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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
NOVEL
Captains of Souls, by Edgar Wallace
A shadowy figure holds the key to power and peril in a fog-drenched London mystery.
SOLVE-IT-YOURSELF MYSTERY
“Death Takes a Dinner Cruise,” by Hal Charles
Can you solve the mystery before the detective? All the clues are there!
SHORT STORIES
“Dead Gifted,” by Robert Jeschonek [Michael Bracken Presents]
Ava Newton faces danger and deception uncovering the deadly truth behind mysterious gifts.
“The Case of the Kosher Deal,” by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents]
A private eye, a potato board, and a killer with a peeler—murder’s on the menu in Boise!
“The Adventure of the Morbid Fascination,” by Mike Adamson [Sherlock Holmes series]
Holmes faces a deadly mystery of hypnotic skulls and sinister manipulations in London…
“Heavenly Host,” by Nina Kiriki Hoffman
A quiet town changes forever after a strange Christmas Eve visitation. Among the strangest—and best—holiday stories we’ve published!
“Somebody Wants You,” by E.C. Tubb
Desperate to be wanted, Smeldon discovers a surprising demand for his unique “talents” off-world.
“The Martian Hunters,” by Philip E. High
In a world where Martian relics conceal unimaginable technology, Compton discovers he is no longer fully human.
“Coven of Thirteen,” by John Glasby
A man confronts wartime visions of a cursed mansion reappearing on Walpurgis Night.
Leaving the Nest, by Tom Easton and Frank Wu
Two pioneers struggle to build a colony on a hostile world as robots question their purpose.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
TEAM BLACK CAT
THE CAT’S MEOW
DEAD GIFTED, by Robert Jeschonek
DEATH TAKES A DINNER CRUISE, by Hal Charles
THE CASE OF THE KOSHER DEAL, by Mark Thielman
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MORBID FASCINATION, by Mike Adamson
CAPTAINS OF SOULS, by Edgar Wallace
BOOK THE FIRST
BOOK THE SECOND
BOOK THE THIRD
BOOK THE FOURTH
HEAVENLY HOST, by Nina Kiriki Hoffman
SOMEBODY WANTS YOU, by E.C. Tubb
THE MARTIAN HUNTERS, by Philip E. High
COVEN OF THIRTEEN, by John W. Glasby
LEAVING THE NEST, by Tom Easton and Frank Wu
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Black Cat Weekly
blackcatweekly.com
*
“Dead Gifted” is copyright © 2024 by Robert Jeschonek and appears here for the first time.
“Death Takes a Dinner Cruise” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“The Case of the Kosher Deal” is copyright © 2023 by Mark Thielman. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May/June 2023. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Adventure of the Morbid Fascination” is copyright © 2024 by Mike Adamson and appears here for the first time.
Captains of Souls, by Edgar Wallace, was originally published in 1922.
“Heavenly Host” is copyright © 1997 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman. Originally published in First Contact. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Somebody Wants You,” is copyright © 1959 by E.C. Tubb. Originally published in Science Fantasy #36. Reprinted by permission of Philip Harbottle of the Cosmos Literary Agency (U.K).
“The Martian Hunters” is copyright © 1961 by Philip E. High. Originally published in New World Science Fiction #112. Reprinted by permission of Philip Harbottle of the Cosmos Literary Agency (U.K).
“Coven of Thirteen” is copyright © 1955 by John Glasby. First published in Out of This World #2. Reprinted by permission of Philip Harbottle and the Cosmos Literary Agency (U.K.)
Leaving the Nest is copyright © 2024 by Tom Easton and Frank Wu and appears here for the first time.
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR & PUBLISHER
John Betancourt
ART DIRECTOR
Ron Miller
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Paul Di Filippo
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
EDITORIAL BOARD
Thomas A. Easton
Ryan Hines
Vicki Erwin
Paula Messina
Richard Prosch
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Karl Wurf
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
A very short intro this time, as I’m swamped with year-end work (and there will likely be similar short intros until 2025 due to vacations). But as always, we have a great lineup of tales new and old which I hope you will enjoy.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Cover Art: Stephen Hickman
NOVEL
Captains of Souls, by Edgar Wallace
A shadowy figure holds the key to power and peril in a fog-drenched London mystery.
SOLVE-IT-YOURSELF MYSTERY
“Death Takes a Dinner Cruise,” by Hal Charles
Can you solve the mystery before the detective? All the clues are there!
SHORT STORIES
“Dead Gifted,” by Robert Jeschonek [Michael Bracken Presents]
Ava Newton faces danger and deception uncovering the deadly truth behind mysterious gifts.
“The Case of the Kosher Deal,” by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents]
A private eye, a potato board, and a killer with a peeler—murder’s on the menu in Boise!
“The Adventure of the Morbid Fascination,” by Mike Adamson [Sherlock Holmes series]
Holmes faces a deadly mystery of hypnotic skulls and sinister manipulations in London…
“Heavenly Host,” by Nina Kiriki Hoffman
A quiet town changes forever after a strange Christmas Eve visitation. Among the strangest—and best—holiday stories we’ve published!
“Somebody Wants You,” by E.C. Tubb
Desperate to be wanted, Smeldon discovers a surprising demand for his unique “talents” off-world.
“The Martian Hunters,” by Philip E. High
In a world where Martian relics conceal unimaginable technology, Compton discovers he is no longer fully human.
“Coven of Thirteen,” by John Glasby
A man confronts wartime visions of a cursed mansion reappearing on Walpurgis Night.
Leaving the Nest, by Tom Easton and Frank Wu
Two pioneers struggle to build a colony on a hostile world as robots question their purpose.
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
DEAD GIFTED,by Robert Jeschonek
“It’s here!” Tina Warren shouted from the front entryway of the house. “It’s here!”
Everyone jumped up at once and ran in her direction, leaving their half-eaten breakfasts—and their houseguest, Ava Newton—in the kitchen. Even Ava’s boyfriend, Wyatt, joined the stampede, taking off like she didn’t exist, making her wonder…
WTF is going on in this place?
Ava being Ava—a 25-year-old with a low tolerance for ass-kissing and jumping on bandwagons—she didn’t rush after them. As curious as she was, she lingered a moment more, forking in another bite of scrambled eggs and having another sip of coffee. Though it was her first time staying at Wyatt’s family’s home, and two weeks before Christmas to boot, she wasn’t going to fall all over herself to impress everyone. Phoniness just wasn’t part of her toolkit.
Still, as the sound of excitement continued to build in the other room—including the barking of the family English Setter, Hiccup—she couldn’t fight her curiosity any longer.
