Black Cat Weekly #137 E-Book

Veronica Leigh

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 589

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

On the mystery side of things, we have original tales by Veronica Leigh (one that looks to be the start of a new series) and Richard A. McMahon (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has selected a great tale by Anna Scotti, and our novel is The Talleyrand Maxim, by Golden Age author J.S. Fletcher. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction and fantasy side, our lead item is a new feature—a portfolio by artist Ron Miller. Ron has joined our staff as art director and will be providing covers from his vast body of work. But I wanted our readers to know how great an artist he is, so here is a collection of some of his best covers. As for the fiction, we have a monster-in-the-mist story by British master John Glasby, plus an all-star lineup of classic authors: Frank Belknap Long, Donald A. Wollheim, Henry Slesar, and Philip José Farmer. Great stuff.

Here’s the complete lineup—

Cover Art:
Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Mr. George,” by Richard A. McMahan [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“An Open and Shut Case,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“That Which We Call Patience,” by Anna Scotti [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughters,” by Veronica Leigh [short story]
The Talleyrand Maxim, by J.S. Fletcher [novel]

Special Feature:
“Cover Portfolio,” by Ron Miller

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“The Thing in the Mist,” by John Glasby [short story]
“Mr. Caxton Draws a Martian Bird,” by Frank Belknap Long [short story]
“Saknarth,” by Donald A. Wollheim [short story]
“Mr. Loneliness,” by Henry Slesar [short story]
“The Celestial Blueprint,” by Philip José Farmer [short story]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

MISTER GEORGE, by Richard A. McMahan

AN OPEN AND SHUT CASE, by Hal Charles

THAT WHICH WE CALL PATIENCE, by Anna Scotti

THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER’S DAUGHTERS, by Veronica Leigh

THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM, 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

COVER PORTFOLIO, by Ron Miller

Empery, by Michael P. Kube-McDowell

Ripper, ed. by Gardner Dozois

Strider’s Galaxy, by John Grant

A Company of Heroes, by Ron Miller

Hellspark, by Janet Kagan

The Spirit Ring, by Lois McMaster Buhold

Demon Daughter, by Lois McMaster Buhold

Dracula, by Bram Stoker

Velda, by Ron Miller

Madame Butterfly

Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley

Satyrday, by Steven Bauer

The Vor Game, by Lois McMaster Bujold

The Assassins of Thasalon, by Lois McMaster Bujold

Future Crime, ed. by Gardner Dozois & Jack Dann

Worlds Enough and Time, by Joe Haldeman

Purrfect Plunder, by John Cleve

The Iron Tempest, by Ron Miller

River Horses, by Allen Steele

Confessions of a Twentysomething Psycho, by Nimrah Pervez

Moebius, by Jack Peachum

Heretic, by Patrick Seaman and Blake Seaman

An Exchange of Hostages, by Susan R. Matthews

Leaves of Flame, by Joshua Palmatier

Slow Dancing Through Time, by Gardner Dozois

The Broken Worlds, by Raymond Harris

The Dragon Lensman, by David A. Kyle

The Iron Tempest, by Ron Miller

An Amputee’s Guide to Jules Verne, by Nick DiMartino

Shatrujeet!, by G.W. Morgan

THE THING IN THE MIST, by John Glasby

MR. CAXTON DRAWS A MARTIAN BIRD, by Frank Belknap Long

SAKNARTH, by Donald A. Wollheim

MR. LONELINESS, by Henry Slesar

THE CELESTIAL BLUEPRINT, by Philip Jose Farmer

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly.

blackcatweekly.com

*

“Mr. George” is copyright © 2024 by Richard A. McMahan and appears here for the first time.

“An Open and Shut Case” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“That Which We Call Patience” is copyright © 2019 by Anna Scotti. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Nov/Dec 2019. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughters” is copyright © 2024 by Veronica Asey and appears here for the first time.

The Talleyrand Maxim, by J. S. Fletcher, originally appeared in 1919.

“The Thing in the Mist” is copyright © 1967 by John Glasby. Originally published in Supernatural Stories #109. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Mr. Caxton Draws a Martian Bird” is copyright © 1954 by Frank Belknap Long. Originally published in FantasticUniverse, July 1954. Although this story is in the public domain in the United States, it remains in copyright in Spain and other countries. Reprinted by kind permission of Lily Doty, Mansfield Doty, and the Estate of Frank Belknap Long.

“Saknarth,” by Donald A. Wollheim, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, Spring 1942, under the pseudonym “Millard Verne Gordon.”

“Mr. Loneliness,” by Henry Slesar, was originally published in Super-Science Fiction, February 1957.

“The Celestial Blueprint,” by Philip José Farmer, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, July 1954.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

On the mystery side of things this issue, we have original tales by Veronica Leigh (one that looks to be the start of a new series) and Richard A. McMahon (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has selected a great tale by Anna Scotti, and our novel is The Talleyrand Maxim, by Golden Age author J.S. Fletcher. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction and fantasy side, our lead item is a new feature—a portfolio by artist Ron Miller. Ron has joined our staff as art director and will be providing covers from his vast body of work. But I wanted our readers to know how great an artist he is, so here is a collection of some of his best covers. As for the fiction, we have a monster-in-the-mist story by British master John Glasby, plus an all-star lineup of classic authors: Frank Belknap Long, Donald A. Wollheim, Henry Slesar, and Philip Jose Farmer. Great stuff.

Here’s the complete lineup—

Cover Art:

Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Mr. George,” by Richard A. McMahan [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“An Open and Shut Case,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“That Which We Call Patience,” by Anna Scotti [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughters,” by Veronica Leigh [short story]

The Talleyrand Maxim, by J.S. Fletcher [novel]

Special Feature:

“Cover Portfolio,” by Ron Miller

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Thing in the Mist,” by John Glasby [short story]

“Mr. Caxton Draws a Martian Bird,” by Frank Belknap Long [short story]

“Saknarth,” by Donald A. Wollheim [short story]

“Mr. Loneliness,” by Henry Slesar [short story]

“The Celestial Blueprint,” by Philip José Farmer [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

MISTER GEORGE,by Richard A. McMahan

I was reading about the Wildcats chances at the Final Four while I was finishing my breakfast when my mother called.

