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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
This issue, we have a triple-play of original mysteries, with new works by John M. Floyd, Alan Orloff, and Pam Barnsley, plus a winter-themed solve-it-yourself puzzler, and something special: the first English-language appearance of a Raffles story by Theo von Blankensee and Kurt Matull. (See my introduction before the story.) We have more of their Lord Lister—Alias Raffles series coming up soon.
On the science fiction side, we have Anna Tambour’s “Murder at the Tip,” featuring a wedding and a murder in a Gothic future; a Christmas story by John Stilletto; plus classics by Philip Jose Farmer and James H. Schmitz. Rounding things out is the fourth part of Francis Jarman’s serial novel, The Eagle’s Wing.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“R.I.P., Van Winkler,” by John M. Floyd [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Winter Festival Thief,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“A Great Miracle Happened There,” by Alan Orloff [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Trouble at the Cannabis Dispensary,” Pam Barnsley [short story]
The Great Unknown, Theo von Blankensee and Kurt Matull [Lord Lister, Alias Raffles #1]
“Murder at the Tip,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Murder at the Tip,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
“Fairyland Planet,” by John Silletto [novelet]
“How Deep the Grooves,” by Philip Jose Farmer [short story]
“Rogue Psi,” by James H. Schmitz [short story]
The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman [serial novel, Part 4 of 4]
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Seitenzahl: 418
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
R.I.P., VAN WINKLER, by John M. Floyd
THE WINTER FESTIVAL THIEF, by Hal Charles
A GREAT MIRACLE HAPPENED THERE, by Alan Orloff
TROUBLE AT THE CANNABIS DISPENSARY, by Pam Barnsley
THE GREAT UNKNOWN, by Theo von Blankensee and Kurt Matull
INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
MURDER AT THE TIP, by Anna Tambour
FAIRYLAND PLANET, by John Silletto
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
HOW DEEP THE GROOVES, by Philip Jose Farmer
ROGUE PSI, by James H. Schmitz
THE EAGLE’S WING, by Francis Jarman
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE FACTIONS IN THE SENATE
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“R.I.P., Van Winkler” is copyright © 2023 by John M. Floyd and appears here for the first time.
“The Winter Festival Thief” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“A Great Miracle Happened There” is copyright © 2023 by Alan Orloff and appears here for the first time.
“Trouble at the Cannabis Dispensary” is copyright © 2023 by Pam Barnsley and appears here for the first time.
“The Great Unknown” is copyright © 2023 by John Betancourt and appears here for the first time.
“Murder at the Tip” is copyright © 2012 by Anna Tambour. Originally published in Light Touch Paper Stand Clear. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Fairyland Planet,” by John Silletto, was originally published in Infinity, October 1958.
“How Deep the Grooves,” by Philip Jose Farmer, was originally published in Amazing Stories, February 1963.
“Rogue Psi,” by James H. Schmitz, was originally published in Amazing Stories, August 1962.
The Eagle’s Wing is copyright © 2015 by Francis Jarman. Reprinted by permission of the author.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
This issue, we have a triple-play of original mysteries, with new works by John M. Floyd, Alan Orloff, and Pam Barnsley, plus a winter-themed solve-it-yourself puzzler, and something special: the first English-language appearance of a Raffles story by Theo von Blankensee and Kurt Matull. (See my introduction before the story.) We have more of their Lord Lister—Alias Raffles series coming up soon.
On the science fiction side, we have Anna Tambour’s “Murder at the Tip,” a Christmas story by John Stilletto, plus classics by Philip Jose Farmer and James H. Schmitz. Rounding things out is the fourth part of Francis Jarman’s serial novel, The Eagle’s Wing.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“R.I.P., Van Winkler,” by John M. Floyd [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Winter Festival Thief,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“A Great Miracle Happened There,” by Alan Orloff [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Trouble at the Cannabis Dispensary,” Pam Barnsley [short story]
The Great Unknown, Theo von Blankensee and Kurt Matull [Lord Lister, Alias Raffles #1]
“Murder at the Tip,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Murder at the Tip,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
“Fairyland Planet,” by John Silletto [novelet]
“How Deep the Grooves,” by Philip Jose Farmer [short story]
“Rogue Psi,” by James H. Schmitz [short story]
The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman [serial novel, Part 4 of 4]
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
R.I.P., VAN WINKLER,by John M. Floyd
Nurse Susan Harlow marched into the patient’s room at Rosewood Pines Rest Home, chart in hand, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Winkler. How’re you feeling today?”
She didn’t bother to look at the room’s only occupant or expect a response to her usual question. She was fairly sure Evan Winkler wasn’t feeling anything at all. He’d been in a coma for almost five years.
She checked the feeding tube and bags and monitors with movements as automatic as her greeting had been, and she was about to leave when something made her pause and look at the face of the motionless body in the bed. And when she did, she saw Winkler staring straight back at her.
“Is this Heaven?” he asked.
Nurse Harlow gasped and dropped her chart.
* * * *
Evan “Van” Winkler’s sudden recovery produced a similar reaction in almost everyone who heard about it. The facility director swallowed her chewing gum, a doctor in the lounge dumped his coffee in his lap, and when Winkler’s wife was called at home she dropped her phone. All this happened on a Friday morning. By that night, the news media was calling it everything from an unexpected development to a medical miracle. And the Miracle Man himself seemed to be doing well in both body and mind. According to sources at Rosewood Pines, Winkler thought Trump was still president and had never heard of COVID-19 or Yellowstone, but that was understandable. To him, today was five years ago.