Padding out of the kitchen in her Christmas camouflage—a red-and-green mistletoe sweater, emerald corduroys, a festive gold bow in her shoulder-length black hair, and glittery crimson thermal slipper-socks with Rudolph heads on the toes (complete with light-up red noses)—she could not at first see what the fuss was about. The whole family—Wyatt, his parents, his sister Tina, and his brother Bart—were huddled around something in the foyer, laughing and chattering with over-the-top delight.
“It’s a day early!” Tina, the youngest in the room at eighteen, giggled excitedly. “How great is that?”
“Pauliday is a day early!” Bart, a stocky guy in his early twenties with thick, dark hair and colorfully tattooed forearms, sounded more tickled than she did. “HappyPauliday!”
Ava strolled over and tapped Wyatt on the shoulder. “What’s going on over here? You guys been smoking the boughs of holly again?”
“Much better than that!” Wyatt—tall, athletic, and thirty, with chestnut hair pulled back in a high, tight man-bun—pulled her in beside him for a look. “It’s a good thing you and I got here a week early ourselves, or we would’ve missed this.”
Ava smirked. “Thank you, carpal tunnel surgery.” Originally, she and Wyatt had planned to visit during Christmas week, but her scheduled surgery (necessitated by injuries from competitive target shooting) had been moved up from January. The two had decided to visit a week early, then return to Philadelphia for the surgery. It had been Wyatt’s bright idea to make the earlier arrival a surprise, which hadn’t gone over well with the family at first…but everyone seemed okay with it by day two, today.
“It would’ve been a real shame for you to have missed Pauliday,” said Wyatt’s mom, Lynne. “The opening of the Pauliday present is a family tradition.”
“Yeah!” Tina clapped. “Isn’t it awesome?”
What Ava saw on the rust-colored ceramic tile of the foyer did not exactly scream awesome. More like meh, she thought—a red-and-white-striped box, twelve inches on a side, with green foil ribbon stamped at the corners and a shipping label on top.
“We’ve been getting one every year for the past seven years,” explained Tina.
Wyatt’s dad, Doug, crouched beside the package. “Seven years, and we still don’t know who sends them.”
Ava frowned. “Seriously?”
“All we know is his first name,” said Wyatt.
“Good ol’ Paul.” Bart chuckled. “So kind, we named Pauliday after him.”
“Come on.” Dad scooped up the box. “Let’s see what he sent us this year.”
* * * *
By the time Dad placed the package on the dining room table and slit it open with a box cutter, Ava was about as eager as the others to see what was inside.
“Last year’s gift was a Christmas tree stein.” Bart pointed at the china cupboard in a corner of the room. “It’s on the bottom shelf with the other things he’s sent over the years.”
Ava was standing near the cupboard and took a look. Along with the beer stein, she saw a Santa Claus statuette, a fat red Christmas candle ringed with gold filigree, a ceramic snowman figurine with top hat and carrot nose, and several other holiday-themed pieces. None of them, at a glance, looked expensive.
She also saw several framed letters arranged along the back of the cupboard.
Before she could ask about them, Dad dug into the box with a crinkling of red and green tissue paper. He might have been a mild-mannered accountant by trade, but the wiry, fifty-something guy knew how to build suspense. He paused the unboxing just long enough to get everyone ready to jump out of their skins with impatience. Every eye in the room was fixed on him as he finally pulled the gift free of the paper.
What Dad held up for the gang to see was a Christmas nutcracker in a classic soldier suit—a scaled-down version, eight inches high.
He proceeded to pass it around, then adjusted his wire-framed glasses and extracted a folded sheet of white paper from inside the package. He unfolded it, scanned the contents, then handed it to Ava. “As our special guest for this Pauliday, will you do us the honor, Ms. Newton?”
Ava took the paper, which she saw was a very brief letter. “You want me to, uh…”
“Go ahead and read it,” Wyatt said with a grin.
Ava cleared her throat and read as the family listened raptly to every word from her lips. “Dear Family. If you are reading this, another holiday season is upon you. I only wish I could be there to share it. But even death cannot stop me from being part of your celebration in this small way, thanks to the efforts of Santa’s Little Helpers at the Gifted Forever company.”
That drew a smattering of applause from the family.
“Please accept this gift with my deepest love and appreciation,” read Ava. “I hope it makes you smile.
“Until we meet again in the Great Beyond, with much love and cheer, Your Benefactor, Paul.”
As soon as Ava stopped reading, the room erupted in clapping and cheers. It went on until Dad stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled for attention.
“Everybody!” He raised his hands and closed his eyes. “Let us pray for the soul of our departed friend, Paul. May he know of our gratitude and rest in peace for all eternity. Amen.”
“Amen,” said everyone in the room except Ava.
* * * *
“I guess I should call you Ava Oakley! I hear you’re quite the sharpshooter!”
Dad grinned from atop the ladder as he asked the question. Shortly after the opening of Paul’s package, he’d gone outside to decorate the family’s big two-story, white-sided farmhouse, inviting Wyatt and Ava to join him.
“Just ‘Ava’ will be fine.” Ava stood on the snowy ground in her black vest and boots, untangling strands of lights for Dad to hang along the gutters of the wraparound porch. She had to shield her eyes and squint when she looked up at him; it was a bright day in rural northeastern Pennsylvania, and she’d lost her sunglasses on the drive from Philly.
Dad pulled fresh plastic clips from the pocket of his navy-blue jacket and used them to attach a light strand to the gutter. “Wyatt says you shoot competitively. He says you’ve got a heck of an eye.”
Ava smiled ruefully at Wyatt, who was setting up lighted decorations on the lawn nearby while Hiccup watched attentively. Even though he wore a red Santa cap and bulky gray parka, she thought he looked wonderfully fit and sexy when he turned and winked at her.
Dad descended the ladder, then moved it a few feet to the right. Pausing, he yanked off his green-and-yellow John Deere ballcap and scrubbed at his scalp through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ve shot a few clays in my day, you know.”
“Cool.”
“Not a skill I get much call for as an accountant, though.” Dad put the cap back on and scaled the ladder to resume his work. “Are you packing heat now, by any chance?”
“No comment.” Ava had things other than shooting on her mind. “So, I’m curious about the annual ‘Paul’ packages, Doug.”
“What about them?”
“You really don’t know who arranged to have them sent? It wasn’t a grandparent or uncle or cousin?”
“Nope. We don’t know anyone with that first name. Besides, the parents, uncles, aunts, and closest cousins are all still alive on both sides of the family.”
“But they still could’ve…”
“They say they didn’t send them,” said Dad. “The same goes for friends of the family. Our closest friends are still alive, none of them are named Paul, and they all swear they’re not responsible.”
“But haven’t you kept trying to find out who sends the packages anyway?”
Dad clipped a length of lights to the rim of the gutter. “We did for a while. The first time we got one, in fact, we reached out to the Gifted Forever company.”