“Bo, I need you to do something for me. Work like,” Mama said when I answered the phone.

“Yes, ma’am.” Putting the paper down, I glanced at the envelope unopened on the table. Still unopened for over a week. During my dozen plus years with the Kentucky State Police I’ve had plenty of people ask favors of me, but never my mother. The way I was raised, you don’t tell your mama no, regardless of how old you get to be.

“It’s Miss Rose,” Mama said. “Someone went and killed Mister George, and I want you to find out who.” She told me Miss Rose was waiting at home over in Shelby County, and that Mister George was in the kitchen, very dead. I promised her I would go see Miss Rose.

After putting on my coat, I slid my badge on my belt right next to my Smith 10mm, but I paused before I reached the front door. My eyes were drawn back to the unopened envelope propped against the salt and pepper shakers on my kitchen table. I had left my breakfast plate sitting at the table, a benefit of not answering to anyone. I grabbed the envelope and shoved it into the inside pocket of my sport coat. Today. I’ll read it today.

Once in my car, I radioed Post and told them I was 10-8, in service and en route to Shelby County. The ride was uneventful, except for some cross talk from Shelby County sheriff’s deputies.

I pulled into the gravel drive of a house on State Road 53 midway between La Grange and Shelbyville. Miss Rose’s place was built back when Ike was running the country, with both yards and houses made big and rambling. A Buick long as a yacht was moored under the carport. Before I could ring the bell, Miss Rose swung open the door and greeted me with a smile of tightly pursed lips. “Bo, thank you for coming over,” she said, ushering me into the living room. Her eyes were red, but her makeup was in place, not a bit smudged. She had on a dress, her best earrings, and a pearl necklace—June Cleaver at seventy.

Her living room was quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. On the coffee table in front of the couch was a dulled silver serving set. I sat in a stiff wingchair that smelled of mothballs, and Miss Rose took her place on the couch. She poured me a cup of coffee from the serving set, handing me a bone-china cup with a chipped saucer before she broached the subject of why I was there. “Your mother said you’ve done quite well with the State Police, a Sergeant no less. I hate to bother you on your day off.” When she said this, her eyes strayed to a black and white photo on the mantle of a young man in his Air Force dress blues.

“Don’t worry, Miss Rose; I’m on duty.” I took a sip of the coffee. “I’m a Detective.”

“Oh, you’re a plainclothes man,” Miss Rose said, sagely nodding her head. “Just like the lawmen on Law & Order.”

“Yes, ma’am, just like them.”

“I’m sure you’ll want to see”—Her lower lip trembled slightly less than her voice.—“his body.”

“In a moment,” I replied. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.” As she spoke, I worried with the wedding band on my ring finger. It’s a habit I do to make myself stay calm and keep my tongue quiet while I let someone tell me their story. I learned a long time ago if I just listened to folks instead of firing questions at them that I learned a lot more. I’ve done the twist-my-ring trick so many times I’m sure I’ve worn a permanent groove into my finger.

“I heard him go out the back door like always for his daily walk,” she said. “He usually leaves around six, and he’s back by six-thirty, even if he makes a few stops. This morning, he didn’t come back until seven. He just came into the kitchen and fell over.” At this point her voice failed, and the tears started.

I put my cup on the table, and I reached over and patted her shoulder as I mumbled that I would be back. I left her to her grief and went into the kitchen. Though the décor was straight out of Ozzie and Harriet, the kitchen was spotless, except for the pool of blood leaking across the floor from Mister George, and the droplets trailing back to the small pet door set inside the backdoor.

Retrieving a pair of latex gloves from my jacket pocket, I snapped them on and knelt beside Mister George. I lifted each paw and put it back down. All of them were dirty, just as you would expect. Then I ran my hands over the body, pushing through the matted fur. Mister George was about the size of a Cocker spaniel, and he had the wiry hair of one of those annoying lap dogs. I found the gunshot at the top of his spine where his left front leg joined his shoulder. Lifting his legs, I saw a small hole at the bottom of his chest behind his right leg. Downward angle, I thought. I’ve seen plenty of gunshot wounds in my time, and administered some myself, so I figured the bullet was from something small, a .22, .25, or .32. Something small but fatal. The little guy had heart to come back home with a hole in him.

The floor creaked, and I looked over my shoulder. Miss Rose was in the doorway, her arms crossed, hugging herself. “Someone killed Mister George?”

“Yes, ma’am, it looks like he was shot,” I said.

“Maybe a hunter shot Mister George by mistake.”

“No, ma’am. I think someone shot him on purpose.” I thought about what she had said. “You mentioned he makes stops when he’s out in the morning.”

“He stops by Buddy’s or John’s or Estelle’s,” Miss Rose replied. As she talked, she was pointing toward the back of her house. “They all think I don’t know that they feed him table scraps.”

I peeled off my rubber gloves and tossed them into the garbage can under the sink. As I stood, my knees popped. I told Miss Rose I was going to see where Mister George had gone, and I pushed open the backdoor, intending to follow Mister George’s blood trail. I’ve done this many-a-time over the years, both when I’d winged a buck and had to track him through the woods, or when I’d found homicide victims who’d tried to escape their attacker as their life bled out. The ink-black drops on the dewy grass were easy to spot every foot or two as the blood trail led back to a barbed-wire fence. On the other side, a dozen Jerseys stood chewing their cud.

By the spacing of the droplets of blood, I could tell that Mister George had struggled to bring himself home to Miss Rose. I felt foolish—a Sergeant in the Kentucky State Police running a dog shooting—but I keep my word. So, foolish or not, I slipped between the barbed-wire strands and followed the blood trail across the cow pasture. The Jerseys eyed me as I made my way to the crest of the hill and the next fence, which formed the boundary of the backyards of other houses sitting on the road that ran into State Road 53. As I looked down from the hill, I knew which house I was going to—the one with the ambulance, two Shelby County Sheriff’s patrol cars, and an unmarked Crown Vic out front. A pair of EMTs were loading a stretcher into the back of their ambulance. The body had a white sheet over it, so they weren’t rushing.

