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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #31.
This time, the lineup includes pretty much everything fans look for in fantasy and science fiction—time travel, pyramids, space adventure, alternate history, war, monkeys, and even Nazi spies. Does it get much better than that?
Not to forget our mystery readers, for them we have time travel, a private detective, police, international adventure, war, a solve-it-yourself puzzler, and even Nazis. (Did I mention there’s some overlap between the fantastic and the mysterious in this issue? Surprise! There is.)
I leave you to sort it out among yourselves.
In case you need some help, here’s the breakdown:
Non-Fiction
“Speaking with Joe Haldeman,” conducted by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure
“The Dutiful Rookie,” by James Holding [short story]
“A Wee Bit Of Dough,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“The Case of the Truculent Avocado,” by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Paying the Price, by Nicholas Carter [novel]
“Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
Science Fiction & Fantasy
“Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“How High Your Gods Can Count,” by Tegan Moore [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“How We Came Back From Mars,” by Ian Watson [Darrell Schweitzer Presents short story]
“Death by Proxy,” by Malcolm Jameson[short story]
Bring the Jubilee, by Ward Moore [novel]
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Seitenzahl: 597
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
THE DUTIFUL ROOKIE, by James Holding
A WEE BIT OF DOUGH, by Hal Charles
THE CASE OF THE TRUCULENT AVOCADO, by Mark Thielman
PAYING THE PRICE, by Nicholas Carter
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
VAN GOGHING, GOGHING, GONE, by Alan Orloff
SPEAKING WITH JOE HALDEMAN, an Interview by Darrell Schweitzer
HOW HIGH YOUR GODS CAN COUNT, by Tegan Moore
HOW WE CAME BACK FROM MARS, by Ian Watson
DEATH BY PROXY, by Malcolm Jameson
BRING THE JUBILEE, by Ward Moore
INTRODUCTION
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
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone,” is copyright © 2022 by Alan Orloff. and appears here for the first time.
“One for the Road” is copyright © 1978 by James Holding. Originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, February 1978. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“The Case of the Truculent Avocado” is copyright © 2019 by Mark Thielman. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Jan/Feb 2019. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Wee Bit of Dough” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
Paying the Price, by Nicholas Carter, originally appeared in Nick Carter Stories No. 146, June 26, 1916.
“Speaking With Joe Haldeman” is copyright © 1976 by Darrell Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How High Your Gods Can Count” is copyright © 2016 by Tegan Moore. Originally published in Strange Horizons, May 2016. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How We Came Back from Mars” is copyright © 2011 by Ian Watson. Originally published in Solaris Rising. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Death by Proxy” is copyright © 1945 by Malcolm Jameson. Originally published in Startling Stories, Spring 1945.
Bring the Jubilee, by Ward Moore, is copyright © 1952, 1953 by Ward Moore.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #31.
This time, the lineup includes pretty much everything fans look for in fantasy and science fiction—time travel, pyramids, space adventure, monkeys, alternate history, war, and even Nazi spies. Does it get much better than that?
Not to forget our mystery readers, for them we have time travel, a private detective, police, international adventure, war, a solve-it-yourself puzzler, and even Nazis. (Did I mention there’s some overlap between the fantastic and the mysterious in this issue? Surprise! There is.)
I leave you to sort it out among yourselves.
In case you need some help, here’s the breakdown:
Non-Fiction
“Speaking with Joe Haldeman,” conducted by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure
“The Dutiful Rookie,” by James Holding [short story]
“A Wee Bit Of Dough,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“The Case of the Truculent Avocado,” by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Paying the Price, by Nicholas Carter [novel]
“Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
Science Fiction & Fantasy
“Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“How High Your Gods Can Count,” by Tegan Moore [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“How We Came Back From Mars,” by Ian Watson [Darrell Schweitzer Presents short story]
“Death by Proxy,” by Malcolm Jameson[short story]
Bring the Jubilee, by Ward Moore [novel]
Happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Karl Wurf
THE DUTIFUL ROOKIE,by James Holding
Kelly claimed afterward that it was just like the ending of a late, late TV movie: the body of the bad guy lying on the floor; the young cop in the arms of the grateful heroine being soundly kissed for his timely assistance; and the young cop’s dumb older partner arriving at the scene too late, as usual, for the action.
From the standpoint of Kelly’s new partner, Birkowitz, however, it was infinitely more exciting and satisfactory than any movie. For three reasons: (1) Because this wasn’t any imaginary adventure dreamed up by some TV writer. (2) Because Birkowitz, a brand-new rookie aching to prove himself, was unexpectedly given the chance to do so on his very first night as Kelly’s partner. (3) Because he was so incredibly lucky as to make his first arrest as a full-fledged cop with admiring feminine eyes looking on.
When Birkowitz arrived for his first night of patrol duty at Station Six, the desk sergeant laconically introduced him to Kelly. “Guy who’s been Kelly’s partner for three years has been transferred to South Side,” he told Birkowitz. “You’re taking his place in car sixty-two, right? So this is Kelly.” And to Kelly, a big, weather-beaten, ugly man with laugh wrinkles around his eyes: “This is Lou Birkowitz, Kelly. Fresh out of the training course downtown. Fly at it, boys.”