As for me, I’d never heard of Van Winkler. I’m located sixty miles from where all this happened, and I seldom watch the news unless it involves one of my cases. But my fiancée, a paralegal named Debra Jo “D.J.” Wells, does. In fact, she said to me, at our regular lunch-spot the following Wednesday, that she and Winkler’s wife had lived in the same dorm in college, and further told me she remembered the events that had put him into the coma in the first place.
“What events?” I asked.
“Well, his injuries came from a car wreck, but Alicia—the wife—has always insisted the crash was the result of some kind of feud between him and a neighboring farmer.”
“A feud?” I couldn’t help smiling. “Like the Garfields and McCoys?”
“Hatfields,” D.J. said. “In this case, a fight over peach trees, of all things.”
“Peach trees?”
She took a bite of her po’boy and nodded, chewing. “I think so. Some kind of crop issue that turned violent. The thing is, this neighbor—Morton’s his name—was also the driver who hit Winkler’s car.”
“Big coincidence,” I said.
“Especially since Winkler’s ride was a Honda Civic and Morton’s was a three-ton pickup. According to the wife, it was a planned and intentional murder-by-vehicle. Well, attempted murder. Investigations followed, but no blame was ever assigned, and nothing came of it. And now this, with Lazarus coming back from the dead. Anyhow, when I saw the news report, I found Alicia’s number and gave her a call, and…”
Somewhere around this point in her story, I saw a stain on my shirt—mustard?—and started scrubbing it with my napkin. “So,” I said, when I noticed she’d abruptly stopped talking, “this wife was your college roommate?”
I then realized my usually sweet fiancée was staring at me the way her grumpy father had done, on the few occasions when I’ve been in the presence of my future in-laws. “I’ve never had a roommate, Tommy,” D.J. said, “and I don’t plan to unless you stop that and listen to me.”
I stopped scrubbing and listened.
“We were in the same dorm,” she said patiently. “My point is, since Alicia Winkler and I once knew each other, I called to tell her how pleased I was about her husband’s resurrection.”
“I heard that part.”
“Well, then Alicia called me, this morning, with more news, which led me to tell her about you and your services.”
“What ‘more news’?” I said, interested now. “And why would she need me?” My name, by the way, is Tom Langford, and my services are private investigations.
“I’ll let her tell you that,” D.J. said. “She’s driving here to see you this afternoon.”
* * * *
Which she did. As for why she needed me—
“I want you to find my husband,” Alicia Winkler said. “He’s disappeared.”
The two of us were sitting in my small and currently un-air-conditioned office at three o’clock on an August afternoon, and I wondered if the heat had affected my hearing. “Disappeared?” I asked. “I thought he’d just reappeared.”
“He did. Five days ago. They kept him at Rosewood Pines until yesterday, checking him over, then released him and sent him home with instructions to rest, do certain exercises, no visitors, etc. And then, this morning—”
She stopped and cleared her throat. I saw her eyes well up with tears.
“I woke up and he was gone.”
“Gone how?” I said. “In a car?” A brief image of a long-expired driver’s license flashed through my head.
“On foot.” She wiped her eyes and took a breath. “I found his work boots gone, and a pair of coveralls. And his deer rifle.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. “What kind?”
“Of rifle? Remington bolt-action. A seven-ten, I think.”
If I hadn’t already known she was a country girl, that answer would’ve told me. I said nothing while she stared blankly out the window. Not that there was much out there to see, except a hot day.
When she faced me again, I took a mini-recorder from a drawer, set it on the desktop, and said, “I think it’s time for some background.” I didn’t tell her I’d already heard part of the story, from D.J.
Alicia Winkler’s version took fifteen minutes. She was indeed the owner—actually co-owner, with her revived husband—of a sixty-acre farm in Hilton County, twenty acres of which was a peach orchard that served as its primary source of income. She’d grown up near there, she said, and so had Van (apparently no one called him Evan). They’d known each other in school but never dated until he’d finished a two-year stint in the Army and both had settled into jobs there in Rosewood. They soon tied the knot, and after several years of a sometimes-shaky marriage they quit their jobs to run Alicia’s family farm when her father died.
The rural life, she said, suited them both. The only real speedbumps were their growing disputes with a man named Ben Morton, a transplanted Yankee who’d bought another peach-farming operation nearby. Morton was a natural bully, and Van hated him at first sight. Their relationship grew steadily worse, and soon resembled that of spoiled children on the playground: threats, accusations, even fistfights. Fires were set in orchards, fences cut, farm vehicles sabotaged. Both men were hunters, and on several occasions, shots were reportedly fired at workers from a distance. The law always responded but did nothing, which didn’t surprise me—Hilton County’s sheriff was known for both laziness and corruption. Both businesses continued, Alicia said, but each suffered from the other’s presence.
And then, five years ago next month, Van Winkler was driving home from a trip to town in his wife’s Civic when Ben Morton’s F-350 truck plowed into him on a dangerous curve. No charges were filed, which I already knew, and a comatose Winkler took up residence in the local hospital and then in a long-term care facility. Morton said not one word to Alicia following the tragedy, and still hadn’t. In her view, Morton had murdered her husband and gotten away with it.