As I made my way around the side of the house, I noticed a large sign near the road proclaiming Buddy’s Fine Country Antiques. Two Sheriff’s Deputies stood on the front porch; their thumbs hooked into their gun belts. I recognized the older one, though I couldn’t recall his name.

The older deputy said, “You State boys got here awful quick. Detective’s inside.” He held out a clipboard with a Crime Scene Entry log attached.

Pulling a pen from my pocket, I signed the entry log, then I nodded and went inside without correcting him. The house was muted and still. The interior was similar to Miss Rose’s, with the front door opening onto a formal living room, though it looked as if it had been turned into a showroom, cluttered and jammed with mismatched furniture and knickknacks. At the back of the room was a large wooden desk about a mile wide, just like the ones teachers had when I went to school.

“Irv,” a voice called from the kitchen area.

Irv Calhoun—he must be the older deputy. “Irv’s outside,” I said, moving over and looking at the desktop. There was a gray metal moneybox open with the plastic tray discarded on the floor in a glinting sea of silver and copper coins. Next to the desk was an open display case, with its shelves overturned. I could see empty ring boxes and empty places where gold chains had lain over a velvet display arm.

“Well, if it ain’t Beauregard Stokes,” Laura Murphy said lightly. She wore a sensible pantsuit and stood with her hands on her hips, looking more like a teacher than a cop. She held out a pair of latex gloves, and I put them on, wondering—not for the first time—if I should invest in the company that makes them. “I haven’t heard anything from you since Los Amigos. What was it, two or three months?”

“Three, I think. I’ve been trying to run silent and run deep.” I glanced away. “Thanks for smoothing that over for me.”

She waved a hand in a forget-about-it gesture. “The Sheriff said he’d call the Post to get me help, but I never expected help to be so quick coming.” Laura gave me her best schoolmarm smile. I wasn’t fooled. The thugs who thought she was a pushover because she was a small woman found out she packed a mean left hook, especially when she swung her Mag-Lite. And I knew her sweet smile had helped send many a wandering heathen to Eddyville, where they busted big rocks into little rocks. Well, not really. We’re an enlightened society, so instead most of them pumped iron in the prison yard or watched daytime soaps in the rec room.

“Post didn’t send me.” She gave me a puzzled look, so I explained. “I’m here because of Miss Rose.”

“Rose Thompson?” Laura asked, looking down at some notes on a legal pad.

“I think so. I’ve known her my whole life as Miss Rose. She and my mama grew up together, and both had husbands who got drafted to fight in Vietnam. My dad just gave a few toes to jungle rot during the siege of Khe Sahn, while Miss Rose’s F-4 was shot down in North Vietnam. All things equal, my Dad got the better deal. He came back. This morning, my mother asked me to come see Miss Rose.”

“About Buddy being killed?” Laura asked.

“No, she called about Mister George.” The confused look again. “Mister George is, or rather was, Miss Rose’s dog, and she called to report to my mother that someone killed him, and my mama asked me to find out what happened.”

“You’re investigating a dead dog?”

I could see she thought I was pulling her leg, until I went on to explain about Mister George’s morning walks, the bullet hole in him and how I followed the blood.

“The trail led here?”

“Sure did,” I replied. “What happened here?”

“This is Buddy McGovern’s place,” she said, though I could tell she still wasn’t convinced I was serious about Mister George. “Buddy lives, or rather lived, and ran his store out of here, mainly coins, jewelry, and antiques. Around seven this morning, a neighbor, John Charles”—that would be the John, Miss Rose had told me about—“heard a car peel out of Buddy’s driveway. Charles said the car was an old Ford Tempo. He’s retired from the Ford plant, so he’s sure of his Ford cars, or so he said to me.” Laura allowed herself a smile. “I’ve put a Be-On-The-Lookout to the surrounding counties.”

Smart move. A BOLO report meant that now, hopefully, a bunch of cops would be eyeballing every Ford Tempo, looking for an excuse to stop it.

“Anyway,” Laura continued, “Mister Charles thought a car this time of the morning was odd since Buddy hadn’t opened yet, so he came over to see if anything was wrong.”

She led me back through the living room to a hallway where I could see that the doorway leading from the carport had been forced open. I commented that the marks on the doorjamb looked like a crowbar or tire iron.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” she said. “Our killer forced the door in, and Buddy confronted them right here.” She led me back toward the living room and the teacher’s desk. Behind the desk was a lot of blood splattered on the floor, the wall, and an overturned chair.

“They beat him to death,” I said. “And took the murder weapon?”

“Right.” Laurapointed her pen at the metal cash box. “It looks like a robbery. Another neighbor, Estelle Williams”—Again, she flipped to a new page on her legal page.—“Mrs. Williams works part-time for Buddy, and she gave us a list of what’s missing. Jewelry, coins, cash, a couple of guns, and a solid silver tea serving set.”

As Laura talked, something caught my eye. Kneeling, I looked up at Laura, and she nodded it was okay to move things. Careful to avoid the congealing blood soaking into the hardwood floor, I reached under the desk and pulled out a large hardback book. War and Peace.

“That must be the book Williams was talking about,” Laura said. “According to her, Buddy kept one of his pistols in a hollowed-out book.”

I flipped open the book. All the pages were cut out in a square. “Paranoid, huh?”

She glanced toward the blood splashed across the walls and the desk. “Maybe not paranoid enough.”

I didn’t have a response, so I just grunted.

“Buddy was a real snake oil salesman,” Laura explained. “He was always trying to put one over on customers. He’d do the bait and switch trick, supposedly selling an antique, and when the customer came to pick it up, the antique was nothing more than a knock-off. He acted sorry, saying it was his old age making him forgetful, but you could tell he was always plotting ways to put one over on you.”