That was all. Kelly and Birkowitz said “Hi,” to each other, shook hands, and went out together to car 62 in the station driveway, each examining the other with covert glances to size up the new partner assigned by the brass to share his dangers, excitements, boredom and monotony for the foreseeable future...as well as the cramped confines of car 62.
Kelly suggested gruffly that Birkowitz drive the cruiser that first night to familiarize himself with it. Kelly handled the mike and gave Birkowitz a guided tour of the territory they were supposed to patrol.
This was a rather quiet beat on the north side, Kelly explained, a good one for a rookie cop to cut his teeth on. It consisted of three-quarters of a square mile of quiet residential streets, a shopping center, a couple of blocks of commercial and professional buildings, and a few—less than a dozen—trouble-breeding spots, by which Kelly meant bars, taverns, all-night restaurants, and bowling alleys.
After an hour or so, the constraint that usually exists for a time between two complete strangers began to wear off a little. Birkowitz confided to Kelly that he sure hoped he’d be able to fill the shoes of Kelly’s former partner all right but that, candidly, he was so green that Kelly would have to bear with him until he learned the ropes. Kelly, a middle-aged man who had seen rookies come and go through the years, said sure, as senior officer of the crew, he’d make the decisions for a while anyway, and all Birkowitz had to do was follow Kelly’s instructions when they went into action as a team, and he didn’t doubt for a minute that Birkowitz would catch on quick and make a better cop than his old partner had ever been.
Birkowitz nodded at this, and said, “Thanks, Kelly, I’ll sure try,” and drove the police cruiser proudly.
An hour and a half after midnight their car number suddenly jumped out at them from .the constant mutter of the police band to which their radio was tuned. “Car sixty-two? Car six-two. Come in.” Kelly spoke into the mike. “Here, car six-two. Kelly.”
“Take this address,” the dispatcher’s voice came back tinnily. “1289 Moss Street.”
“1289 Moss, gotcha,” said Kelly.
“Lady reports a prowler. Where are you?”
“On Kent. Five blocks away.”
“Get it,” the dispatcher said. “Out.”
Kelly hung up the mike and grinned at Birkowitz. “Lucky boy. Go two blocks north and turn right. Step on it.”
Birkowitz stepped on it. “1289 Moss, was that it?”
“Right.” They swept around the corner into Moss Street. “It’ll be in the third block up, about the middle, left-hand side.” The darkness of the tree-shaded street before them was relieved at intervals by pools of dappled leaf-shadows cast by street lamps.
Birkowitz’s voice showed a shade of nervousness. “Regular drill, Kelly?”
Kelly glanced aside at his young partner. “Well,” he said, “the prowler if any, still ought to be in there, Lou. It’s less’n a minute since we got the call. Maybe we could take him in. That would be something, wouldn’t it, your first night?”
“Yeah,” said Birkowitz. “What do we do?”
“Drift up easy and look things over first.” Kelly saw no headlights before or behind them to indicate any other traffic on Moss Street just then. He switched off their own headlights and the flasher on top of the cruiser, reaching across the wheel to do so. “Throw her out of gear and coast, Lou,” he said. “I’ll tell you when to pull up.” A moment later he said, “Now,” and the car glided almost without a sound to the curb, four houses short and across the street from 1289. Kelly turned down the volume of their radio until it was barely audible.
“Come on,” he said in a murmur. “Quiet.” They climbed out of the car, leaving the doors slightly open to avoid noise, and slid swiftly across the street, two ghosts among the leaf shadows.
Silently they trotted along the grass-pavement verge toward 1289, which was a modest, cracker-box shaped, two-story house set on a sixty-foot lot. It was in total darkness. The nearest street light, a hundred yards away, threw only a faint shadow-blurred suggestion of illumination on the house front due to the intervening trees, yet with the help of starlight, it was enough for Kelly.
“Front door and windows closed, no broken panes,” he whispered to Birkowitz, “so chances are the prowler got in through the back.” They melted into the tree shadow before number 1289.
“Now what?” asked Birkowitz in a tight mutter.
“Give me two minutes to get around back and find where he broke in. Then you hit the front door with plenty of noise. Chances are he’ll go out the way he went in, and I’ll be waiting for him.”
“Right,” Birkowitz agreed. “Two minutes.” He looked at his watch as Kelly disappeared into the narrow lane of blackness that separated 1289 from the house next door.
Kelly moved very quietly for a big man. He rounded the rear corner of 1289 on the double and found himself in a small back yard. A flight of three steps led up from the yard to a porch which masked the back door of the house.
Kelly mounted the three steps without hesitation and crossed the porch to the door. He saw that its upper half was composed of a dozen small panes of glass glazed into slender wooden sash. The pane of glass nearest the doorknob was broken, and the door stood open about six inches.
Kelly shook his head—a familiar pattern. The prowler had broken the glass, reached a hand through, unlocked the door on the inside and walked in. Might as well have a sign posted saying Welcome to Burglars as a door like that, Kelly reflected.