“I’ll never forgive him,” she said, wiping tears. “Never.”
Something in her voice said that was the end of the story. I switched off the recorder and we sat in silence. Outside and below my window, afternoon traffic honked and rumbled.
“One of the worst things about Van disappearing like he did today,” she said dully, “is that he would probably be able to tell us the truth about the car wreck that night. He could tell us Morton hit him on purpose. Then the world would know what I already know.”
After a moment I asked, “Did you and Van talk about any of that, yesterday? When he got home from the—facility?”
“No,” Alicia said. “His doctor said he’d given orders that no one should mention the coma—or the accident, or Ben Morton—to Van, and he suggested I not mention it either, at least for a few more days. Van didn’t seem to want to talk about much of anything anyway.”
I let a few seconds go by. “So—that’s it?”
“Pretty much,” she said.
More silence. Finally I looked her in the eye. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I get it, about the feud, the resentment, the competition. I do. But for this Morton guy to try to kill your husband, risking his own life in the process—and for Van to wake up from a coma and grab a gun and run off without a word? I’ve been doing this a while, Ms. Winkler, and something sounds wrong, to me.” I kept my gaze steady. “What else is going on, here?”
For a long time, she said nothing. At last she lowered her eyes.
“Ben Morton and I had an affair.”
I waited, watching her. This time I left the recorder off.
“I told you there were rocky times in my marriage. The thing with Morton was a mistake, a bad one, six years ago. It didn’t last long, and when I ended it and went back to Van it left the two of them despising each other even more.” She swallowed. “That’s what the car crash was about. Morton tried to kill him because of me. Well, the farm too, but also me. I’m sure of it.”
Another silence passed.
“And now that Van’s come out of the coma,” I said, “you figure Morton’ll try again.”
“Yes. I think Van figures that, too.”
“You think that’s why he left the house?”
She nodded. “Yes. Van’s scared, and not just for himself. He left here to try to protect me also.” She hugged her elbows and said, “I know what you’re thinking. Does Morton hate me too, for breaking up with him, years ago? Or does he want me back?”
I studied her face. “You tell me.”
She turned to the window again, frowning. “What he wants most is my farm. He’s tried twice in the past few years to buy it, and I’ve refused. He’ll probably run me out of business anyway, eventually, but he’s not a patient man. If Van was out of the picture—for good, this time—and if I was dead too, that’d solve all Morton’s problems. So it doesn’t matter if he hates me or not.” She focused on me and then leaned forward. “What matters is, you have to find my husband, Mr. Langford. You see that, don’t you? You have to find him before Morton does.”
I exhaled a lungful of air. She was probably right. Could this plot get any thicker? “And you have no ideas, none, about where he might’ve gone?”
“None,” she said.
For the next few moments, neither of us spoke. I didn’t bother suggesting she contact the police because I suspected it wouldn’t help. Even if they believed her, they stood little chance of finding her husband—and if they did, they’d bring him right back to her house, to the place where his life would be most at risk. Strangely enough, Van Winkler was probably as safe right now as he could be anywhere; he’d grown up on this land and was a hunter with military training. He knew the woods, and how to survive. I had a feeling that Alicia did too.
“I better go see this Mr. Morton,” I said. “Get a feel for what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s not thinking—or planning—anything.”
Alicia shook her head. “He won’t tell you, either way.”
“Doesn’t matter. I want him to know I’m working for you. That’s the first step.” I checked my watch. It was past four, and Rosewood was an hour away.
“Wait till morning,” she said, reading my mind. “Morton has a bunch of workers who live on his place. They’re all there at night, in close quarters. During the day they’re spread out all over the farm.”
That made sense. All things considered, who knew what might greet me at Morton’s place? And Winkler might even return home tonight. I agreed, and she and I worked out the details of what I figured would be a short-term contract. When she’d signed it, she gave me some more information about the two farms and Morton and where I could find his place.
As I stared at my closed door after she left, I couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to go to sleep and wake up five years later, and to remember that someone I knew had tried to kill me. And that he might try again.
I let out a sigh. Every time I thought I’d seen it all, something like this came along.
I locked the office, went down the stairs and out to my car, and headed south.
* * * *
It was almost seven by the time I found a motel in Rosewood, gobbled down a burger at the Wendy’s across the street, and dropped into a chair in my room. I caught the end of Wheel of Fortune—would Vanna White ever age?—before my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was D.J. She was home from work and calling from her apartment. I could hear a TV in the background. After reminding her that it was her fault I was out of town, I filled her in on the new case.
“So,” she said, “Alicia thinks her husband left because this man who probably tried to kill him, still hates them both enough to try again?”
“It’s possible.”
“And he might even try to kill her?”
“We don’t know. I think a lot depends on whether Ben Morton’s really a murderer, and whether he suspects her husband might’ve told her, yesterday, that the crash five years ago was intentional. I mean, there could suddenly be a live victim who can testify to what happened.”
“But Alicia told you she and her husband didn’t discuss the accident.”
“True,” I said. “But Morton doesn’t know that.”
Silence. I could hear her dog yapping. Probably wanted his supper.
“D.J.?”