Ava frowned. “I’m sure they knew who the sender was. Shipping gifts and cards on behalf of dead people is their business.”
“They said the client who placed the order insisted on confidentiality, other than providing a first name.”
Ava stopped untangling lights. “But the whole idea of Gifted Forever is to keep letting loved ones know you care, right? Keeping your identity a secret defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”
“You’d have to ask them that.”
“And it definitely wasn’t a mistake? They didn’t have the mailing address wrong?”
“Nope. Gifted Forever triple-checked, and that package definitely came to the correct address.”
“Why didn’t you return it?”
Dad looked down at her. “Is that what you would’ve done?”
“Maybe,” said Ava. “If someone I didn’t know was sending me stuff that was clearly meant for someone else.”
Dad shrugged. “Gifted Forever said they’d just destroy the returned package. They didn’t want it back.”
“And you kept getting more. Eight years later, you’re still getting them.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wow.” Ava tapped her chin thoughtfully. “And you can’t just get them to stop the shipments?”
“They won’t do it.” It was then that Wyatt joined the conversation, strolling over with Hiccup loping at his side. “Paul’s paid up for a long time to come.”
“It’s just so bizarre,” said Ava. “I mean, aren’t you all dying to find out who this person is? What their story is?”
Wyatt bobbed his head dismissively. “I guess you just get used to it after a while. Of course, you always wonder, but…not that much, to be honest.”
“Not knowing would drive me crazy, is all I’m saying. It is driving me crazy, and I just found out about the whole thing.”
“Well, there’s not much else we can do about it,” Dad said on his way back down the ladder. “It just is what it is.”
Ava frowned. “There must be some way to find out the truth.”
“Well, Ava Oakley,” said Dad. “You be sure to let us know when you get it in your sights.”
* * * *
“Is there anything in the universe better than cookie dough?” asked Tina as she licked a spoon she’d just dipped in a big bowl of the stuff. “Because I, for one, have yet to find it.”
Ava laughed. “I’m not disagreeing with you.” Shortly after helping Dad and Wyatt with the outdoor lights, she’d been summoned to the kitchen to give Mom and Tina a hand with the holiday baking.
So far, they’d baked three dozen cutout sugar cookies and put another dozen in the oven, plus mixed up the dough for a batch of chocolate chip tollhouse. The island and counters were dusted with flour, the sink was cluttered with bowls and utensils, and the room was filled with the smell of baking cookies.
“Here you go.” Mom dipped another spoon in the bowl of cookie dough, scooped out a little, and handed it to Ava. “Think of it as Christmas crack.”
“Mmm.” Ava licked the spoon clean. “Why even bother baking it?”
“Stupid holiday traditions.” Mom, a slender woman in her fifties, gave her curly brown hair a toss. “I hope your family has the good sense to eat it raw.”
“No one in my family is big on baking.” It was true, because Ava’s parents were both dead, though she didn’t like to talk about it. Even Wyatt didn’t know that her mom and dad, both Philly cops, had been killed in the line of duty—her mom when she was seventeen, her dad when she was twenty-one. Since the loss of her dad, she’d lived with an aunt and uncle who wanted nothing to do with baking or holiday traditions of any kind, which was just fine with her.
“By the way, Ava.” Mom held up a silver cookie stamp in the shape of a Christmas tree. “You’ll never guess where I got this.”
Ava shrugged. “Family heirloom?”
“It was part of a gift from Paul! It came on our third Pauliday, I think.”
Suddenly, Hiccup started barking her head off, and the doorbell rang.
“More company?” asked Ava.
Mom frowned as she wiped her hands on the Gingerbread Man apron she wore. “Not that we’re expecting,” she said as she headed for the foyer.
As soon as Mom left the room, Tina smirked mischievously and grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack. “Promise you won’t rat me out.”
Before Ava could sneak a cookie of her own, Mom cried out in surprise. “Oh my God!”
Tina and Ava raced to the foyer, then stopped and gaped at what Mom was holding in front of her.
“Another package!” Tina shouted. “I can’t believe it!”
Mom’s hands trembled. “Two in one day! That’s never happened before!”
Ava just stood there and stared at the second red-and-white-striped Gifted Forever box she’d seen that day, its stamped green foil ribbon flashing in the bright sunlight streaming in through the open front door.
* * * *
This time, everyone was more subdued when they gathered in the dining room for the opening of Paul’s gift. The unexpected nature of its arrival injected a hint of uncertainty into the event.
“Am I the only one here with déjà vu?” asked Dad. “Looks like Paul decided to be twice as nice this year.”
“Go ahead and open it, Dad,” said Tina. “Let’s see what it is!”
Dad slit the tape with his box cutter and folded back the flaps, then dug into the tissue paper inside. He pulled out a pale blue clamshell case, ten inches long by six inches wide.
When he opened the case, everyone in the room gasped. A massive necklace lay inside, an elegant piece strung with what looked like diamonds—the biggest of which, an inch from edge to edge, was mounted in an exquisitely crafted setting.
“It must be costume jewelry,” said Mom. “I mean, it has to be, right?”
From across the table, Tina leaned in for a closer look. “Check out that box. It’s Tiffany’s blue. If it’s real, it’s worth a fortune.”
“Wow.” Wyatt gave Ava’s shoulder a squeeze. “Can you imagine?”
“No, actually,” said Ava. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
Bart shrugged. “Paul’s been sending us gifts for years.”
“Not gifts like this,” said Ava. “Why would he suddenly send you something that’s worth a fortune?”
“Maybe it’s his parting gift,” suggested Tina. “The last in the series.”
“Paul’s grand finale.” Bart nodded enthusiastically. “I could see that.”
“You’re all just saying what you want to believe,” said Ava. “But if that is real, shouldn’t you at least make sure it wasn’t shipped here by mistake?”
Dad checked the label on the box. “The shipping address is definitely correct.”
Mom took the case from Dad and ran her fingers over the glittering gemstones. “It feels real.”
“We should get it appraised,” said Tina.
Dad took the necklace back from Mom and held it out for all to see. “Whatever this is worth, it’s a wonderfully thoughtful gift…yet another reason to give thanks to our kind benefactor.”
“Hear, hear!” said Bart.
“Once again, Paul’s timeless generosity has touched this family,” continued Dad. “Since we cannot give back to him in return, our prayers will have to suffice.”
“Hallelujah!” said Bart.
“Once again, let us pray for the soul of our departed friend.” Dad bowed his head while continuing to hold the necklace aloft. “May he know of our gratitude and rest in peace for all eternity.”
“Amen,” said everyone but Ava, which seemed like it ought to wrap things up…but nobody went anywhere for a while. Instead, they continued to pass around the necklace and speculate about its value.
All of them but Ava, who drifted off to get some fresh air and think about what the mystery gifts might really mean.