He put his ear to the crack of the door and listened; nothing. He couldn’t see anything but blackness in what he presumed was the kitchen beyond the door, not even any looming shapes of stove or refrigerator. He unbuttoned his holster flap, stepped to one side of the door into deep shadow, and glanced impatiently at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. He was surprised to see that only thirty seconds had passed since he left Birkowitz. A minute and a half to go before Birkowitz made his move—if he made his move. Kelly remembered uneasily the note of uncertainty in the kid’s voice just a moment ago.
He was setting himself when he heard the scream. It came from inside the house—shrill, high-pitched, feminine, a little muffled as though by distance but with enough terror in it to raise gooseflesh on Kelly. The scream was followed almost immediately by a shattering crash, then a sodden-sounding and ominous thump.
Kelly waited for no more. He charged through the back door, his shoulder nearly taking the door off its hinges as he passed. His eyes, more used to the darkness now, showed him dimly that the room he pounded through without pausing was the kitchen and that a rectangle of lighter darkness in the far wall was a doorway.
He leaped through that doorway into a hallway beyond, just as a light came on upstairs and shone down on the treads of a stairway rising on his right to the second floor. With his free hand, Kelly braked his momentum with a grip on the newel at the foot of the stairway, then swung himself around it like a monkey on a pole and went up the stairway two steps at a time.
He needn’t have hurried, he saw, the moment his head came above the level of the upstairs landing, for that’s when he took in the scene that he was later to liken to a TV movie.
A skinny, seedy-looking youth with streaked blond hair and no chin to speak of lay on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs at one side of the landing, among the scattered fragments of what had been a large, framed wall mirror. From the head of the stairs, Kelly could see the whites of the youth’s eyes and, since he lay quite motionless, Kelly rightly deduced that he was out cold. A little to one side of sprawled body, Patrolman Birkowitz stood with his arms around a diminutive brunette of such dazzling beauty that she would have drawn any male eye ineluctably, even if she had not been wearing a semitransparent nightgown, which she was.
She was engaged in kissing officer Birkowitz with obvious enthusiasm and, Kelly noted with a massing twinge of envy, Birkowitz was returning the favor with more than routine interest.
Enjoying the tableau, Kelly waited a moment at the head of the stairs. Then, gently, he cleared his throat. Birkowitz and the brunette broke apart with a reluctance for which Kelly could not entirely blame them.
“Birkowitz,” said Kelly sternly, “didn’t they teach you in that police school downtown that police officers are strictly forbidden to do any kissing while on duty?”
Birkowitz had the grace to flush guiltily; he did not, however, remove his arm from the dark-haired girl’s waist at once. “Gee, Kelly,” he began lamely, “I’m really sorry—”
The brunette cut him off. “Wasn’t he tremendous?” she asked the world in an admiring voice. “Simply wonderful?”
“He musta been,” Kelly said, “from the looks of things.”
“Oh, he was!” the girl caroled. “You should have seen him throw that man bodily against the wall. And before that, when I screamed, he ran right upstairs without even stopping to think whether the burglar might have a gun and kill him!”
Birkowitz interrupted her. “Let me tell it,” he said.
“You’re too modest to tell it right.” The girl regarded Birkowitz with shining eyes and turned back to Kelly. “I was sleeping in there, you see…” she waved toward an open door leading off the upstairs landing, “...when the sound of breaking glass downstairs woke me up. Then I heard our back door squeak open—it always squeaks when you open it—and I knew a burglar was breaking in. So I quickly shut my bedroom door and telephoned the police while the burglar was still downstairs and couldn’t hear me.”
Kelly nodded approvingly. “Good thinking, lady.”
“In about two seconds I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and I could see a little bit of light under my door, like a flashlight, you know?”
“It was a flashlight.” Birkowitz pointed to a pencil flash lying with the burglar among the shards of shattered mirror. He picked it up.
“I prayed he wouldn’t come into my bedroom first,” said the girl, “because there’s no lock on the door of the bedroom, you see.”
“You ought to get one,” Birkowitz broke in.
She nodded her head. “I will. Anyway,” she said to Kelly, “I was simply amazed at how fast you got here. I heard the burglar go into the guest room there, next to my room, and start pulling out dresser drawers. I kept watching out my window for you to arrive and, sure enough, there you were in less than a minute, it seemed: two policemen, one going around back and one staying in front. So I just naturally opened my window and called down to the one in front.” She twinkled up at Birkowitz. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Sure,” said Birkowitz. “Who else? ”
“Shut up,” Kelly said. “Let her tell it, Birkowitz. She’s doing all right. You said you called down to him, lady?”
“Yes. I called down to him to please hurry up because the burglar was in the next room and I was scared. The burglar must have heard me talking and thought I was telephoning the police, because he came bursting into my room and grabbed me and I screamed bloody murder.”
“I heard you,” Kelly said. “You got quite a scream, lady.”
“But the burglar had no more than grabbed me when somebody came dashing up the stairs and grabbed him, and threw him clear out into the hall against the mirror. Then I turned the light on, and you came running in from the back, I guess...” Her voice trailed off and she gave Birkowitz another soulful look.