The cell phone on Laura’s hip rang out music from the William Tell Overture, which, when I was a kid, I’d only known as Lone Ranger’s theme. I left her to her call. Moving toward the side of the living room, I looked through the doorway into the kitchen. Sitting on the table were a coffee cup and a newspaper folded open to the same article I’d been reading that morning about Kentucky’s Final Four chances. Here in the Bluegrass State basketball is a religion. On the stove sat a saucepan and a box of Quaker Oats. On the floor was a small bowl. It looked like Buddy had oatmeal for breakfast and had fed Mister George the leftovers.

There was a backdoor in the kitchen but no pet door. So how did Mister George get out? I went outside and through the backyard to the fence, until I spotted the dog’s blood trail. I followed it back to Buddy’s house. It didn’t lead to the kitchen door; instead, it led to the caved-in door between the carport and thehouse.

Now that I had the pattern of Mister George’s blood, and I was focused on it, I backtracked through the house and was able to discern the dog’s bloody trail. I pulled a Sure-Fire light from my pocket and used the flashlight to help me find the black dropson the dark hardwood floors. Now that I knew what I was looking for, I was able to make out a few gory paw prints going down the hall past the living room toward the rear of the house where I found a bedroom to my left and a bathroom straight ahead. Slowing down, I saw the fine mist of a blood spray on the door jamb of the bedroom.

“I think Mister George was shot here,” I called out. I heard Laura cut off her conversation and snap shut her cell phone before moving to where I was shining my flashlight on the floor. Just inside the bedroom door was a chipped piece of wood where a bullet had burrowed in. “I bet we can dig the slug out of this oak floor.”

Laura’s attention was drawn to something in the bathroom, and she knelt inside the doorway and pushed aside a small garbage pail. Using her ballpoint pen, she picked up a shiny brass spent cartridge. “Thirty-two caliber, UMC manufacture.”

“No one heard gunshots?” I asked.

“No, but the pop of a thirty-two wouldn’t make much noise.”

“But Buddy wasn’t shot?”

“Bo, I’m not sure,” she said. “He was a mess, so if he had a bullet hole, I might have missed it, but I don’t think so.”

I fished an evidence bag out of my pocket and held it open while she dropped the casing inside it. We returned to the living room where Laura had paper and plastic bags marked with evidence numbers sitting on an old divan. She picked up a clipboard with a diagram of the house and started annotating the new finds on the chart. Then sheflipped to another page where she added the casing to her evidence log.

Looking out the window, I saw a woman standing at the railing of a front porch. Down below on the grass stood a man. The woman had a hand over her mouth, and the man was talking, his hand pointing in the general direction of the house. “Are those the neighbors?”

Laura glanced and said, “Yeah, our only two witnesses for what they’re worth.”

I thought of something. “Mind if I talk to them?”

“Be my guest,” she said, waving her hand as her phone started playing the Lone Ranger’s theme again.

I made my way out the front door, past the deputies, and to the couple on the front porch across the street. They were about the same height—rightin the middle of five-foot-five. He was a stick man wearing a pair of faded jeans and a belt hitched to the smallest point, which wasstill too big on his waist. On top, he worea flannel shirt over a ribbed T-shirt. He was clean-shaven with wispy white hair.

The woman was as thick as he was thin. In her youth, she was probably shapely and soft with curves in all the right places.The years had layered her body with extra flesh. She wore a bright print dress that hurt my eyes. Her hair was still blond, and just like Miss Rose, this woman’s makeup was in place.

“Miss Williams,” I began, after I introduced myself to them and showed them my badge.

“Estelle,” she said with a smile.

“Right, ma’am. Estelle, did you tell the deputies what all was taken from Buddy’s place?”

“Oh, yes. They had him covered up when those deputies had me to look around his place, but I could see it was bad. Real bad.”

“How do you know what was taken?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve got a good memory. My body isn’t what it used to be,” she smiled, “but my mind is stillsharp. I have always been good with remembering things. It’s just my knack. I worked for Buddy, kind of a clerk and a housekeeper. The man couldn’t keep a plate clean. So, I knew everything that was in his house.”

“And what did they take?”

“Oh, the cash for sure, and some ring sets and silver dollar collector sets out of the jewelry case, a couple of solitaires. Engagement rings and such. Oh, they also took a mint condition silver tea serving set—teapot, tray, spoons, and even silver cups. It’s a shame, too, that they took it since John was going to trade Buddy for it, weren’t you, John?”

John nodded.

“How much cash was there?” I asked.

“I kept telling Buddy about keeping so much money at home, but he didn’t like making trips to the bank. He always kept a couple thousand on hand, he said to buy anything he wanted from a customer before they changed their mind.”

“Did Buddy keep any guns around?”

“Two pistols,” Estelle answered. “Like I told the officers, he kept one in a hollowed-out book by his desk. He talked about another, but I never saw it.”

“One was a Colt Python,” John said. “He kept it in the hollowed book on his desk where he did business. And the other was a Colt pocket .32 I remember because the gunman in the Maltese Falcon film carried one.”

“Where was that one?”

John smiled. “Buddy kept the .32 in his medicine chest in the bathroom. He figured he could get to a piece at either end of the house if something happened.”

“Trooper, would you like some coffee? I don’t know where my manners have been.” Both had porcelain mugs, and the coffee smelled strong and fresh. I told her I would love a cup. Actually, between breakfast and Miss Rose, I’d had enough coffee, but I couldn’t disappoint Estelle, the perfect hostess whohurried across the yard toward her own house, leaving John and me alone in the yard. We stood there not talking to each other, both of us watching the scene unfolding across the road at Buddy’s house.

“I saw who did it,” John Charles finally said in a steady voice. His hands were shaking as they held a coffee cup, but I wasn’t sure if it was fear at how close he had come to death or just an old age ailment. “I didn’t get a good look at them, but I saw them just the same. I was sitting right there,” he indicated his living room on the other side of the big picture window, “watching my morning shows when I heard them pull out, kicking up dust and gravel.” I hadn’t asked for the retelling of his tale, but he probably wanted to try it out, so he could tune it up before he told it to a larger audience. “I looked out my window and saw a Tempo, all rusted out. I worked thirty-two years for Ford. I know my Ford products,” he said proudly. “So, I’m telling you it was a Ford Tempo. I think only one person was in the car.”