* * * *
Over the next few days, two things became clear: the necklace was not costume jewelry, and it was not the last in a series.
Dad had it appraised “under the table” by his jeweler buddy, George, who confirmed the authenticity of the diamonds and the sky-high value of the piece.
Even as the family celebrated their good fortune in receiving the high-end piece after years of being sent cheaper gifts, Ava focused on another inconsistency that set the latest shipment apart from its predecessors. “Why wasn’t there a note from Paul in the necklace box? Gifted Forever always encloses a note from him, don’t they?”
The Warrens just shrugged it off or explained it away…even when the other gifts arrived over the following days with a similar lack.
No note from Paul was included in the box that arrived the morning after the necklace—the one that contained a gold Rolex watch studded with what looked like diamonds and rubies. When a bottle of high-end bourbon worth at least $50,000 (according to online sources) arrived that afternoon, it wasn’t accompanied by a note from Paul, either.
No problem, declared the Warrens. Gifted Forever must have run out of notes for the packages…or this was simply a different phase of Paul’s gifting project, or…
Holy shit! He sent them a sleeve of gold South African Krugerrand coins! Again, no note from Paul, but there had to be a perfectly good reason.
“This Paul guy was either a certified multi-millionaire or a big-time criminal,” observed Ava. “Am I the only one who sees that?”
“Why look a gift-horse in the mouth?” asked Bart.
“Maybe, if he did do some bad things, this is his way of making amends,” said Tina.
“By semi-anonymously sending everything to your family?” Ava felt like her head was going to explode.
“Okay, okay.” Dad smiled good-naturedly as he packed away the Krugerrands. “Let’s take this one step at a time. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and put this in the safe deposit box with the other things. Then let’s talk this through. Craft a strategy.”
“One step at a time?” Ava muttered to Wyatt. “How about one step, period: call the cops?”
“All I’m saying is, if nobody’s missing this stuff, maybe we shouldn’t let it go to waste.” Dad continued to smile as he taped the box flaps shut.
Just then, the doorbell rang, and Hiccup ran for the foyer. So did everyone else.
Everyone except Ava, who just shook her head as the family went apeshit over the arrival of yet another package.
* * * *
“A Cartier white gold and diamond bracelet with matching necklace and earrings.” Wyatt let out a low whistle when he entered the bedroom an hour later. “Dad calls it a fortune in a box!”
“That’s pretty awesome, all right.” Ava, in navy blue sweats, was tying her dark hair in a ponytail, getting ready to go to a nearby firing range. Her target-shooting pistol and box of ammo were in a black bag on the bed, packed up for a much-needed session of stress relief. It was a good thing she’d brought them with her, as she often did, for just such an occasion.
“Sorry about all the craziness.” Wyatt flopped down on the bed and kicked his feet up beside the gun bag. “It’s just easy to get caught up in this Pauliday stuff, you know?”
Ava finished tying her hair and turned to him. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. You and your whole family.”
“Well, don’t. We’ve got this.”
“But I can almost guarantee all this super-expensive stuff belongs to someone and has strings attached.”
“No offense, but maybe you’re being a little paranoid,” said Wyatt.
Ava felt like she was arguing with a brick wall. The lessons she’d learned about crime from her cop parents had taken root deep in her psyche and shed light on the current situation…but it seemed that no one in the family gave two shits about any of that.
Wyatt patted the bed beside him. “Hey, c’mon. Relax a little.”
“Why do you think I’m going to the range?” She’d found it by searching online, an outdoor facility located five minutes from the Warren house.
“Listen, it’ll be fine,” said Wyatt. “I promise.”
“Sure.” Ava grabbed the gun bag, scooped the car keys and phone off the dresser, and headed for the door.
* * * *
By the time Ava returned to the Warrens’ neighborhood, she was feeling better. As usual, she’d left the worst of her stress on the shooting range in the form of spent rounds and holes in targets.
When she reached the Warrens’ driveway, however, her thoughts quickly clouded again. She saw something she hadn’t expected—an unfamiliar black Escalade parked in the section of the drive closest to the house’s front door.
“What the hell?” She hesitated at the mouth of the driveway, wondering to whom the Escalade belonged. Friends of the family? Relatives? Or someone, perhaps, who had something to do with Paul’s expensive presents?
Her heartbeat quickened. Her first thought was to call the cops, but her phone was out of juice when she checked. She’d been so worked up before leaving the house, she’d forgotten to charge it.
Pulling in a little way, she parked Wyatt’s silver Hyundai near the end of the drive, then took a breath and settled on a course of action. Going in was the only thing that made sense, especially since she was armed. If it turned out the family wasn’t in danger, the worst that would happen was that she might end up being teased about the overkill.
Ava got out and quietly closed the front driver’s-side door. She then opened the back door on that side, unzipped her gun bag, and lifted out the pistol. Pulling a loaded cartridge from the bag, she jammed it home in the butt, checked the safety, and slipped the weapon in the pocket of her vest with two extra cartridges.
Easing the car door shut, she made her way toward the house, trying to hold steady though her stomach was twisting like a nest of snakes. Staying as low as she could, she hurried between cars and trees, trying to keep out of sight. With a last dash across an open gap, she made it to the corner of the house, then worked her way around to the back.
Even before she got there, she heard Hiccup yapping and scratching at the screen door. When the dog saw her turn the corner, she yapped louder and scratched harder.
Ava checked the windows on the back of the house but saw no one peering out. She proceeded to pick her way up the wooden steps and across the porch to the door as quietly as she could.
“Stay out here, girl,” she told Hiccup, fighting to block the dog from slipping inside as she slowly tugged the door open. If there were dangerous people in the house, the dog could end up hurt or worse if she went after them.
Luckily, the kitchen was empty when she entered; any possible danger was located elsewhere. She heard voices—including a male voice she didn’t recognize—from the living room.
Gingerly, she slipped into the short hallway beyond the kitchen, stopping just short of the entry to the living room. She drew the pistol, still with the safety engaged, and listened to the conversation in progress.
“This is very simple.” The voice of the man she didn’t know was deep and gravelly. “Give us the stuff that was sent to you, or we have a problem.”
It was Dad who answered him. “I already told you, we can’t. It isn’t here.”
“Then go get it.”
“It’s in the bank, in a safe deposit box,” said Dad. “And the bank is closed for the day.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?”
“Not at all,” said Dad. “It’s just there’s nothing we can do about it till tomorrow.”
“I wonder,” said the man. “Or maybe you just have it stashed somewhere closer and you’re planning to run off with it.”
“Not a chance,” said Dad. “We would never…”
“Maybe you just need the right encouragement to turn it up. Maybe we need to prove to you people how serious this is.”