The burglar began to stir. When he emitted a falsetto moan, Birkowitz, very businesslike, walked over to him, stooped, brought the lax wrists together and slipped a pair of handcuffs on them, just as the police school had taught him.
Kelly scratched his head. “I guess I get the picture, lady. But tell me one thing. If you lock your back door at night, why not lock your front door, too?”
“Oh, I do, officer. Always.”
“You do?” He stared at her in bewilderment. “Then how did Birkowitz get into the house so quick?”
Birkowitz straightened from his crouch beside the skinny burglar and flushed again. “I had a key to the front door,” he said sheepishly. “I live here, Kelly.”
“What!” Kelly reached out and steadied himself against his shock with a hand on the wall. He regarded his young partner uncomprehendingly tor a moment, then muttered, “Well, how about that!" He looked at the tiny brunette. “'Then you’re Mrs. Birkowitz?”
“Of course.” She giggled. “Do you think I’m the type who goes around kissing strange policemen?
Kelly shook his head. “Maybe not,” he said defensively, “but sometimes women do funny things when they’re...they’re...” he groped, and finished, “…emotionally aroused.”
The girl’s merry laughter at this sally made it Kelly’s turn to flush. "Lou, I don’t get it. You heard the dispatcher give me this address for file prowler, didn’t you? Your own house?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me it was your house, for heaven’s lake?”
Birkowitz was earnest. “I thought it was a gag, Kelly. Honest. I thought it was a joke that you and the dispatcher had fixed up to throw a little scare into me, your rookie partner, my first night. Maybe see how I’d behave, I don’t know.” Birkowitz shrugged apologetically. “At the police school they warned us that when we got our assignments, there’d be some hazing from the veteran men. And besides, I’d just promised I’d follow instructions, and you told me to stay out front for two minutes before I hit the front door.” He went to his wife and hugged her absent-mindedly. “When Tina yelled down to me to hurry, and then I heard her scream, I knew it couldn’t be a gag, after all. So I got to her as fast as I could. You don’t blame me for that, do you? My own wife?”
Kelly said, “No, I guess not. Now, take that punk there under your arm, Birkowitz, and let’s get down and report in.” He wagged his head. “I know one thing. The boys at Station Six’ll never believe this one, never.” He turned to the brunette and said genially, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Birkowitz. And I can tell you privately that if your husband hadn’t disobeyed instructions tonight, we’d have sent him back to the police school for a postgraduate course!”
A WEE BIT OF DOUGH,by Hal Charles
Amy Murphy always enjoyed visiting her Aunt Mary, especially at this time of year. Amy’s family had come to America from what they affectionately called the Old Country, and while they had adopted their new home with enthusiasm, a part of the Emerald Isle remained in their blood. And no time was this love more evident than around St. Patrick’s Day.
As Amy entered the kitchen, she was greeted by a smiling wisp of a woman standing by a huge stove that had prepared so many delicious meals for both family and friends. “Ah, Amy me girl,” Aunt Mary said with the accent that always seemed to grow more pronounced around this holiday, “the saints are smiling on your aunt today.”
Amy watched as her aunt practically danced over to the elaborately-decorated bread box that had been in the family as long as she could remember. “Your Aunt Mary has been visited by the wee people.”
“What?”
Mary opened the tin box and pulled out a large jar filled with bills and coins. “The wind has torn several shingles off the roof, and I’ve been saving to have it repaired.”
“What does that have to do with the wee people?”
“Since Mr. Hagan told me the cost of the repair, I’ve been sticking every spare cent in this jar,” said Mary.
“I’m still not following,” said Amy
“Truthfully, my savings haven’t amounted to much, and I was getting a little worried waiting for the roof to leak. Then I remembered the old stories about the wee people. Nana used to say that if you were a good person and truly believed, the wee people would help you out.”
“I don’t know,” said Amy, a hint of suspicion in her voice.
“Well, all I know is I invited some folks over today to join us for the St. Patrick’s Day parade on TV. Everybody was in the den when I decided to get a glass of water. Something told me to look in the bread box, and faith and begorra, there was a new $100 bill in the jar.”
“And you think it was put there by a leprechaun?”
“How else can you explain it?”
Amy didn’t want to spoil her aunt’s excitement, but her own curiosity wouldn’t let her leave this mystery unsolved. “Who are your guests in the den?”
Mary smiled. “Your cousin Kevin had the day off from the lumber yard and stopped by. And you know my friend and bridge partner Sadie Devlin. Then Virgil Stanton from down the street—”
“The Virgil Stanton,” said Amy teasingly.
“Oh, go on,” said Mary, a hint of red rising to her face.
As they entered the den, Amy ran some options through her mind. Not quite ready to accept the existence of leprechauns, she reasoned that one of the three guests must have slipped the bill into the jar.
Sadie Devlin had been Mary’s best friend for years. Amy had no doubt that Sadie would help her friend with the repair cost, but on a fixed income herself, could Sadie afford the generosity?
