I checked with the local appliance store, I realized that with my budget I couldn’t afford to replace it.”
“Well,” said Anita with a chuckle, “I guess we’ll be watching a lot less TV in the evenings. Better sharpen my bridge skills. Now what’s the mystery you mentioned on the phone?”
Julia held up an envelope stuffed with cash. “I found this on my desk this morning. It contains the exact amount, including sales tax, that I need for a new wide screen.”
“Any ideas about who could be so generous?” said Anita.
Julia motioned toward three men sitting near the fireplace across the rec room. “It had to be one of the Musketeers. They heard me on the phone with the appliance store and knew exactly how much a replacement set would cost.”
Ah, the Three Musketeers, thought Anita. She had spent many an evening listening as the trio bent her ear with stories of their pre-retirement years. Even though they came from different backgrounds, the three had a one-for-all, and all-for-one attitude like their literary namesakes.
Since no crime had been committed, Anita probably should have left the benefactor’s identity a secret. But her investigator gene wouldn’t let her. Walking toward the men, she did a quick rundown of what she knew about each one.
Sid Cohen was the proverbial “life of the party,” always laughing and spinning tales to entertain his friends. He had a reservoir of stories since he had spent a career with the circus, traveling the world before finally settling down at the Glades.
Marty Culross had taught high school economics for 30 years. Since retiring he had put in countless hours volunteering his financial acumen to help Harbor City seniors with their taxes.
The third Musketeer, Russell Devereux, was somewhat of a puzzle. He always kept his past pretty much to himself, leading his fellow residents at the Glades to dream up stories involving spies and lurid adventures. Of course, Russell claimed what he called “plausible deniability.”
Seeing Anita approaching, Marty Culross used a thin slip of paper as a bookmark between the pages of the book he was reading as both Sid and Russell looked up from the chessboard on which they were engaged in what seemed an epic match.
“Anita,” said Sid, “thought you were headed out for a visit with your daughter. We were ready to look for a fourth for bridge.”
“Just stopped by to chat with Julia before I left,” said Anita, “and to say goodbye to my favorite musketeers.”
“Going to be a long weekend without any television,” said Russell. “I was looking forward to the Yanks versus the Sox.”
“Don’t worry, Russ,” said Marty; “you can borrow the latest Jack Reacher.” He held up the paperback. “Old Jack figures out a real doozy in this one.”
Getting a closer look at Marty’s paper bookmark, Anita smiled and thought, I think I’ve figured out a doozy of my own.
SOLUTION
Anita realized the piece of paper Marty used as a bookmark was a bank withdrawal slip. Reasoning that none of the three musketeers would have kept enough cash at the Glades to pay for the expensive wide screen, she figured Marty had withdrawn the funds from his bank account. Realizing Anita was on to his generosity, Marty drew her aside and admitted that his financial acumen had allowed him to build up a substantial bank account that he enjoyed sharing. He asked her to keep his secret, which she gladly did.
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.
GRIMALKIN,by Mark Thielman
“Easiest money we’d ever stecal, Flea.”
Flea ain’t my real name, but Mack has been calling me that since I owned this mangy dog in junior high. “I like the sound of that,” I said, leaning on the rickety kitchen table in Mack’s apartment. “Tell me about it.”
“You know my PO made me get a job. The dude really is a turd…”
Mack was gonna go off on his probation officer. He always did. I handed him a beer to shut him up before he could get going. “Just tell me about the money,” I said.
Mack looked irritated at the interruption, but he took the beer and, after a long pull, continued.
“So I got this new job sweeping at Wired.”
I nodded. I know the place. Wired is this internet-surfing coffee shop over by the university. It sits in this run-down building. The walls are decorated with posters for local bands. Rich kids buy soy mocha lattes and shit. Mack thought we could easily rip off the place. I once sold a college boy an eight-ball there.
“Yesterday, this lady came in,” Mack said. “And she’s wearing, like, a bathrobe and white socks.”