Ava heard what sounded like a gun being cocked…and that was enough to set her in motion. Flicking off the safety, she leaped from the hallway and swung the pistol’s barrel to take aim at the first stranger she saw. “Stop!”
He turned out to be the deep-voiced man—a big, barrel-chested bruiser with a vast, shaggy beard, clad in a bright red track suit with white piping. He’d been aiming a semi-automatic .22 pistol at Dad, but he quickly raised the gun and fanned out his hand, removing his finger from the trigger.
“Take his gun, Doug!” shouted Ava.
Dad stepped forward and grabbed the pistol from Mr. Tracksuit’s hand.
Seated on the sofa and floor, the rest of the family watched wide-eyed. Wyatt, seated on the arm of the sofa, looked especially freaked out.
Ava didn’t have time to reassure any of them. Even as Dad took Mr. Tracksuit’s pistol, she spun to point her own weapon at the other stranger in the room—a scrawny young guy with a blond mullet haircut. He was reaching for the small of his back, and he froze when Ava got him in her sights.
“Don’t move!” she shouted. Then: “Wyatt, get his gun!”
As Wyatt moved to comply, Ava felt the slightest sense of relief. The immediate threat was over. In spite of everything, she’d rescued the Warrens from their own shortsighted greed.
“Who has a phone?” she asked, keeping her pistol firmly pointed at Mr. Mullet. “Somebody call the police.”
The only answer she got was the touch of a hard metal object being pressed against the side of her head.
And the clack of a pistol’s hammer being thumbed back.
“Nobody’s calling anyone.” It was Dad, and he had the barrel of Mr. Tracksuit’s pistol jammed against her head.
* * * *
“Have a seat, Ava.” Dad took her gun and waved the barrel of Mr. Tracksuit’s weapon in the direction of the recliner. “We need to clear a few things up.”
Chills rippled through Ava as she lowered herself into the chair. She felt completely derailed, lost in unfamiliar terrain.
“First of all, let me just say thank you for trying to save us.” Dad bowed his head graciously. “Unfortunately, as you’ve probably already realized, it wasn’t necessary.”
Ava sat stiffly, fighting to make sense of the situation.
“Akbar and Lenny are business partners of ours.” Dad gestured at Mr. Tracksuit, then Mr. Mullet. “We were simply discussing a schedule misunderstanding.”
“You mean a bullshit attempted double-cross,” snarled Akbar.
Dad rolled his eyes. “Tomayto, Tomahto.” He smiled at Ava. “As you suspected, the packages were not sent here by mistake or for some unfathomable reason by an anonymous benefactor. They are part of our business model.”
Ava swallowed hard. “You’re telling me you’re not an accountant after all?”
“No, I still am.” Dad chuckled. “Accounting’s a big part of it, actually. But the expensive packages are about laundering money. This is one way to do that.”
Ava nodded slowly, thinking hard about escape. As long as she was outnumbered, and Dad and Lenny were both armed, making a run for it was not in the cards. Buying time seemed to be her best option at the moment. “You use dirty cash to buy expensive things, then send them as gifts?”
“Which our people retrieve and resell, converting them to clean cash for the organization.” Dad grinned. “Very good, Ava. I knew you were smarter than Wyatt gave you credit for.”
Ava shot a glance at Wyatt, who’d returned to the arm of the sofa, but he was looking away. “So this wasn’t the first time you got expensive gifts from ‘Paul’?”
“Correct.” Dad nodded. “Every year, we start off with a cheap one, though, to make it look good in case anyone’s paying attention.”
“And ‘Paul’ is just a cover? He never really existed?”
“He existed, all right,” said Dad. “He was a very real person. We just set up an account on his behalf. Matter of fact, there are lots of Pauls, shipping to lots of deserving families each year who all get a cut of the proceeds.”
“Like the Warrens.” Ava thought about jumping up and taking her chances, trying to wrestle a gun from Dad and run for cover. Was anyone in the room a potential weak spot she might use as a distraction? “Or are you people a family at all? Are you even related?”
“Of course we’re related.” Akbar chortled behind his beard. “Uncle Akbar resents that remark.”
“Paul wasn’t related either, was he?” said Ava. “None of the Pauls are related to the families receiving the gifts, are they?”
“Not necessarily.” Dad narrowed his eyes. “However, the name on the account, on the company’s books, is always someone who, shall we say, made a wrong turn up a dead-end road.”
Again, Ava looked at Wyatt. This time, he didn’t look away, though his gaze didn’t strike her as sympathetic.
Maybe, she thought, he’d be a good place to start that distraction.
“Why, Wyatt?” she asked angrily. “Why did you let me come here if this was going to happen?”
“You and I would’ve been fine if we’d come when we were supposed to,” he said. “If not for that stupid carpal tunnel surgery being moved up.”
“You should’ve just said let’s forget it,” she told him. “If you knew these packages were going to ship this week.”
Wyatt shrugged. “I guess I thought it would all work out somehow. I thought you could let shit go instead of sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“My parents were cops, Wyatt! They died in the line of duty!”
“I didn’t know that!” He sounded offended, then seemed to shake it off. He looked away, then back—this time, with an expression of regret. “Plus, I liked you. I wanted to spend the holidays with you.”
“It never occurred to you that I might end up being threatened at gunpoint by your father?” Ava leaped to her feet, indignant—also ready to make a move.
Adrenaline blazing through her bloodstream, she lunged forward and shoulder-checked Dad, sending him toppling off his feet. Then she charged toward Akbar, who swung out a mighty tree trunk of an arm in her path. She nimbly dodged it and sprinted headlong toward the front door, where Lenny waited with the pistol that Wyatt had failed to confiscate.
Before Lenny could get a bead on her, she lashed out with a roundhouse kick, sending the gun flying from his grip. She followed that with a kick to his gut, plowing him into the front door.
Unfortunately, his fallen body blocked her escape, so she whirled and headed for the kitchen and back door instead.
Arms pumping like pistons, she darted in that direction. She saw the door not ten feet away, heard Hiccup barking on the other side.
Then, a sudden impact to her back threw her forward. A burst of fiery pain exploded in her torso.
As she slid to the floor, the image of a target from the range appeared in her mind’s eye, a black paper target with a human outline. The center mass of the target had been blasted away, leaving a gaping hole with ragged edges all around.
That target was her, she knew…and the heavy footsteps approaching on the kitchen floor were those of her shooter, who was coming to check his score.
“Sorry about this, Ava.” Dad’s voice filtered down from above, penetrating the layers of agony buffeting her damaged body. “Don’t take it personally.”
Twisting her head to look up, she caught a glimpse of him looming above, aiming both pistols point-blank at her.
“Please,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I can keep my mouth shut.”