She sighed into the phone. “I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t gotten you into this.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. At least I hoped so.
After another pause, she said, “Did you stop by your place, on your way out of town?”
“No need. I keep a travel bag in the trunk, toothbrush and all. You know that.”
“So, you have your gun?”
“The revolver. It’s in my bag.”
“And what about Alicia? If she’s in danger, too—”
“She told me she carries one in her purse. Short-barrel thirty-eight. Said she’s a good shot, too, handgun or rifle.”
I heard her breathing into the phone. “What a crazy situation this has turned out to be.”
Neither of us spoke for a while. After a minute or so she said, “What all did Alicia tell you about—OW!”
I sat up straight. “D.J.? You okay?”
“No. Before you called, I tried to feed Rambo a dog biscuit—he hates ’em—and he bit the hell out of me. My whole hand’s bandaged up.” Rambo was her toy poodle, maybe six inches tall. She adored him, but he could be a pain. “I might take him out back and shoot him.”
“He’d be too small a target. I’ve seen you shoot.”
“Hold on a second,” she said, ignoring that. “Let me cut this TV off.”
After a moment and a few cusswords, she said, “Where was I?”
“You wanted to know what Alicia told me about—”
“Yes. Ben Morton. Who is he, exactly?”
I spent some time updating her. Single, fifty or so, raised someplace up north, moved to Rosewood twelve years ago. Handsome in a dark sort of way. Apparently, he once survived a tornado that destroyed his barn while he was inside it, and, incredible as it sounded, he lost his left arm hunting alligators three years ago—Alicia said she remembered it because it was the first summer of the pandemic—and almost died before the others in his boat got him to a hospital. I couldn’t help thinking of Captain Hook. The point was, Morton was tough.
When I was done, she said, “Let me see if I understand this. Ben Morton, the man who most likely tried to murder Winkler, and who could now conceivably try to murder him a second time, and who hunts gators and lives with a dozen henchmen on his property—”
“Farm workers,” I said.
“—is the one you plan to have a chat with, tomorrow?”
“Well, when you put it that way—”
“I’ll put it this way,” she said. “You be careful, Tommy. Understand?”
“Look who’s talking. No dogs bit me today.”
When we’d swapped I-love-yous and disconnected, I called Alicia Winkler to tell her where I was, took a shower, and watched old movies on TV until eleven or so. Long day or not, I wasn’t sleepy. Finally I fetched my overnight bag, sat down at the room’s little desk, and decided to do something I’d done regularly while in the Army but had neglected in recent years. And, just like in the old days, it made me feel better about whatever tomorrow might bring.
I cleaned my gun.
* * * *
Thursday morning was overcast and smelled like rain. I was out the door by eight o’clock. I already had directions to Ben Morton’s farm and figured now was as good a time as any. I was climbing into my car when my cell phone buzzed.
“Have you heard the news?” Alicia asked.
“What news?” It didn’t take a detective to note the edge in her voice.
“Didn’t you have breakfast at the motel? I’m sure they’re talking about it.”
“I skipped breakfast.”
“Well, you can skip the trip to Morton’s, too,” she said. I heard her pause, and swallow hard. “Remember the directions I gave you, to my place?”
“I remember.”
“Come quick,” she said. “I’ll probably be having other visitors soon.”
* * * *
I found her in a rocker on the front porch of a white farmhouse, wringing her hands. In the distance was a long building that she’d already told me was filled with customers every spring, when the peach crop came in. It looked empty now. I studied her face as I approached the house. She looked old enough to be the mother of the woman who’d visited me in my office.
“Ben Morton,” she said, “was shot dead in his barnyard last night.”
I stopped halfway up the porch steps.
“He was standing there with half a dozen of his hands, just talking, and all of a sudden, he dropped like a sack of potatoes. All six workers said they heard a rifle shot, from somewhere in the hills to the south.” She patted her heart and said, “Bullet hole, right here.”
I sagged into a chair facing her. “Who told you all this?”
“Sheriff’s deputy, an hour ago. An old friend. He said they were called to Morton’s at ten last night.” Alicia looked at me with a face as pale as a gravestone. “It had to be Van. Right?”
Surely it was. Coma or not, a frightened man possibly bent on revenge vanishes with a rifle and shortly afterward, his enemy dies from a rifle shot? But—
“I don’t know,” I said. “Did your husband’s gun have a scope?”
“No. Why does that matter?”
“It matters because it was apparently a faraway shot, at night, at one man in a group of seven. How could Van have known for sure, at that distance, which one was Morton?”
She frowned, thinking. I could see a glimmer of hope in her eyes. But then it winked out.
“Because Morton was handicapped,” she said. “I told you, remember? And he doesn’t wear a prosthetic. You wouldn’t need a scope to identify the only one-armed man in the group.”
That made sense. And I had no other argument. “You’re right. It must’ve been Van.”
I was still stunned. There were always surprises in an investigation. But this? This was no longer a PI case—it was now murder, which was a police matter. I found myself wishing, for several reasons, that she—we?—had notified them sooner about Van’s disappearance.
Well, they would know about it soon. They would come here with questions, and then there’d be a full-scale manhunt. The sheriff, and everyone else, was aware of the bad blood between Morton and the Winklers. “You’ll need to tell them everything,” I said, in case she hadn’t realized that. “It’d be even better if you could help find him.”