Dutifully, I flipped open my notebook, clicked open my pen, and scratched notes on the paper while I made encouraging noises.

“I saw Buddy’s side door open,” John continued. “From my window here, you can see right into his carport and it ain’t right for his door to be open. I got a bad feeling.”

“You went to check on him?” I asked, prodding. “You and Buddy close friends?”

“We’re the only ones left.” Henodded his head, but I could swear he seemed a little perturbed—asif I had gotten him out of his story-telling rhythm. “The others who built here have died or sold out, so we are the last original ones, and we have to watch out for each other. The four of us are all that’s left.”

“You were saying you were worried about Buddy?”

“The side door,” John said. “Right. I went over, and I knew right away something was wrong. I saw all the blood and Buddy wasn’t moving, so I called nine-one-one.”

The screen door behind us banged, causing John and me to start. Estelle was crossing the yard with a metal serving tray held in front of her. “I didn’t know if you took yours with or without cream, so I brought it all with me.” She balanced the tray on the rail of the porch. I took my coffee black, like all cop stereotypes do.

I asked John, “While you were at Buddy’s, did you see Mister George?”

“Mister George?” This came from Estelle and not John.

“Yes, ma’am,” I explained. “Do you all know Miss Rose and her dog?”

“Of course,” John said. I noted the irritation in his tone. “I just told you we’re the last of the original folks living along here. We’re all four widowers, though Rose was a widow long before any of the rest of us. Like I said, we all watch out for each other; if we didn’t, we’d end up in some home. As soon as you get old, people want to shove you in a home.”

“What about Mister George?” Estelle asked, setting the tray on the rail of the porch. She retrieved a coffee cup ringed with lipstick smears.

“Someone shot him,” I said. “I think the same person who killed Buddy.”

“Oh, no,” Estelle said. “Rose is going to just be a mess.”

“She’s got to be all tore up,” John said.

I told them that Miss Rose was indeed upset about Mister George’s death.

“You sure the same person killed Buddy and Mister George?” John asked.

“I think so,” I replied. Before I could elaborate or ask them any more questions, I heard Laura call my name and saw her waving to me as she jogged toward her cruiser.

“That lady detective is trying to get your attention,” John said.

“Looks like she is at that,” I said. I handed Estelle the mug and thanked her for coffee as I headed toward the road. Laura was already backing out of the drive.

“I think they have our guy,” Laura said as I slid into the passenger seat. She nodded at the radio. “Right now, Jefferson County is chasing a Ford Tempo. What do you want to bet it’s our killer?”

I told her I wouldn’t take that bet. In mystery books and on television, murder is a whodunit, but in reality, most murders are rash crimes committed on impulse and are not well-planned—that’s one of the reasons the clearance rate of homicides is pretty high. Criminals are stupid and make mistakes. He or she is caught because he and the victim had argued in the past, or the killer can’t keep his mouth shut and brags to someone. Or, as is often the case, the lawbreaker is caught by his bad driving. I can’t even begin to count how many of my cases have been solved by an alert patrol officer and the stupid actions of a criminal. Ted Bundy was caught because of his bad driving.

As we made our way to the interstate and Laura pointed the car west toward Louisville, we listened to the Louisville Metro police officer calling out the progress of his chase over the radio. I could hear the adrenaline edge creeping into his voice. A few moments later, the officer came back on the radio. This time, he asked for an ambulance and rescue squads to start rolling to Wolf Pen Branch Road.

“The Tempo just T-boned a Jeep Cherokee. Everyone in both vehicles is going to need EMS,” the officer on the radio said.

By the time Laura and I arrived at Wolf Pen Branch, the road was blocked by cruisers with flashing lights, two ambulances, and a fire truck. The curve was a nasty switchback, and the Tempo and the Jeep were mangled together against a large oak at the side of the road. We pulled into a driveway and went over to a group of cops clustered around the firetruck.

As we drew close, a voice called out, “Well if it ain’t Bo Stokes hisself.” The voice was deep and gravelly, which was incongruous with Frank Bernard’s short, skinny frame. Except for being black and being a competent cop, Frank reminded me of Barney Fife, a skinny man swaggering and perpetually hitching his belt up on his hips. Frank broke away from the group and came over to greet Laura and me. “Hell of a thing,” he said. “I was hoping for a nice quiet shift today, and now we have this.” He jerked a thumb towards a young, uniformed officer at the center of the gaggle of cops. “Rookie’s lucky the bad guy was a bad shot.”

“What happened?” Laura asked.

“Well,” Frank said, warming to telling the story. “The kid was running radar on the highway, and he needed to take a leak, so he decided to swing off on Blankenbaker Road and hit a Dairy Mart for a john and free cup of coffee. He’s not even off the ramp when he sees this Tempo blow by. At least he remembered hearing the BOLO that you guys had put out, but he must have forgotten the part about the guy being an armed murder suspect. Instead of doing a felony car stop, the kid just initiates a regular traffic stop.”

“Oh, no,” Laura whispered.

“Oh, yes,” Frank said. “The rookie’s not even out of his car when the driver of the Tempo unloads at him through the rear window of the car. Luckily the guy couldn’t shoot straight with his big hand cannon. The rookie took cover, and the bad guy took off. At least the kid had the wits about him to chase after him, and then this happened.” Frank looked over at the mangled cars, shaking his head. I noticed two EMTS loading a black body bag on a stretcher. My second, and hopefully last one for the day.

“Is that our perp?” Laura pointed at the stretcher.

“We should be so lucky,” Frank replied. “It seems the good Lord looks over kids, drunks, and murderers. The suspect was bounced around the inside of the Tempe like a pinball, but he’s alive. This poor schmuck driving the Jeep was wearing his seat belt and probably driving the speed limit and gets sideswiped and killed.”

“Where’s the perp?” Laura asked.

“Already in the first ambulance, heading to the emergency room.”

“Do we have an ID on him?”

“Ronnie Vittow,” Frank replied.

“Damn!” Laura exclaimed, more in an exasperated voice rather than a shout.

“You know him?” I asked.