“Too late for that, but we’ll make it up to you. Guess who our next Paul will be?” Dad cocked the pistols. “Don’t worry, Ava. The elves will pick out some really nice shit for the deserving recipients of your posthumous gifting.”
Ava had one last moment of lucidity before Dad pulled the triggers. In that moment, she thought of some family somewhere, gathered around a red-and-white-striped box that was stamped at the corners with green foil ribbon. All smiles, the other family’s Dad slit the seal on the package with a box cutter, opened the flaps, and reached down into the crinkling red and green tissue paper.
Happy Ava-Day, one and all, he said, as he pulled out a gift.
But Ava never got to see what gift it was.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Jeschonek is a USA Today bestselling author whose fiction has been published around the world. His stories have appeared in Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Mystery, Crime, and Mayhem, and other publications. He won an International Book Award, a Scribe Award, and the grand prize in Pocket Books’ Strange New Worlds contest. Visit him online at bobscribe.com.
DEATH TAKES A DINNER CRUISE,by Hal Charles
“I’ve been looking forward to this dinner cruise for weeks, Aunt Cora,” said Detective Dani Harlow. “What a thoughtful birthday present.”
“You deserve an evening out, dear,” said the smiling woman seated across the exquisitely-set table. “You never seem to take time off from that job of yours.”
As Dani panned the dining room of the River Belle, she realized her aunt was right about her nonstop schedule. Even in a town the size of Shadow Falls, crime never seemed to take a day off.
“Captain Bailey took a real chance when he sank his retirement savings into converting this old paddle wheeler into a dinner boat,” said Cora.
Dani glanced at her watch. 8:15. What was causing the boat to delay its scheduled 8 o’clock launch? She could feel that the engines hadn’t been started.
Just then, a man in a dinner jacket approached her table. “Detective Harlow,” he said quietly, “I’m Conrad Benton, the Belle’s steward, and I need you to come with me.”
“What’s the problem?” said Dani.
“I’m afraid something terrible has happened on the bridge.”
Assuring her aunt that it was probably nothing that bad, Dani followed the steward across the dining room to a metal door marked BRIDGE. At the top of a steep stair, Dani spotted a uniformed body sprawled near the boat’s control console.
“Captain Bailey is…was a very punctual man. When we didn’t launch at precisely 8:00, I knew something was wrong. I found him like this. I knew you were a guest this evening, so—”
“You did the right thing,” said Dani, noticing blood on Bailey’s head.
“The door to the bridge was locked as always for security reasons,” said Benton.
“Besides you, who has a key?”
“Captain Bailey’s wife. She often rides along on our cruises.”
“Is she here tonight?” said Dani.
“Yes,” said Benton, “and I’m not sure why she wasn’t on the bridge with the captain.”
“Anyone else?”
“Ralph Owens, our chief engineer.”
“Is that everybody?”
“It’s a bit strange,” said the steward, “but our chef has a key. Peter often brings the captain coffee or a sandwich during the cruise.”
After contacting the medical examiner and listening as Benton informed the boat’s passengers that the cruise had to be canceled, Dani set about interviewing the possible killers.
The detective found a distraught Emily Bailey in the boat’s office. After identifying herself, Dani said, “Ms. Bailey, I know this is a difficult time, but could you tell me your whereabouts earlier this evening?”
“Normally I would have been with Lawrence on the bridge, but tonight I had a Zoom meeting with a potential investor. Money’s been a little tight since the pandemic. I’m sure the investor can confirm the time.”
The Belle’s kitchen was chaotic. Chef Peter was shouting orders as his staff reacted to the cruise’s cancellation.
“Chef,” said Dani, flashing her badge, “I need a minute.”
“Detective,” said the harried chef, “I don’t have a minute. I haven’t left this kitchen since before 6:00, and with all this food on my hands, I’ll be here for hours.”
Making a note to check the chef’s story with his staff, Dani headed down to the engineering offices. She found Ralph Owens shuffling a pile of charts on a long table.
“Mr. Owens,” said Dani, “I’m Detective Harlow, and I’m sure by now you know about Captain Bailey’s murder.”
Owens nodded.
“Could you tell me where you were around 8:00 this evening?”
“Where I am before every launch,” said Owens. “As always, I fired up the engines around 7:45 so they’d be running smoothly by 8:00.”
Dani didn’t need a compass to know where the chief engineer was going—straight to jail.
SOLUTION
When Owens claimed he started the Belle’s engines at 7:45, Dani remembered that she hadn’t felt the vibrations when she and her aunt were seated a few minutes before 8:00. Caught in a lie, Owens confessed that because of financial stress, Captain Bailey was planning to replace the seasoned engineer with a younger, more tech-savvy crewperson. In a rage over what he felt was a betrayal, Owens had struck the captain with a wrench.
Barb Goffman Presents showcases modernmystery and crime stories, selected by one ofthe most acclaimed authors and editorsin the mystery field, Barb Goffman.
THE CASE OF THE KOSHER DEAL,by Mark Thielman
I could imagine a worse day in Boise, but not without boils, locusts, or the Boise River running blood red through Barber Park.
Outside a thunderstorm raged, downing power lines and bringing the city to a standstill. Inside, we had a dead body. Someone had brought him to a lay-still.
The boss had invited me to the headquarters of the Potato Advisory Board. Some of the honchos were spitballing plans for a new promotional campaign and she wanted her boots-on-the-ground to be there. Secretly, I wondered if that was the after-the-fact excuse she contrived when one of the administrative assistants booked my trip. Rumor had it that the women of the office liked me to be in attendance, especially in my Kennebec costume. They called me the Spud Stud. If Susan wanted to deliver eye candy to the staff, I wouldn’t complain. The board’s checks always cashed, and their dental insurance was better than anything I could get through the Association of Private Investigators. It wasn’t a bad side hustle.
The PI business had been slow, and my few clients’ payments had become glacial. So, I found myself with free time and a low bank balance when Susan, my boss, called. It might be fun, I thought, a weekend in Boise. I agreed to go.
Susan picked me up at the airport. I threw my bag into the back of her Range Rover, then she took me on a quick tour of the Boise sites. Driving around, I should have spent more time looking at the sky and less at the state capital. Storm clouds gathered.
The directors gathered the next morning in the conference center on the top floor of the Potato Advisory Board building, otherwise known as Potato Pavilion. Along one wall of the meeting room they displayed every imaginable device with which to cook potatoes. Below the tool collage, well-tended decorative potato vines flourished in oversized stoneware urns. They gave the room a fresh farm smell, loamy and bucolic, not sweaty and pesticidal. The weather outside, however, pulled my attention away from the smells and utensils to the inbound storm. Mashers, peelers, nails, brushes, ricers, crinkle cutters, and scrubbing gloves, no matter how artfully mounted, couldn’t compete with a thunderhead. Sitting in the boardroom, watching dark clouds roll in from the northwest, I felt the pangs of regret. I’d rather be out on a stakeout anywhere, sitting in a hot car, eating stale doughnuts, and drinking lukewarm coffee than on the top floor of a building in an electrical storm.