Money was certainly no problem for Virgil Stanton, who owned a thriving hardware store downtown. She had heard, however, that the businessman was extremely tight with his finances.
Amy’s cousin Kevin was a hardworking young man with a wife and two kids. With his job at the town’s only lumber yard, it was everything he could do to make ends meet.
Sitting down in a huge overstuffed chair, Amy studied the group. Kevin finished a glass of milk and set it down next to a sandwich plate filled with crumbs while Virgil Stanton fiddled with a cell phone as if expecting a call or text. Sadie Devlin seemed more interested in a bulky catalog than the television set.
“Faith and begorra, indeed,” Amy said under her breath as she realized wee people could come in unexpected sizes.
Solution
When Amy saw the crumbs on the plate in front of Kevin, she reasoned that he had made himself a sandwich and discovered the jar while looking for the bread. Working at the lumber yard, he had probably learned about the repair and its cost from Mr. Hagan, the roofer and decided to help out his aunt. As she watched the parade, Amy was content to let her aunt continue to believe in the generosity of the wee people.
THE CASE OF THE TRUCULENT AVOCADO,by Mark Thielman
The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,
personally selected by one of the most acclaimedshort stories authors and editors in the mysteryfield, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.
“Why don’t you just tell me why you killed the turtle?” the deputy asked, giving me the practiced stare he had undoubtedly learned in Intimidation 101.
I shook my head. “He is... was,” I corrected myself, “an avocado, not a turtle.”
The deputy paused, momentarily taken aback. The dead guy looked like a turtle: round dark-green shell, mostly smooth, pressed against the floor; light-green underside facing up to the fluorescent lights arrayed along the ceiling of Uncle Bob’s Natural Food Emporium. All four green limbs splayed to the sides. Undoubtedly, whenever the deputy pictured a dead turtle or passed one patrolling some county back road, he always saw it belly to heaven, shell hard against the pavement, legs straining till death, trying to right itself. Likely, he had never run across a murdered avocado. Certain of his own rightness, the deputy tried again.
“What’s a man dressed like a turtle doing dead in the produce section of my little town’s fanciest grocery store?”
I rolled my eyes and looked around the employee breakroom of the Food Emporium. It was going to be a long day.
“Charles wasn’t a turtle. The produce manager was wearing an avocado costume. It is California Avocado Month here at the store. Though,” I added, “I can see how it might look that way.”
“What I see—” The deputy slapped the table for emphasis, nearly knocking over his small digital recorder. “What I see is that you’re evading the real question I’m asking... And why can’t you sit still without squirming? Are you nervous?”
I wanted to ask whether the deputy had ever sat through an interview wearing a Russian Banana Fingerling potato costume. It digs into your backside. If, however, you’re a potato and try to complain about a wedgie, no one takes you seriously. So, I thought better and decided to just answer the question I’d been asked. “No, I’m not nervous.”
“How did you end up in the same grocery store as a dead trick-or-treater?”
Now that was a question I had asked myself. I explained that I made my living as a private investigator. I liked the work, got to set my own hours, and be my own boss. The job gave me the free time to work out at the gym regularly, and I felt in the best shape of my life. The problem was that the work was sporadic, and the clients’ checks didn’t always clear. A while back, I had helped a woman get divorced from her cheating husband. The woman had been some public relations flack who knew somebody who knew somebody at the Potato Advisory Board. One day, she made the introductions. I didn’t feel the need to mention that she had gotten the idea when she had seen me coming out of her shower. Anyway, my tanned and recently enhanced biceps paired well with the Idaho Russet costume they had me try on. Now, I had a part-time gig as the Special Assistant in Potato Promotions. The women at the board called me simply the Spud Stud.
“So the tur... avocado,” the deputy corrected himself, “he was your boss.”
“I am a special assistant for the Potato Board. I work with the produce manager, not for the produce manager,” I patiently explained, emphasizing the difference.
“I’m just a deputy sheriff in a small, quiet, conservative Texas community. Why don’t you explain, what exactly does a special assistant do?” The lawman leaned back in one of the breakroom’s plastic chairs and waited. His face told me that he didn’t care about the answer but was looking for a lie on which I could later hang myself.
What could I say, that I was like a rodeo cowboy only without the leather tack and broken bones? I rode a circuit in my beat-up Toyota Pathfinder with a footlocker full of potato costumes in the back. Should I complain that I bake inside a potato costume? Or that the voice on my GPS is my only friend? No, I decided. I’d give him the script as written by the board.
“I tout potatoes as haute and wholesome. I introduce people to the differing colors and nuanced flavors available from the array of potatoes grown by American farmers. I encourage customers to challenge their taste buds by trying the potato puree.” Here, I lowered my voice and ad-libbed, giving him inside information. “It’s really a blender smoothie, but the marketing department liked the alliteration of puree and potato. You should try one.”
As I said it, his glazed eyes told me that the deputy wouldn’t try anything from a blender that didn’t have ice, rum, and a pink paper umbrella, but I continued.
“The board likes alliteration. The only thing I’m not supposed to do is call a potato a tuber. Research says that people associate that word too closely with cancer.”