“One of our local cranksters,” she answered. “He’s been out of the pen less than a year, and I’ve locked him up three times on felony charges that should have sent him back to prison but haven’t. Our judge keeps letting him out.”

“I don’t think the judge will let him out this time,” I said.

“No, not this time,” Laura agreed. “Not a robbery-murder.”

Frank nodded, and then jerked his head for us to follow. He led us to the rear of his patrol car where there was a cardboard box advertising Chiquita bananas. Inside the box were plastic cases with Liberty Dollars and Kennedy half dollars, as well as boxes complete with marked tags of earrings and rings and necklaces. Lying on top of the box was a nickel-plated Colt Python and a box of shells. “This stuff spilled out of the car when it rolled. My guys are still looking around to see if anything else was tossed out.” As he said this, we all glanced toward the side of the road where several uniformed officers were scouring the roadway and underbrush near the accident. “He probably was heading to a fence to pawn the stuff here in Louisville.”

Laura and I both grunted in agreement.

“And the coup degrâce.” Frank pulleda brown Kroger grocery bag from inside his car. Opening the bag with a flourish he showed us the contents—a blood-coated tire iron. “Possibly the murder weapon.”

“Most probably.”

Lauraand Frank began talking about the crime spree.

Something bothered me, something I hadn’t seen in the box. Leaning into the car, I looked at the entire contents of the Chiquita box and made sure neither one was there. Then I wandered across the road to inspect the wreck.

Firemen in their heavy coats and suspendered pants were packing away a large saw, the Jaws-of-Life, which it looked like they used to try to save the Jeep’s driver. The Tempo had T-boned the Jeep square in the driver side, pushing the door almost to the Jeep’s center console. The Tempo was folded like an accordion, the window spiderwebbed and caked with a blood spray similar to the one I’d seen at Buddy’s house. The driver’s side door was ajar, so I leaned in and looked around, but all I saw were some Whopper boxes. I got out of the car and walked around to the rear. The trunk had popped open on impact and spit out the rear tire, which was lying in someone’s driveway on the opposite side of the road. I still didn’t see either item I was looking for in the trunk or in the roadway, so I walked back to the wreck. This time I walked around, looking underneath and around the cars. I noticed a stethoscope hanging from the rearview mirror of the Jeep, along with a laminated ID badge. I reached inside the Jeep and examined the smiling face on Dr. Steven Burnett’s badge. Then I heard a sound from the back seat of the Jeep. Something was whimpering.

Leaning into the car, I saw a plastic box with a door. A pet carrier. I opened the metal door and all I saw was a small ball of red-brown and a pair of floppy ears.

“Come here, fella,” I called softly. I lifted out a Dachshund puppy that couldn’t have weighed more than four pounds. I quickly realized the fella was female, and she had a small cut on her nose and a tag on her collar that read Peanut. She wagged her tail and wanted to be petted, which I did as I walked across and rejoined Laura and Frank at his cruiser.

Frank said, “Don’t tell me this guy stole a dog.”

“No, but he might have killed one,” Laura said.

I didn’t jump in and agree with her, which made Laura give me an odd look, but she didn’t ask me anything else.

“She was in the Jeep,” I said. “Maybe the family will want her back.”

“This is all I need,” Frank said. “As far as I know, this victim doesn’t have a family. He lives in a condo down the road. The first thing I did was send one of our detectives there, so a loved one wouldn’t wander down the road and see this guy splattered across the pavement. No one was home, and a neighbor told the detective the guy was divorced with no other family.” Frank sighed. “I guess I’ll have to call animal control.”

“Frank, don’t you have a heart?” Laura asked.

“Yeah, it’s on my desk at the station.”

“I’ll take care of it.” I’d spoken without thinking. “I’ll take care of the dog, it’s the least I can do for your solving our case here.” But he hadn’t solved all the cases. At least not mine.

After the tow trucks hauled away the wrecks, all the public servants packed up and dispersed, so there wasn’t much for us to do. Climbing into Laura’s cruiser, I put the dog carrier in the backseat and asked Laura if she wanted to talk to Ronnie Vittow.

“No,” she said. “While you were playing PETA man, I called the hospital. Ronnie’s out with a concussion and sedated. I’ll swing by this evening and talk to him if he comes around, but I think with everything we’ve got, he’s my man.”

I didn’t take her bait right then. Instead, I asked her why she thought Ronnie Vittow murdered Buddy. But I knew the answer. Like I said most murders are straightforward, about money or vengeance. Laura pegged Ronnie Vittow’s as money.

“He’s a crankster,” Laura said. “And once you get hooked on meth, you know what happens, Bo.”

And I did. Paranoia and meanness.

“Ronnie probably thought Buddy was an easy score,” Laura continued. “Maybe he’d been in the shop before and saw all the cash in the money drawer, so he decides to push in the door this morning. Buddy went for his pistol or had it in hand when he confronted Ronnie. But Ronnie was probably so hyped up that he just started swinging the tire iron and didn’t stop.”

I had to agree, that was a probable scenario. And if not exactly the way it happened, it was pretty damn close.

We rode for another fifteen minutes with only the sound of the police radio to entertain us, until Laura finally asked me about Mister George. I told her what I thought and what I planned to do. She listened and said nothing. No comment for or against, so when she let me off at Miss Rose’s place, I leaned down into the open window of her car. All she said before driving away was, “Do what you got to do, Bo.”

“I’m just doing what I think’s right,” I said.

“Like at Los Amigos?” she said with a smile.

“No,” I said simply. “That was wrong.” Unconsciously, my hand strayed up to my chest, patting where the envelope sat inside my jacket.

I toted the pet carrier up the steps like a traveling salesman carrying his briefcase of wares. Miss Rose opened the door before I was halfway up the steps. We both took our places where we each had sat earlier in the morning. Miss Williams had already told Miss Rose about Buddy, and she was in a daze. I told her how I followed Mister George’s trail to Buddy’s house, and how Laura Murphy and I went to Louisville where the police captured Ronnie Vittow. I didn’t mention anything about ballistics or details of that nature. I just told the story as I had planned. When I was finished, Miss Rose asked no questions, but her lip trembled some, probably wondering why her companion was dead and why a neighbor was dead as well.