I could see that I wasn’t alone in my feelings. No one could sit still as we waited for the meeting to begin. Every board member stepped out of the room to take phone calls. Who knew the potato business could be so secretive? Susan left to update the slides for her presentation. I went to the men’s room and counted to one hundred. I wanted to look busy too. All eyes studied the windows, watching the incoming thunderstorm. Lightning makes ozone, and ozone can be hard on agriculture. Charged particles in the air might explain the tension running through the pavilion. The conference center had constant motion.
Finally everyone gathered. Around the polished oak table, six board members and I sat. Susan stood poised and primped behind a lectern adorned with the Advisory Board’s logo. She wore a soft-shouldered, expensive-looking suit. I guessed Gucci. The logo on the buttons were interlocked Gs, although I thought they looked like a line of potatoes running down her front. The pale brown color reminded me of a ripe Bintje, fresh from the earth—after the grower had washed off the dirt, of course. Susan was always marketing.
Her eyes surveyed the table. “As you know, we are active in community service here in Boise. This year, we’re sponsoring the Shakespeare Festival’s performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor. In the play Falstaff says, ‘Let the sky rain potatoes.’ We’re hoping to enhance the quality of life in Boise and to capture a bigger market share with the English-major crowd.” She smiled. “I’m proud to say I’ve got a small part in the performance.”
A few around the table applauded.
“Cut to the meat,” Fred Dursby interrupted. He had the leathery skin of a man who had spent a lifetime planting seed potatoes. He was the chairman of the board. “We didn’t come here for a charity report. We have a fiduciary responsibility.”
A loud clap of thunder punctuated his statement. I looked to see if it was raining potatoes. “Certainly, Fred,” Susan said. She segued into a presentation for an end-of-the-year marketing campaign. While a series of Norman Rockwell paintings flashed on the screen, Susan explained what we all knew. Potatoes crushed the holiday market. Mashed potatoes lined holiday tables at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Potato salad had become a staple at Fourth of July celebrations. Potato salad devotees divided along mustard/mayo lines as hotly as they did Republican/Democrat. Controversy had proven good for business.
“I got a question.”
“What is it, Fred?” Susan asked.
He pointed a thick finger my direction. “What’s he doing here? This meeting is for board members. He’s just another extra expense of the PR Department. Nothing but a pretty boy who entices housewives over to the vegetable aisle.”
I wanted to tell him that I was a corporate spokesperson who educated consumers that a skin-on potato contained more potassium than a medium banana. Or invite him outside to settle this, man to pretty boy. Susan’s look, however, brought me up short.
“He is here at my request,” Susan said. “Now, if we might turn our attention to an under-served market.”
“Harrumph,” Fred said and spun his chair to look out the window at the storm. I’d been told that Fred didn’t visit the Potato Pavilion much. I’m sure that the view from the top floor beat the pants off his patio in Blackfoot.
“Who put a potato up Fred’s ass?” Betsy Thornton whispered to me.
“He’s still mad about Ray Johnson. They were friends,” PI said.
A while back I’d helped send Ray to prison. Ray had been a major potato player. Betsy had taken his spot on the Advisory Board.
“I don’t see what choice you had,” she whispered. “Ray murdered his wife’s paramour.”
“Fred’s not exactly a big-picture guy.”
We might have continued but Fred spun his chair back around. He had angry eyes. I thought I saw a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. “Tell us what you’ve got.”
“Hanukkah.” Susan looked happy to retake control of the meeting.
The room fell quiet.
Billy Dalton, another board member, raised his hand. “Susan, people can’t even agree on a spelling for Chanukah. How can we market potatoes in that environment?”
Susan stabbed a button to advance her presentation. The projector’s blink corresponded to a burst of lightning outside. “Potatoes,” she said, raising her voice over the thunder, “are a side dish at every one of the holidays we’ve discussed. At Hanukkah, the potato latke is front and center.”
“What potato would we push?” Billy asked.
Betsy raised her hand. “Would we be accused of not being culturally sensitive if we recommended the Yukon Gold?”
I shook my head. “I think the choice is obvious. The Russet makes the best latke by far. The higher starch content means that cooks don’t need to add flour to act as a bonding agent. Latkes hold together, and you get a more pure potato taste. That is until you cover them up with apple sauce and sour cream.” I sat back, pleased that I’d been able to share a little of my expertise with the meeting.
“Some people like them with ketchup,” Susan said.
“Look, Spud,” Fred said. “We’re not really interested in your opinion. It is all right if I call you Spud, isn’t it? I figure that we’re on a first-name basis.”
“FFFFFred,” I said, “then why am I here?”
“I’m glad you asked, Spud.” Fred’s wolf-like smile broadened. “I think that this campaign needs a new face. Someone to appeal convincingly to the Jewish market.”
Susan stepped in front of the projector, casting a shadow on the screen. “Fred, the purpose of this meeting is to discuss a new campaign—”
“I’m on the board, Susan,” Fred interrupted, “and we decide the purpose of these meetings.” He turned away from her and addressed the other members seated around the table. “I’ve got a marketing specialist outside who I’d like you to meet. I think he’d be perfect for this project. I’ve personally hired him away from the CIA.”
“You hired a spy?” Billy asked.
Fred shook his head. “Better. The Cruciferous Industry Association. Cruciferous vegetables, you know, include broccoli. That veggie is having a good year. But cruciferous also includes the Jerusalem artichoke. This boy knows our market.”
I saw a couple of board members lean into the table. Fred seemed to be getting their attention.
He sensed it too. “The young man I’m about to bring in has a background in Jewish studies and in vegetables.” He turned to me and flashed that smile. “His nickname at the CIA was the Kohl-Rabbi.” He paused to let his groaner of a joke about kohlrabi cabbage sink in before continuing. “He’s a triathlete, so he’s got muscles like old Spud here.”
“But Fred,” Susan said, “we have a spokesman.” She looked over at me. Her pale face told me that this turn of the meeting surprised her.
“Well, Susan, times change.”
She pointed at me. “Fred, we gave this man a Golden Tattie at our annual banquet last year for outstanding contributions to the Association. Now you’re suggesting that we might let him go?” Another clap of thunder interrupted Susan’s question.
Fred swiveled in his chair. He looked directly at me. His wide smile told me that he was settling Ray’s score. “The Potato Advisory Board has suffered losses at the top before and survived. We’ll be just fine.”
Betsy stood. “This topic was not mentioned on the agenda. I’d like to take a short recess.”