I didn’t say nothing to interrupt. Sometimes, you just have to wait Mack out. He’d eventually tell what he wanted to say about the money.
“I mean, she’s got gray hair sticking every direction out of her head like they can’t make up their minds which way to go. And she’s wearing, like tube socks and furry house shoes, Flea. The socks go up her legs and disappear underneath the robe. But that’s not the weird part. She comes in doing that old lady shuffle, wearing a bathrobe. She’s got this cat riding with her in one of the pockets. And the cat is this gray color, but like ugly gray, like somebody rubbed him in cigarette ashes.”
“Okay, don’t sound like somebody I want to date. What’s your point?” I lightly kick him with my toe to spur him along on his story.
“Keep your flipper feet off me,” he said.
I tuck my shoes back under my chair.
“My point,” Mack said, wagging his finger for emphasis. “I’m telling you, the bitch is weird, and she comes into Wired, and she is mumbling to herself, like, like talking rando words and stuff. And then I see the cat. And I’m thinking it’s got to be like a health code violation or something to bring this animal in here. And I’m watching to see if someone calls the cops ’cause, you know, it’d be nice to see someone else get in trouble for a change. And then she gets to the counter and orders a large chai tea with whole milk and an espresso shot thrown in.” He pauses.
“You’re like a coffee dude now?” I asked. “What do they call you guys, a barpriesta?”
“Doesn’t matter, man. Nobody orders that. So, I looked at Julie. She is the barista.” I guess Mack made a point of pronouncing it correctly to prove he was the expert. “And she’s talking to this guy who, I think, is like a regular at Wired. And then she makes this little whatever shrug and starts making up this lady’s brew.”
“Still not hearing why I care, Mack.”
“I go up to Julie and say, what up with the lady who’s got a cat in her pocket? And Julie gives me another whatever shrug, though I could tell she likes me. And then Julie says that Grimalkin is Maud’s service animal. Then I say, Grimalkin. And Julie says that, like, the old lady used to teach English or something, and that’s what she named the cat. Then I say, if she taught English, why don’t she name the cat Comma? And I think it’s pretty funny, but Julie doesn’t laugh. Then I say, you mean service like so she’ll get served and then leave. And Julie gives me the whatever shrug again. When she does, she spills a little of the lady’s brew. So, she pushes me the cup and tells me, ‘hand this to Maud,’ that she’ll be there in a second. She’s got to clean up this mess.”
I started making a circular motion with my hand, hoping Mack would get to the point if he had one.
“Then, I turn around and give the drink to the crazy lady, and she says, ‘thank you,’ but her voice sounds like she smoked more stuff than you and me combined, Flea. And up close, she looks worse than I thought. She’s got these thin lips that she keeps licking, so they’re all chapped. She’s got hairs sticking out of her chin, more beard than your brother can grow.”
“Mack, where’s this going?”
“But then she pulls this wad of cash out of her bathrobe pocket, not the one with the cat in it, the other one. And she peels off a Lincoln and lays it on the counter. I’m telling you, Flea, the lady was walking around with a fat roll. And I’m checking out the dinero, but then I get this feeling that the cat is watching me watch her. Like he knows what I’m thinking. And I look, and the cat is staring at me. Riding in this pocket like he’s a king or the president or something while this lady is walking around in a bathrobe and socks. The cat is living good. And he looks at me with that smashed nose and crazy weed-colored eyes. And I say, like to myself—not out loud—Comma the cat, someday our places are gonna get switched, and you’re gonna be working to kill a mouse just to find a meal, and I’m gonna have a sweet ride and a roll of cash.