“Are you saying old Charlie died of cancer?” the deputy said, leaning in this time for emphasis. “’Cause it sure looks to me like he got stabbed to death with a carrot.”
“Actually, it looked to me like an organic heirloom parsnip,” I said, trying to move the investigation forward. “But don’t be ashamed. I’m a vegetable professional.”
The deputy narrowed his eyes and looked at me hard. “So you know vegetables. With Charlie out of the way, you could be produce manager. Sounds like I found me someone with motive.”
I didn’t correct him this time.
“And the killer was someone Charlie knew. No sign of a struggle. Didn’t even mess up the green paint on his turtle arms or legs.”
I know how interrogations are supposed to go, just answer the questions and never volunteer information. But I just couldn’t help myself.
“You’re right. He caught me stealing organic bean sprouts. I had to kill him. Once I get to be produce manager, I’ll get the first pick of the expired lettuce packages. Do you know the black market for that stuff?”
His expression stayed hard, boring into my face. “I think you’re mocking me. You know what they do to potato boys in jail?”
I turned my palms up and opened my arms wide. The courses that I had been to said that this was the classic body language for demonstrating nothing to hide. “Look, Sheriff, I’ve only been here three days for the potato promotion. I didn’t know Charles well. All I can tell you is that he was an angry man whose wife divorced him because he watched too much porn. Had a thing for girls and vegetables. Took his work too seriously.”
The deputy’s eyes dipped to the table for just a fraction. Apparently, he hadn’t known about the pornography. He should spend less time bent over the corpse and more time absorbing rumors over in Dairy and Cheese.
“I bet you’ll find a closet full at his apartment,” I said. “His ex got the house. And you know I didn’t kill him.” I held up my swipe card. “This store has a computerized timekeeping system. I just got here a few minutes before you showed up.”
The deputy sweated me for a full minute with his stare. I showed better judgment this time and didn’t offer up any mock confessions. He and I, I discovered, had differing senses of humor. Finally, he pointed a finger at me. That thick digit would have looked impressive under the glass at Uncle Bob’s butcher counter lying alongside the other sausages.
“Don’t leave my jurisdiction,” he said. “I’m gonna wanna talk to you some more.”
“Gonna wanna,” I repeated. “So does that mean I shouldn’t leave Produce, the store, the county, or the state?”
The deputy growled and stalked past me out of the breakroom. I stayed seated. I needed to think.
“I’m not sure making him mad is exactly your best strategy,” a silvery voice behind me said.
I twisted in my chair and looked. Babette the Baguette stood there, not in uniform.
“Hey, Babs,” I said simply.
“You know that’s not my real name,” she said as she moved to the table and sat down. It was easy to do; the deputy hadn’t bothered to push his chair back in when he stormed out of the room.
Debra Lanning had been a B movie actress who sacrificed her twenties and thirties around Hollywood chasing dreams of stardom. She had told me that her film oeuvre included being the third screamer on the right in Thief of Time and third bimbo on the left in Killing Time. I had to go look the word up: oeuvre, not bimbo. She rounded out her filmography with small parts in a couple of short-lived sitcoms.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Making him angry was probably not in my best interest. My teachers always said I had self-control problems.”
“I did a commercial for a men’s pharmaceutical to help you with that,” she volunteered.
“Different sort of self-control.”
“I also know a little something about handcuffs,” she said.
That drew a look.
“I had a part in a police drama,” the tone now barbed. “I was the PTA president who was also the junkie prostitute. At the end of the episode, I got taken to jail. It was allergy season. Trust me, you do not want to sit in handcuffs with hay fever.”
“If I can stay out of the slammer until 10:00 p.m., I’ll catch the local news and remember to check the pollen count.”
“All I’m saying,” she said, ignoring my remark, “is that I know a little something about bad career moves. Sounds to me like you’re making one.”
At the moment, I had to agree.
Here at the store, Debra was Babette the Baguette, the exotically accented loaf of French bread who shilled bakery items and signed autographs. A poster with an old publicity photo of her sat on an easel just inside the sliding front doors of Uncle Bob’s Natural Food Emporium.
She raised slightly out of her chair and angled it a few degrees so that I was looking at her more in profile than I had been. My face must have reflected curiosity.
“Force of habit,” she said. “This is my good side. Always have to remember the camera angles.”
If she didn’t look quite as good as she did in the publicity photo, well, unlike any other baguette I’d ever had, I wouldn’t throw her out just because she had gotten a couple of days old.
“I doubt you have a bad side,” I said.
“You big sweet potato.”
Since Babs and I were getting along so famously, I excused myself for a moment and went out to the deli. Uncle Bob’s keeps its selection of fine wines and craft beers there. I picked out a merlot and gathered a sleeve of plastic cups from the aisle stocked for football tailgating. I figured that since the police were keeping the customers away by swathing the store in crime-scene tape, the loss of a bottle of wine wouldn’t matter all that much. Besides, if Uncle Bob made me pay for it, I’d let Babs use her employee discount.
She looked up and smiled when I came back inside the breakroom.