“That’s fine.” Fred gestured to one of the offices off the conference room. “I’ll go fetch the Kohl-Rabbi. Stick around, Spud. You can see what a real professional looks like.”
Fred walked down the hall. The rest of assembled crowd socially distanced themselves from me. I felt like I carried a contagion. After a few minutes, Susan came over. I wondered if I should hand her a face mask.
Susan stammered, uncertain about what to say. “I’m sorry. We have to stick together. I had no idea he planned to do this.”
I glanced around the room. The other board members were pairing up. “Will they follow him?”
Susan looked down at the floor. “Fred is the Chief Chieftain, the Big Burbank, the Super Santina…”
“I get it,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. See what we can work out.”
Susan grabbed my arm. “Are you sure? Maybe you should sit still and be quiet. I’ve got an outline of a good severance package for you. Aggravate Fred and it might be hard to get board approval.”
I smiled. “That’s the good thing about being a PI. I’ve faced cheating husbands, thieves, and deadbeats. One tyrant with an agenda is nothing.”
“Good luck,” she said and quickly walked away.
I talked a good game, but the thought of confronting Fred still made me nervous. I paused and tossed back a glass of water, wishing it were something stronger.
Betsy appeared alongside me. “That man is impossible. He never darkens the door of this place. Then he shows up and thinks we all need to bow and scrape…He’s…” Her face twisted into some contortion halfway between a sneer and a pout. She drifted off; I turned to watch the rain. Then, admitting that I was stalling, I swallowed once and strode down the hall.
Billy appeared at my side. He muttered something I didn’t hear. I waited patiently for him to repeat himself. I couldn’t afford to alienate another employer if they put my firing to a vote. Wordlessly, he wandered away.
Outside, four office doors split the short open space between the boardroom and the elevator. I listened at the first door, heard nothing, tapped and then opened it. The room sat empty. The second door also yielded nothing, neither Fred nor anyone resembling a Kohl-Rabbi. Maybe, I thought, Fred Dursby had experienced a change of heart. Then, consumed with regret for the unkindness heʼd shown me, a loyal employee, he and his thick knuckles had grabbed the marketing lackey and fled the premises, opting to deal with a millennial flood over an awkward social situation.
Or maybe not.
I tapped on the third door and grabbed the knob. It resisted my attempt to turn, feeling stiff in my hand. Perhaps they’d locked me out, but I refused to be dissuaded. I probably should have asked Susan for the room key. But I felt angry at the way the meeting had gone, frustrated and nervous. I pushed harder adding my shoulder to the effort. The frame surrendered with a crack. I’d have to explain that to Susan.
Inside, I found another dark and empty office. Lightning illuminated the room in flashes.
I turned to leave, bolstered in my theory that the pair had escaped back to Blackfoot.
That’s when I saw the single right shoe by the door.
The sofa along the wall showed evidence of having recently been sat upon. I saw an English language version of the Talmud, the rabbinic writings, lay open, face down. Being a detective, I noted the clues. I felt I’d found the right room.
With the next flash of lightning, I saw the foot sticking out from behind the desk.
I wasn’t astonished to see a leg attached to the foot or a torso connected to the leg. The potato peeler buried in his chest surprised me, as did the deathly pallor on his face. Bloodstained carpet surrounded him. The Kohl-Rabbi would not, it seemed, be taking my job.
I reached down to make a perfunctory check of his non-existent pulse. Fred Dursby suddenly stood alongside me. “What did you do?”
“You’re the one who disappeared,” I said. “What did you do?”
Before either of us could answer, however, the rest of the board crowded into the room.
Betsy screamed.
Behind them, Susan stood, covering her mouth with her hand.
Billy Dalton pointed at the dead man. “The yarmulke really did give his head a nice Russet shape. He might have made a great spokesman.”
All in all, I thought it was remarkably calm statement under the circumstances. “I’m going to call nine one one,” Billy added. This comment seemed infinitely more useful.
The other board members fluttered about in a display of panicked confusion. Billy disappeared back down the hallway, cell phone pressed to his ear.
Another clap of thunder made the nervous crowd even more jittery. They paced about the small office.
“Everyone back to the boardroom now,” I yelled above the din.
Most of the herd promptly headed that way.
“I don’t know that you’re the one to be giving orders here,” Fred said. “Seeing as how I saw you standing over the body.”
“I didn’t…” I began, but then I realized the futility of arguing here alongside a dead body. “Well, everyone tramping about here is just making it easier for me to contaminate this crime scene. Your bluster would help me get off if I’d done anything.”
Fred’s lip curled into a sneer. I thought we might have that man-to-pretty-boy matchup right here. I saw a few of the others nod. Then, what I said seemed to permeate his brain. “Spud’s right. Everyone out.”
I chose to view his conciliatory words as an apology.
He and I followed the others from the room. “Think I should close the door?” Fred asked.
“Won’t stay,” I said. “I broke the frame.”
“In the struggle before you killed the Kohl-Rabbi?”
Perhaps I was hasty in hearing an apology.
In the boardroom, I saw Billy waving his cell phone back and forth before the windows, like a conductor before an orchestra of lightning and sheets of rain. “I can’t get any reception.” He waved the phone again. “It worked a few minutes ago. This damn storm.”
Betsy picked up the receiver on a desk phone and poked random buttons. “No dial tone.”
I pointed at the chairs surrounding the boardroom table. “Everyone sit down.”
I guess I sounded serious. Everyone, including Fred, complied. “Let me see your hands,” I said. “Backs, then palms.”
Billy held his hands up as if he were surrendering. “What are you doing?”
He and the rest looked clean. “Looking for telltale blood,” I said.
“Then let’s see your mitts,” Fred said.
I held up my hands and heard the immediate gasp from Betsy.
“Blood’s dripping off them,” Fred said.
I glanced at my hands and saw blood on the fingertips of two fingers. “A bit of exaggeration there, Fred. You know I checked his pulse.”
“Like you said, contaminating the crime scene helps the killer get off.”
I turned toward the elevator. “I’m going to find a cop.”
Fred moved quickly, blocking my exit. “Nobody is leaving. You especially.”
I bit my lip. He was right, but I didn’t feel like admitting it. I didn’t think any admission would be a good idea right now. Instead, I turned my attention to the display of potato implements. I walked along slowly making note of the masher, the potato nails, a crinkle cutter, and a scrubbing glove. The peeler’s display shelf lay empty. I pointed my bloodstained finger at it. “Who remembers the last time they saw this?”
“I don’t know,” Susan said. “I was concentrating on my presentation.”
“And I was listening to what she was saying,” Betsy said.
The rest concurred. I conceded privately that I too had been listening to the boss and ignoring the wall decorations. The storm had kept us all preoccupied.
“Dammit, still no bars,” Billy said, staring at the useless phone.