“How would I do that?” Alicia asked. “That’s why I hired you.” She drew a shaky breath. “I don’t know any more now than—” She stopped suddenly and looked at me.
“What?” I said. Her eyes had gone wide.
“Unless he doesn’t plan on coming back.” Her voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “Maybe he never did plan to.”
I knew what she meant. I hadn’t even considered it—but now that Morton was dead…
She was sitting frozen in her chair. All the color had drained from her cheeks.
“We don’t have many suicides here,” she said, still whispering. “But when we do—there’s a cliff, about two miles north—”
At that point, I think we both knew.
“Show me,” I said.
* * * *
She did, and sure enough, Evan Winkler was there. His body lay crumpled on the rocky ground at the bottom of the fifty-foot cliff. Ten feet away, and somehow undamaged because of a patch of soft grass, lay the old Remington. That would be the proof, when ballistics matched it to the bullet that killed Ben Morton—and I had no doubt it would. For the moment I’d forgotten Alicia, and when I looked at her she seemed about to faint. I helped her stumble to a flat rock near the body and eased her onto it, then phoned the sheriff’s office and sat quietly beside her to wait. It was a sad day, and a terrible ending to a situation that had begun so happily last week. “I wonder what’s worse,” Alicia murmured at one point, as we sat there beside her dead husband. “To lose a loved one, or to be given hope and then lose him all over again.” Once more I noticed how much she seemed to have aged.
At last the cavalry arrived. Hundreds of questions followed, some of them difficult. Bottom line was, Van Winkler had probably been released from professional care too soon, but that was water under the bridge. What everyone seemed to agree on was that the wife appeared to have not been involved in the resulting murder. She hadn’t filed a missing-person report, but that required a twenty-four-hour wait, and Van hadn’t been gone that long. Besides, there was the fact that she had hired me to find him.
During a break in the questioning, when we were alone, she brought up the matter of my fee. I told her there was no fee. I hadn’t located Van Winkler, she had—and I don’t charge clients for work I didn’t do. Much later, after constant grilling and head-shaking and hand-waving by just about everyone in Hilton County law enforcement, we were at last dismissed and allowed to return to her house, where I’d left my car.
When we arrived, Alicia and I trudged up the porch steps and dropped into the two rocking chairs we’d left earlier. She hung her purse strap over the arm of hers and I maneuvered my chair so I was beside her. We said nothing for a long time, just sat there looking out over the big front yard. Birds sang in the treetops; squirrels played in the lower branches. Somewhere to the west, behind the house, thunder growled. On the green hillside past the end of the driveway, three brown deer stood looking at us as if from a painting.
“It just occurred to me,” Alicia said finally, “that both the person I loved most and the one I hated most are gone.” She gave me a sad look. “Ain’t that a note.”
“But you’re here now,” I said. “That accounts for something.”
“Yeah, well.” She took a long breath and said, “I’m also now the wife of a murderer.”
There wasn’t much I could say, to that. In fact, there wasn’t much left to say at all. After awhile longer I stood and held out my hand. She squeezed it and half-smiled, and I left.
When I turned out of her driveway onto the paved road, the deer I’d seen were gone.
* * * *
“So, how’d it go?” D.J. asked.
I was on my cell phone at the motel after a late lunch at Wendy’s, packing what little I had into my travel bag. I’d started to call her earlier, on the way back from Alicia’s, but didn’t. I’d tuned in a country station instead, on the car radio. Sturgill Simpson and I seemed to agree that life ain’t fair and the world is mean.
“How’s your hand?” I said.
“Hurts like hell. I’ve been a lefty all day today—good thing I don’t drive a stick shift.”
Good thing for all the other motorists too, I thought. “You still at work?”
“Yes,” she said. “Stop stalling—and don’t tell me I’ll see it all on tonight’s news.”
I’d been ready to suggest exactly that. But I didn’t blame her for wanting to know. I pushed my bag aside, sat on the bed, and gave her whole story. Outside, rain was falling.
When I’d finished, dead silence. After maybe ten seconds she said, “Unbelievable.”
“I agree. But true.”
“So—what happens now?”
“Nothing. One, an unlikely murderer is dead, by his own hand; two, a likely attempted-murderer is dead also, so no one’ll ever know for sure what happened five years ago; and three, the only survivor of all this is in shock. So it’s an ending, but not a good one.”
“And I got you involved for nothing,” D.J. said.
“Not for nothing. If I hadn’t come here last night I’d have probably been at your place, trying to defend myself against Rambo the Devil Dog.”
“Well, you can pay me back with dinner out tonight. I can’t cook with only one arm.”
“Deal,” I said. “In fact, how about Cerami’s on Lakeland? We haven’t been there in—”
I stopped in midsentence.
“Tommy?” she said.
I sat rock-still, thinking about something she’d said.
With only one arm?
“Tommy? Are you there?”
I drew a deep breath and let it out. “Sorry, Deej. I’ll have to call you back.”
“What? Wait a minute. What’s going—”
I disconnected, switched my phone to SILENT, and left the room. Afterward, I could hardly remember walking through the now-blowing rain to the car, climbing in, starting the engine. The pieces were fitting together fast now, one after the other. My overriding thought, as I pulled out of the motel lot and onto the wet highway, was How could I have missed it?