“You’re sure that a red is the right wine for a murder investigation?”
“I couldn’t chill a white,” I said. “We keep the ice outside, and I’m not supposed to leave the jurisdiction.”
“I could go,” she said. Babs had proved that she hadn’t arrived at work until after Charles’s body had been discovered. She was in the clear. I felt a small tingle of excitement that she was choosing to stay here with me.
I dug around the breakroom drawers looking for a corkscrew without success. Uncle Bob, it seemed, didn’t want the staff drinking on their breaks. I finally cut the foil off the bottle with a paring knife and pushed the cork down inside with the Sharpie the staff uses when they mark down prices.
“Classy,” she said as she watched me pour the wine into plastic cups while keeping the cork out of the neck with the marker.
“Transports you back to Geoffrey’s in Malibu, I bet.”
She made a small, humorless laugh. “Most of those restaurants didn’t have a third-bimbo section.”
“So how did you end up here?” I asked.
“After I left the industry,” she said, “or maybe the industry left me, I bounced around various jobs. I worked for a time at the Splendor Hotel on the Vegas strip. Everyone on the staff was a retired professional athlete or Hollywood celebrity. I worked the check-in desk with Mickey Tolanotti,” she said.
My face again betrayed me.
Babs gave me an incredulous look and explained, “Tolanotti pitched three seasons for the Cleveland Indians and had a six-point-one-five ERA. He might have won the Cy Young if he hadn’t needed elbow surgery.”
I nodded.
“It was a concept hotel. People would pay extra to have their magnetic hotel key made by a guy who once hurled for the Tribe or a girl who screamed ‘help’ in Thief of Time.”
“Go figure.”
“One day, a bunch of Chinese investors bought the place. They pink-slipped us all. Apparently, they didn’t like baseball or slasher movies.”
“That’s un-American.”
Babs ignored me again. “Uncle Bob had been to the national grocer’s convention out in Vegas. When he heard about us getting canned, he offered us jobs. I took it.”
“And Tolanotti?”
“Beer distributorship in Cleveland.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.” I knew a little of this information. Every actress has a fan site on the internet. I’d also looked her up on IMDb. I didn’t know about the hotel until Babette and I talked over lunch in the breakroom on my first day here. I loaned her a couple of dollars; she loaned me her employee discount. Together we’d shared Italian deli sandwiches and sea salt potato chips. Later, she showed me the dressing rooms where I changed into my potato costume. She had helped me zip into the gourmet Carola I was wearing that day. That experience had sort of joined us spiritually.
“And now it looks like I’ll be leaving here,” she said, her eyes downcast, and she bit into her lower lip.
I tried to sound encouraging. “The store will be back open in a day or two. Business will likely be bigger than ever. You know what a little scandal can do.”
“I’ve learned today that I like special-effects blood better than the real stuff,” she said quietly and chewed harder on her lip.
“At least you know that you get to leave in the front seat of the car. I’m still not sure I’m not riding out of here in the back seat.”
“All this trouble over Charlie,” she said, shaking her head. “He was such a rotten human being. I don’t think anyone would blame you if you had.”
I didn’t like it that the closest thing I had to a friend in this town was starting to believe I might have killed the produce manager with a parsnip. I felt moved to say something positive.
“He couldn’t have been all bad.”
“If you liked him, you might call him feisty,” she continued. “But nobody liked him. So we called him a hotheaded jerk who enjoyed giving orders. We called him the Potentate of Produce.”
“But he knew his way around fruits and vegetables.”
Another humorless grunt of laughter. “You need to do something.” Her eyes automatically cut to the left and right. Then she said, “You could run.”
I shook my head. “A fugitive in a yellow fingerling costume. Never able to go to a farmers market for fear of being recognized. My face plastered all over wanted posters in the canned-vegetable aisle.” I shook my head solemnly. “That’s no life.”
The look she gave suggested that I was mocking. “You could solve the crime.”
I shook my head again, this time more like Tolanotti calling off a pitch. Babs, however, would not be dissuaded. She set her mind on identifying suspects.
“What about Maria?”
“The checkout girl?”
“Have you heard some of the things Charlie said to her?” Babette shivered involuntarily. “I couldn’t stand it if he talked to me that way.”
“She should sue, not murder,” I said.
Babette tapped the table excitedly with her finger. “The Catfish King.”
The Catfish King was another product rep. He came through the store periodically in a camouflage baseball cap and a pearl-snap shirt with cutoff sleeves. His shtick involved running through a series of redneck jokes and then announcing that catfish was the new bacon. People liked his routine but remained unmoved; bacon was the new bacon.
“Why would the Catfish King want to kill off an avocado? Catfish goes with everything.”
“Maybe he thought Charlie was a turtle too. You know, people can only buy so much meat. Turtle would be a threat to his livelihood.”
“I’ll consider it,” I said, but it was clear from my tone that I wouldn’t.
Babs’s mouth settled into a pout. “Fine. Solve it yourself. I won’t say another word about it.”
It was equally clear from her tone that the silence wouldn’t last. She was a born director.