Peanut had been quiet throughout the story I told—most of it the truth, mixed with a few lies—but now she let out a bark. I opened the door, and the little wiener dog ran out and scurried around wagging her tail with the puppy enthusiasm that seeseverything as new and exciting. She tried to climb my leg, whining, wanting to be petted, and when I ignored her, she went over to Miss Rose and barked to be picked up.

“Beauregard,” Miss Rose said, looking down at the pup, “you didn’t bring that dog for me? I don’t think I can take another heart-break.”

“Yes, ma’am, I did,” I said. I told her how the pup belonged to a dead man. “If you don’t take her; I have to take her to the pound, because I don’t know anyone else that would have Peanut. Both of you lost someone today, and I thought maybe you’d want to take her in.”

Miss Rose picked up the puppy and tried to hold onto the squirming little animal that was licking and wagging her tail all at once. “Beauregard, I don’t know if I feel right about this, what with Mister George dead.”

“If it’s not right in a few days, you call me, and I’ll come pick her up from you,” I lied. “I need to get going.”

Miss Rose eyed me as I walked toward the door. Her wrinkled hands were stroking the dachshund as she spoke to me. “Beauregard, thank you for humoring an old woman’s silly need to find out what happened to her friend, even if her friend was just a little dog.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” I left Miss Rose, but I really wasn’t done.

I started my car and drove less than a mile before I parked in front of one more house I had been to today. This time the door was opened before I climbed out of my car.

“Trooper, you came back.” John Charles came out on the porch to meet me.

“Yes, I did, and you knew I’d be back.”

His head nodded.

“Why don’t you tell me how you killed Mister George?”

He looked at me for half a second and then looked down at a spot on the floor. He didn’t even try to deny it. He slumped against the rail of the porch. He didn’t say anything; he just looked off into the distance.

I decided to help him out. “How’s this for what happened? You saw the Tempo peel out of there, and you did rush over to check on Buddy. He was already dead. But you didn’t call nine-one-one right away.”

John Charles shook his head. “I was in the service, and I fought in Nam just like Rose’s husband did, but I was on the ground. I saw plenty of dead folks over there. You don’t forget that. I knew I couldn’t do anything for Buddy.”

“Since you couldn’t help him,” I said, “you decided to get what you wanted before you called nine-one-one. The silver serving set.”

He nodded. “I had helped Buddy at the flea markets for two months, and all I wanted was the silver set. He promised it to me.”

“But he didn’t keep his word.”

“No, he didn’t,” John said. “And he hadn’t paid me for my work.”

“But you had really wanted that serving set,” I prompted.

“Yes,” he said looking me in the eyes. “But not for me. For Rose. I figured he had kept the set just to spite me. He knew I wanted to give it to her, and he just kept it to be mean. Buddy was that way sometimes. So, I figured he’d keep the set in his bedroom.”

“The one next to the bathroom at the end of the hall?”

He nodded. “It was there on his nightstand.”

“And then what happened?”

“I heard a noise,” John said. “I thought maybe the robbers had come back. It wasn’t rational, but you saw Buddy and what had happened to him. I knew Buddy kept the Colt .32 in the medicine cabinet, so I ducked into the bathroom and grabbed the gun. I had the gun along my leg, and was looking down the hall, when something bumped into me.”

“Mister George?”

He nodded.

“The gun went off.”

He slowly nodded. “I didn’t mean to shoot Miss Rose’s dog,” John said. “He just spooked me.”

“You panicked and grabbed the silver serving set and the gun and hurried home to call nine-one-one,” I said, finishing his tale.

Again, he slowly nodded. “I’ll get it.” His shoulders were hunched over as he disappeared into the house, only to return a moment later with a pillowcase that clanged as he walked. He handed me the heavy sack. Inside was the silver tray and a small Colt pistol. “I suppose you got to take me in,” John said in an even voice. “Can I at least call Miss Rose and tell her what happened.”

“No,” I answered. John Charles gave me a curious look. “I’m not taking you in, and I don’t think you should tell Miss Rose anything. As far as she knows, the same man who murdered Buddy killed Mister George, and that’s the way it’ll stay.”

“I think I should tell her.”

I shook my head. “No, John, you shouldn’t. It would break that lady’s heart, and she’s already had her heart broken once today. What she needs right now is a good friend more than she needs the truth. I think there’s a shovel somewhere in Miss Rose’s garage. You might want to go over and offer to help her put Mister George to rest.”

He nodded slowly, looking me in the eye. “I reckon I should be heading over to see Miss Rose.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” I said as I picked up the heavy pillowcase and headed off the porch.

I climbed into my cruiser. The unopened envelope in my pocket was heavy. I pulled it out and ran my fingertips along the seams, worrying with it. Then,I tore one end off, just like pulling off a Band-Aid. Do it quick, and the pain is less. The letter was on watermarked paper. I read it through slowly. Twice.

As I said earlier, the sun was setting behind John Charles, the killer of Mister George. I know he’d meant no ill will when he killed the dog. I know some would argue I had no right to lie to Miss Rose, but I felt it was the right thing to do. It would kill Miss Rose to find out who had killed her companion.

And I understand how love can drive a man to do foolish things. Love had made a fool of me. I was playing fate and giving John Charles a second chance, even if I hadn’t gotten one.

Reading the decree in my hand gave the divorce a tangible finality. Like so many people, my ex-wife—a woman I had loved, married, and had two beautiful girls with—had become someone I took for granted. One day, we woke up and realized we were strangers sharing a bed. She asked me to move out, and she moved on.

I tried to reconcile with her several times because I couldn’t let go. I thought we could fix what was broken. Los Amigos was the final straw. She had agreed to have lunch with me at her favorite Mexican restaurant. I thought we were going to talk, maybe work things out, but she brought her attorney along to hand me the papers. I grew rowdy and created a scene. I talked, I pleaded, and I shouted, but as my voice rose, I saw the light in her eyes sailing away. The special thing we once had was gone. If it weren’t for the good Detective Laura smoothing things over, I might have gotten locked up that day.