* * * *
Twenty minutes later I was sitting again on the front porch of Alicia’s farmhouse. This time I was alone. When I’d parked and walked through the downpour to the house ten minutes ago, I noticed her car was here and her purse was still hanging from the arm of her rocker, but there was no sign of her. I had taken a seat in the chair beside hers, and waited. Yellow lightning forked the sky. Thunder rolled. Eventually Alicia stuck her head out the door and looked at me.
“I thought I heard a car drive up,” she said. “You all right?”
“Fine. Just thought of some questions, before I head back. Is this a bad time?”
“I was about to get started on the arrangements.” She came out, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes, and slumped into her chair. “Ask away.”
I hesitated, then said, “Tell me about the peach business.”
She gave me a weak smile. “You thinking of investing?”
I chuckled. “No. I was just wondering how profitable it is, that kind of thing.”
“Well, let’s see—I got maybe three thousand trees, and they produce thirteen, fourteen thousand bushels of peaches a year. I also grow blackberries, plums, and pecans, and sell most of ’em on site. There’s a ton of overhead—workers, pickers, equipment, and such—but on a good year, it can be a good living.”
“Can be?”
“Not all years are good,” she said.
I nodded, then asked, “How about Ben Morton’s farm?”
“Size wise, about the same. Production too, I expect.”
“But in the past, the two of you wound up splitting—or sharing, I guess—the market.”
“We did,” she said. Then, frowning a bit: “Why do you ask?”
“Well—it just occurred to me that you’re now the sole owner of this place—I assume you were half-owner, during the coma years—and that your only competitor is now gone.”
She nodded also. “Guess that’s true. I doubt Morton’s kinfolks’ll keep things going.”
“Which could make you an extremely wealthy woman.”
Alicia stopped rocking and gave me a look. “What’s your point, exactly?”
I stayed quiet a while, holding her gaze. Around us—on all three sides of the porch—was a shining curtain of rainwater. Thunder crashed and boomed.
“We agreed your husband shot Ben Morton last night, out of that group of field hands, because he picked the one person who was missing a limb. The thing is, Ms. Winkler, he couldn’t have known that. If the gator accident that took Morton’s arm happened three years ago, Van was already in his coma.”
It took a second for that to register. “Well—he must’ve been told—”
“He wasn’t. You said so. Nothing about Morton or the coma circumstances was mentioned to him, by you or anyone else.”
She didn’t reply. Her face had shut down, her eyes hard as flint.
“Van never disappeared from here at all,” I said. “It was you who shot Morton, using your husband’s rifle. Problems solved, archenemy gone, all with one bullet. You said, yourself, you’re a good shot. After that, you came back here to the house, knocked Van out with pills, or maybe a hammer, dressed him in his coveralls and work boots, drove him to the cliff, and pushed him over the edge. But not his rifle. You wiped his rifle clean of prints, went down afterward, and put it on that patch of grass beside him so it’d be in good shape for the ballistics test. Then, the next morning—this morning—you called me and told me about Morton’s death. From that point on, it was all a performance.” I paused. “That sound about right?”
Her mouth was a thin line, her face pale and drawn. Without a word she turned to look at the falling rain. So did I. Thunder rumbled but a bit softer now.
“You knew that hiring me would make you look even more innocent,” I said. “A murderer doesn’t pay a private investigator to try to find her victim.”
I turned again to face her—and froze. Her purse was open now, and she was holding a revolver in her hand. It was cocked and pointed at my chest.
“Hiring you was a mistake, Mr. Langford. But not as big as the one you just made.”
The two of us sat looking into each other’s eyes. Hers had turned ice-cold.
“I told you yesterday that I carry a gun in my purse,” she said. “A good detective would’ve remembered that.”
She smiled and pulled the trigger.
The hollow CLICK was loud, even with the noise of the storm. Her shocked gaze moved from me to the gun, and as she looked at it, I took the six .38 cartridges from my shirt pocket and showed them to her. “You’re right,” I said. “And waiting out here alone gave me time to think.”
For another moment we stared at each other. I was tensed and ready for anything, but there was no need. Her shoulders and face sagged at the same time. Gently I took the empty weapon from her hand.
As if at a signal, the rain eased up and then stopped, and the only sound was the drip, drip, drip of water from the edges of the roof.
* * * *
For the second time that day, I spent hours answering questions. This time I did it alone; Alicia Winkler had been transported to the jail in Rosewood. It was almost dark when I called D.J.’s cell phone, on my way back to the motel, to tell her I’d need to stay another night. It went straight to voicemail, which wasn’t surprising—she was always careless about charging her phone. So, I called her landline, which turned out to be a mistake.
“Langford?” a man’s voice growled, from her apartment. “Where are you?”
“Mr. Wells,” I said, cursing my luck. I was too tired for this. “Is Debra Jo there?”
“She’s gone to the store to bring her mother and me something to eat.” I could hear Rambo barking in the background. “She said you were supposed to take us to dinner.”
I was supposed to take HER to dinner. “Sorry, Mr. Wells. I’m still working.” Thank God.
“Well, that’s pretty inconsiderate if you ask me. We don’t visit often.” Then: “What’s the matter with this damn dog?”
“He’s probably hungry,” I said. “But whatever you do, don’t feed him a dog biscuit.”