“Then, Flea, I pull my head up ’cause I don’t want her to think I’m checking out her roll, and I see she’s got this necklace, this square kinda hanging on its side. It looks weird too, but no stranger than the rest of her. The chain looks like copper or something. And we just stand there for a bit. And the lady looks down at her watch and says, ‘Grimalkin, we must go,’ again with that voice. And then the lady spins around on her house shoes and leaves. Doesn’t wait for change or to see if she owes money. She just leaves. About that time, Julie comes up…”
“That’s the barpriesta?”
“Yeah, she comes up, and I’m thinking that lady probably stiffed her on the bill, and I’ll make up the difference, and Julie will dig me more. Or she’ll have overpaid, and I’ll say the lady told me to tell Julie to keep the change. Either way, it’s like a win-win, right? But nothing happens. Julie just opens the register. She drops the five-spot like it’s exactly the right amount, closes the cash drawer, and goes about her business.
“Remember how I told you I was kinda casing Wired, thinking maybe we could hit it?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’ve seen inside the cash drawer, and we never, ever have as much money as this lady walks around with in her bathrobe, man. And she is old.”
“Great, you planning to ask her for money? Tell her you need a latte or something?”
Mack shook his head so hard I thought he might snap it off his neck. “The bitch was wearing furry house shoes. I mean, how far could she have walked in those things? I tell Julie I’m taking my break and bust outside before she can argue, like I’m going for a smoke. And I follow the lady down the street, and about a block away, she stops at this house. I know where she lives, man.”
We were beginning to get somewhere. I raised an eyebrow to show I was still interested.
“House is old and looks in terrible shape. It’s got trees and bushes in the front yard. Almost impossible to see anything from the street.”
I started to see where Mack is going. I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“I didn’t see any outdoor lights. I bet the place is pitch black at night. And the windows looked rotted, like they’d fall apart if you pushed on them. Flea, I bet we could break in with a toothpick. I didn’t get too close. I did not want that lady to see me checking out her place. I just walked by a couple of times, staying on the sidewalk. Besides, I needed to get back to Wired. I told them I was on my break.”
I sat back and lit a blunt. I took a big hit, thinking. I passed the weed over to Mack. He smoked in short bursts, never exhaling. That’s his smoking style. He’s been doing it that way for as long as we’ve known each other.
This time, he exhaled suddenly, blowing smoke around his small apartment. “Damn, I forgot. I snapped a couple of pictures.” Mack pulled the phone from his pocket and scrolled until he found the photos of the lady’s house. “They ain’t the best. I took them holding the camera at my side. Didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention.”
I held out my hand and took his cell phone. While Mack got high, I resized the pictures with my fingers and roamed the exterior with my eyes. “House looks like hell, doesn’t it?” I swiped ahead through the photos. “No alarm signs, windows falling off. You sure there is anything inside worth stealing?”
“You should have seen the wad of cash the old lady carries.”
Mack didn’t need to say anything else.
* * * *
We hit a lick on the house late that night when we knew the old lady was asleep. The place was dark and quiet. Mack’s casing nailed it. The window alongside the driveway had nearly rotted away. The wood splintered quickly when we slid the pry bar under it, barely making any noise. And this overgrown bush blocked the view from the street. We could work in pitch blackness. A neighbor wouldn’t see us if she drove by looking.
The living room smelled like bacon, litter box, and sandalwood incense stewed together. The smell choked me at first, but then I got used to it, or maybe the tension of walking around a stranger’s house in the near total darkness mixed with the Easter-egg anticipation of hitting the burglar lottery helped me to forget about the odor. Also, smoking a little something before we hit the place helped me take the edge off the job.
Mack seemed calm. I’m guessing he smoked more than I did. I checked his eyes in the shifting colors of a vintage lava lamp. Red color splashed across Mack’s face. “Dude,” I said, “your pupils are huge. You’re like totally stoned, or you’ve got to call an ostocologist and get them checked.”
“I’m good,” Mack says. “These eyes help me see in the dark.”
We started looking around Maud’s living room. Her television was an old one, the size of an ice chest, worthless to us. She didn’t have a computer, at least not in this room.