And the short letter in my hand was the bitter end of a life together. Finality. I re-read the letter, letting the official words wash over me. Tugging at my left hand, I worked the wedding band free. I folded the letter and slid the single sheet of paper back into the envelope. I dropped the ring in on top of the letter. Tucking the envelope back in my breast pocket, I wondered if ever there’d be someone who would bring me a second chance like I had done for John Charles.

I sure hoped so.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rick McMahan retired after a quarter of a century career as a Federal Agent. Since then, he has been an instructor at a police academy, and how he’s a detective for the Kentucky Attorney General’s office. His writing has appeared in various publications such as Mystery Scene and Crimespreemagazines, and his stories have twice been selected for Mystery Writers of America anthologies as well as being included in The Year’s Best Mystery Stories of 2020.

AN OPEN AND SHUT CASE,by Hal Charles

After State Police Detective Kelly Stone answered the sophomore class’ last question and the teens headed for lunch, their English teacher asked the detective if she minded staying a few more minutes.

“Glad to, Teri,” said Kelly. “It’s the least I can do for an old college roommate.”

“This morning when I opened my classroom,” the teacher began, “I noticed the swear jar money was missing. The class voted on this idea to promote civility. Every time one of them utters a bad word, they have to place a dollar in the jar.”

“Big pizza party at the end of the semester?”

“Surprisingly, no. The class will vote tomorrow on which charity receives a large donation.”

“Very mature of them.”

“I thought so…until this morning. This classroom is so old-fashioned it still uses a lock-and-key. The only person other than me with a key is the custodian, and Mr. Myers is out this week with the flu.”

“Were you the last one out of the classroom yesterday afternoon?”

“After seventh-period conferences, the door was shut, and I headed home for a very welcome glass of wine.”

“Hmmm. Let’s look at the door.”

The detective closely examined the metal door, the hinges, and the strike plate on the jamb. “No marks to indicate somebody pried it open or tried to pop the locks,” she announced. Then Kelly turned to her friend. “A minute ago you didn’t say ‘I shut the door.’ Instead, you used a passive construction—‘the door was shut.’ Why?”

“As I thought back, I remember the student with the last conference, Jason Ridley, shut the door for me, and it locked automatically. He’s a throw-back gentleman. He had stayed for help on his term paper due by the close of today.”

“And you opened the door this morning?”

“More or less.”

Kelly shook her head. “What does that comment mean?”

“Well, Jason was waiting for me when I arrived. I unlocked the door, he opened it for me, and, being the gentleman he is, let me step inside first.”

“I see.”

“Jason had just a few more questions for me. He’s so dedicated because he wants to attend one of the Ivies.”

Kelly changed the direction of her questions. “Anybody else seem likely to be the thief?”

“Hmmm! The police picked up Griff Jordan for petty larceny, but the charges didn’t stick. I know this because all his personal essays dwell on how much he looks like his brother, who has done time.”

“I see. Anyone else?”

“Bella Church was accused by Principal Evers of stealing janitorial supplies. Her single mom was just laid off.”

As the bell rang, the sophomores returned from lunch. Jason Ridley handed Teri a paper. “I ran off my Hemingway masterpiece in the computer lab during lunch so I could be sure I turned it in before the deadline.”

“Jason,” said Kelly, “do you mind if I look in your backpack?”

“Gosh no.” He took it off and handed it to the detective. “Not much in there but the odds and ends of my life.”

Kelly took the backpack to the teachers’ lounge and slowly emptied it on a vacant table. A used pack of gum, a small computer with an electric cord, an eraser the size of a die, several pens, a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls, a roll of quarters, some breath mints, and a bottle of hand cleaner.

As she placed Jason’s personal effects into his backpack, an idea began to form in her head. When she returned to the classroom, she handed Jason his backpack and asked him if he would join her in the principal’s office.

“For what?” he said.

“For stealing the contents of the swear jar,” she charged.

SOLUTION

Jason had typed his paper on a computer and had pens in his backpack, not pencils. Therefore, why did he need an eraser, especially one so small that it, being die-sized, fit perfectly in the hole behind the strike plate? Jason had placed the eraser in that hole, or bore, so that when he closed the door for his teacher the day before, the bolt never caught. He returned later and removed the money. Eraser fragments in the bore and a confession confirmed Jason’s guilt.

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, forBlack Cat Weekly.

THAT WHICH WE CALL PATIENCE,by Anna Scotti

The old-oldies are lucky if they get a visitor a week, even if the visitor is a stranger who stops to ask if a pillow needs plumping or to push the Kleenex closer to an ancient claw. They are mostly forgotten, not through cruelty but through the simple logistics of life; their friends and spouses and siblings are dead or equally incapacitated, their children are having angioplasties and hip replacements of their own, and their grandchildren are busy with careers and affairs and the PTA. The old-oldies mostly lie in their beds, stinking of urine and mothballs, moaning complaints that we’d address if we could. If we had time machines and magic elixirs to heal worn-out bodies and broken hearts, if patience came in a bottle you could buy at the pharmacy and use to tend to their endless unfillable needs.

It’s the youngies that cause all the trouble—and have the most fun. The youngies are old too, of course, or they wouldn’t be here, and they’re mostly forgotten too by the outside world. But not by each other. That’s the thing that surprises you when you land your first nursing-home gig; the residents are people. Wrinkly people who move slowly and get irritated by the most surprising things—missing walker balls and cold tea and the floor aide who sometimes forgets to say good morning—but people. Old men are still interested in sports, politics, and the Victoria’s Secret catalogs the orderlies leave lying around in the common room, half in jest and half in pity. And old women in these places—they’re exactly like the girls you went to high school with. There are the mean girls who guard their spots at the popular tables with barbed comments and saccharine smiles. There are the lonely girls who moon around the old geezer who runs the poetry club like groupies backstage at The Troubadour. And there are the fat girls and flat girls who can finally compete—in a world of ruined bodies and poor eyesight, bright makeup and good hearing go a long way.

The old-oldies mostly eat in their rooms, assisted by aides simultaneously gabbing on cell phones, but the youngies