I heard him snort. “I’ll feed him whatever the hell I want. Janice?” he called. “Hand me one a them dog biscuits.” Then, he hung up.
I hung up, too. And felt better than I had all day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John M. Floyd’s short stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Strand Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, Best American Mystery Stories, Best Mystery Stories of the Year, and many other publications. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is an Edgar finalist, a Shamus Award winner, a five-time Derringer Award winner, and the 2018 recipient of the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s lifetime achievement award.
THE WINTER FESTIVAL THIEF,by Hal Charles
Surrounded by the chainsaw din and the swirling snowflakes, Detective Kelli Stone looked down sadly at the stump of what had been the famous Founders’ Oak.
“I hate to see it gone after almost two-hundred-and-fifty years of life,” said Samantha Manners, the town’s Parks Director, “especially with the Shadows Falls Winter Festival starting tonight. Follow me.”
“To think this particular oak was planted when the towns’ soldiers returned from the Revolutionary War,” said the detective, skirting a collection of sawdust, wood chips, and men cutting up limbs.
As they entered the Parks office, Samantha said, “The mayor made the decision to fell that disease-ridden tree late yesterday afternoon. He was afraid it might fall on Festival goers, but that’s not why I called you. This morning I discovered somebody had stolen the early ticket gate from the Winter Festival. I had over twenty thousand dollars in my bottom desk drawer.”
“Risky place to keep money—”
“The early pre-festival sales ended yesterday. Our awards ceremony last night in the adjoining pavilion recognized the Scouts with the most tickets sold,” said Samantha. “I had planned to take the cash to the bank this morning. Then I discovered this.” She turned a metal box upside down. “All because I was too tired to drop by the bank’s night depository after the banquet.”
“Would you mind putting that box down so you don’t smudge any possible prints?” said Kelli. “I assume your office was locked. How many other people have a key?”
“Three. Janet Manchester, my secretary…Assistant Parks Director Cynthia Prouty…and my handyman, Bobby Ramsbotham.” Samantha sat down at her desk and scribbled the cell numbers for each person on a piece of note paper, which she handed to the detective.
After four rings, Janet Manchester answered. “Sorry. I was asleep. I left the celebration early last night because I found out my sister was in the hospital. My husband and I drove all night, and we’re now over 500 miles away.”
Samantha confirmed Janet had indeed departed before the celebration ended. Kelli found Bobby Ramsbotham at the park’s entrance, where the beanpole handyman was driving stakes to reinforce the temporary ice rink.
“Where were you last night, Bobby?”
“Miss Samantha had me working like a mule. I had to cook for the banquet and then clean up the pavilion afterward.”
“Anybody able to vouch for you?”
“No. Town’s too cheap to hire another handyman to help me. I’d a quit long ago if Miss Samantha hadn’t taken a chance on me…you know, because I did time.”
According to Samantha, her Assistant Director, feeling sick, had gone home right after lunch the previous day. When Cynthia didn’t answer her phone, Kelly drove out to her house.
Wrapped in a blanket, Cynthia opened her front door for the detective. Her eyes were red, and she was clutching a box of Kleenex.
“You feeling okay?” said Kelli.
“Not really. Come in.”
“How sick are you?” said, Kelli, skirting some boots beside the door.
Cynthia sobbed into her tissue and plopped herself down on an oversized love seat. “I have a confession to make. I’m not really sick. My husband left me yesterday afternoon, and I haven’t been able to move much since then. Did Samantha send you to fetch me from my pity party?”
“So,” said Kelli, dodging the question, “you’ve been here since early yesterday afternoon?”
“My husband, Wayne, and I had it out right here, and I just felt paralyzed. Did you know our favorite spot for picnicking used to be right under Founders’ Oak? Now that tree, like Wayne, is gone forever.”
“Actually,” said the detective, “you and I are going to move now, right to the city jail.”
SOLUTION
Since the Founders’ Oak had been felled after Cynthia went home the day before, the only way the Assistant Parks Director could have known that was if she had gone back to the Parks office after the tree was down. As additional evidence, Kelli found sawdust and wood chips on the soles of the boots by the front door.
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.
A GREAT MIRACLE HAPPENED THERE,by Alan Orloff
The instant Morty Weissbaum opened the door to the Palm Cove Shores community clubhouse party room, he broke into a wide smile. The sounds—children laughing, mostly—and smells—fried food—of the annual Hanukkah party hit him full force. He was immediately transported back to his childhood, when his family gorged themselves on potato latkes and sufganiyot—doughnuts—for eight straight days.
Getting eight gifts was also pretty great, especially when you were a kid.
Now, Morty was the program director of his fifty-five-plus retirement community, a job he truly enjoyed. They’d nicknamed him the Gamefather because of all the games he ran, but he answered to anything. Throughout the year, he’d always be planning one activity or another, often many concurrently, but this party was one of his favorites. He’d started it fifteen years ago—just after he and Elsie moved in—and with each iteration it seemed to grow in size and importance.
“Hey, Morty!” Nora Hirsch, Morty’s assistant, wiped her hands on her apron, then leaned in to give Morty a peck on the cheek. “Everything is going great.”
“Good to hear.” The sounds of kids horsing around warmed Morty’s heart. They were the residents’ grandchildren, and the only thing better than their laughter was the beaming face of a proud grandparent.
“We went ahead and lighted the menorahs. Fourteen this year, a new record.”
Nora had spearheaded this party, and she’d taken charge like a pro. She organized the potluck dinner, and she bought all the stuff needed for the games. To make things more festive, she encouraged each family to bring their own menorahs so they could do a mass candle lighting. Fourteen menorahs all glowing on the same table was quite a sight. “Impressive. Everyone seems to be having a great time.”
“They are.” Nora pointed to a couple of tables laden with food. “The buffet is open. I figured we’d do the gift exchange after everyone has eaten, in an hour or so. Right now, there’s a fierce game of dreidel going in the corner.” She tipped her head at a bunch of kids sitting in a circle on the floor, small stacks of gold foil-wrapped chocolate gelt in front of them.
Morty nodded. “Ah, some future gamblers. Glad to see we’re raising them right.”
Nora touched Morty on the arm and lowered her voice. “And the, uh, grown-up game of dreidel has already started in the back room. They were asking about you.”
“In that case, I’d better go say hello.”
Morty made his way through the party, greeting people with a pat on the back and a hag sameach—happy holiday—until he made it to the back room. This time when he opened the door, he was greeted with the shouts of adult men and the stink of cigar smoke.
Four men sat around a poker table, stacks of paper money in front of each, a dreidel in the middle. A menorah stood on a nearby mantel, candles burning, doing its best to imbue the proceedings with a Hanukkah feel.
“There he is, the big macher himself. Grab a seat, Morty,” David Cohen said. “It’s Chaim’s turn.”
Chaim Schwartz was a diminutive man with a big mouth. He was a Hasid, a member of the most orthodox sect of Judaism, and he had the spiral hair dangling down beside each ear—the payos—to prove it. He picked up the wooden dreidel and mumbled a prayer to himself. Then he gave it a spin. The dreidel danced on the tabletop a moment, then came to rest, displaying a shin.
“Loser,” Jerry Edelman called. “Pay the pot.”
The rules of dreidel were simple. It was a gambling game, so to start each round, every player anted into the pot. Every side of the four-sided top displayed a Hebrew letter, each with a different meaning, and the letter dictated the player’s action. If you spun the dreidel and a nun came up, you did nothing. If a gimel came up, you got the whole pot. A hey meant you got half the pot, but if your spin ended up with a shin, you had to put in another chip.
Those were the standard rules, and the kids usually played with jelly beans or pieces of chocolate gelt as their chips.
The rules in the back room had been slightly modified.
If you rolled a gimel, you still won the entire pot. But if you rolled any of the other letters, you had to put in $100. And every time the pot got cleared, you had to ante another hundred bucks.
Needless to say, the stakes were a lot higher than winning a few pieces of chocolate.
If Morty came away with any winnings, he always donated them to his favorite charity, Books for Kids. He wasn’t sure what the others did with theirs—and really, it wasn’t any of his business.
Next, it was Jerry Edelman’s turn. Jerry had the biggest stack of bills in front of him, and it was obvious luck had been on his side. Morty knew the other players couldn’t be happy about that because Jerry had a tendency to rub people the wrong way. He’d been a good friend and a part of their core group for a decade, so everyone was used to his abrasive manner. But that didn’t mean they liked it.
Jerry picked up the dreidel and blew on it. “Grandma needs a new schmatta. C’mon, gimel!” He spun the top with his meaty fingers. After about ten seconds, it landed, gimel-side up. “Oh, baby. Come to Grandpapa!” With two hands, he collected the pot, a pile of one-hundred-dollar bills.
“The fix is in,” Saul Ruskov said. “I’m not calling you a gonif, but you’ve spun a gimel three out of your last four turns.”
“Yeah,” Chaim piped in. “I think that dreidel might be loaded.”
David added, “It does seem awfully suspicious.”
“What can I say, I’m a lucky SOB.”
“Lucky, my ass. You’ve got something up your sleeve, Edelman.” Saul’s voice cut through the background chatter.
“Okay, settle down, everybody. We’re all friends here, right?” Morty said.
“Friends don’t cheat their friends.” Chaim glared at Jerry.
“I’m sure it’s just a lucky streak,” Morty said, not completely buying it, though he couldn’t imagine how Jerry could be cheating since they all were using the same dreidel. “We all get them, from time to time.”
“Exactly,” Jerry said. “And you’re all just losers.”
The others grumbled to themselves, and as program director, Morty felt he needed to defuse the situation before somebody said something they’d regret later. “Okay, my turn. Let’s see if I can break Jerry’s streak.” He gave it a spin, but there was a loud scream from the other room before the dreidel fell.
Morty popped out of his chair and hustled into the party room.
A set of curtains covering the large picture window was ablaze. It appeared that a couple of menorahs on the nearby table had fallen over, and the candles had set things into motion. Gray smoke filled the air, and people were screaming.
Nora had corralled all the kids into the far corner, and another woman, Chaim’s wife, Sylvia, was attempting to put out the fire. She flailed at the flames with a wet dishcloth, but it didn’t seem to help very much.
Morty rushed to the fire extinguisher on the wall, yanked the release lever, and grabbed the red cylinder. He ran over to the flames and aimed the hose at the burning curtains. “Stand back, everybody. I’ll take care of this.”