“In Death on the Delta,” she said, able to contain herself no longer, “there was this serial killer loose in my sorority house. We had to solve the crime before we were all gruesomely murdered with a razor-sharp tiara.” Babs set down her plastic cup and held up her hand—thumb and forefinger barely spread apart. “I was this close to figuring out that it was the freshman we had blackballed after she got her face burned with acid in the chemistry lab. Then she killed me.”
“Damn the luck.”
“But you could do it,” she said, her head bouncing enthusiastically like a bobblehead dog in the back window of some of the cars in the parking lot.
“Funny that you mentioned it. When I picked up the wine, I thought about crushing up some charcoal from the tailgate aisle and swiping a fine brush from the cosmetic counter to dust for fingerprints. Then I thought maybe I’d crack open some of the glow sticks from the Halloween seasonal aisle and start looking for blood using chemical luminescence.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You can do all that?”
“Saw it in a seminar. Private investigators have annual classes we have to take. I don’t know if I can do all that, but their crime-scene guy is just collecting store video, hoping to catch the murderer on tape. They aren’t doing any of it.”
My full glory was starting to be revealed. Babette was seeing me now as more than just a costumed salesman and sommelier.
“I abandoned the idea,” I said, trying to let her down before she got too enthusiastic. “Deputy would arrest me for sure if he saw me throwing charcoal and liquid around the produce department.”
Babette stood, face frowning. “You need to do something to help yourself. I won’t promise I’ll wait until you get out of prison.” With that, she drained her plastic cup and strode out of the breakroom. “Thanks for the wine.”
The deputy was coming in as Babs was going out. He paused and held the door for her. She gave him the high-voltage starlet smile. Some parts of Babs may have declined with age, but the smile was timeless. After she left, he came into the room. I could tell he felt taller. He sat down and turned back on his recorder.
“Your story doesn’t check out, Potato Man,” he said without preamble.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, your story doesn’t check out,” he repeated with deliberate ambiguity.
He wanted me to start talking, to careen wildly in my narrative. He should have brought a video camera rather than a small voice recorder to catch my body language tightening up and proclaiming guilt. Since he hadn’t gone to the trouble, then neither would I.
“Well, then the sources you checked are wrong,” I said flatly.
His body language drew in a little tighter. He’d expected to rattle me more with the accusation. After a fraction, he recovered and slowly shook his head.
“Potato Man, the computers prove you were here when Charlie got killed. Now you don’t need to carry that big heavy guilt burden around. Just tell me.” He gestured toward the door. “Did you and the produce manager get into a tussle over that piece of French pastry that just left? Accidentally stab him? Might even be self-defense.”
This cop, for all his chicken-fried idiocy, had been to an interrogation school. He understood the soft sell, proposing an easy, seemingly blameless way for me to confess. He hoped that I’d start babbling about how Charles the produce manager attacked and tried to bludgeon me with a gourd or pumpkin and I had no choice but to defend myself with a parsnip.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked simply.
He pursed his lips and gave me a disappointed look. He held the look for a minute, a time that felt like an eternity. “You’re not under arrest. But you’re going to be a French fried potato if you don’t come clean with me.” He held the fixed stare. He’d put the emphasis on ‘fried.’
I stifled a merlot belch. That wouldn’t sound good on the recording.
He let the recorder run. “I told you earlier not to leave the jurisdiction. Now I want you to stay in the store. Get up, use the restroom, stretch your legs, but stay here. Any reason you can’t do that?” He pronounced can’t like ‘cain’t.’
“I cain.”
I think the deputy felt he was being mocked. I got the clear sense he would hit me with a phone book if anybody, anywhere still had one. But they don’t, so he cain’t. Instead, he merely switched off the recorder with an angry stab of his thick finger, stood, and leaned over the table.
“French fried potato,” he repeated and stormed out of the breakroom. This time ‘French’ took the brunt of his anger.
After he left, I wiped the spittle that comes with an exaggerated eff sound from my face. I surveyed my quarters. It reminded me of a jail cell, only with a microwave, refrigerator, and portable DVD player. The room seemed small, quiet and forbidding and becoming smaller, quieter, and more forbidding by the moment. That picture grew increasingly disagreeable. I didn’t have to stay here, I thought, although I knew how it would look if I left the store. I left the merlot. I didn’t want to drink any more in case the deputy came back with additional questions.
Stepping out of the breakroom, I walked over to the bakery. Babette wasn’t there. I wasn’t sure if, when she wasn’t working, they called her Babette or Debra. Didn’t matter; no one wanted to make eye contact with me anyway.
I circled around to the butcher. Rico moved into and out of the freezer, storing meat that hadn’t thawed. The store would remain closed, and he didn’t want it to spoil. I called to him, but he seemed not to hear me; must be the earmuffs. I pulled down a knife from the magnetic strip that held them. These carvers sat over a plastic cutting board colored to look like butcher block. Rico used them to trim fat from steaks. I considered palming one in case I went to jail. Then, I put it back into one of the gaps on the magnetic strip. The sound of metal on metal jarred me. I mostly investigated divorce cases and personal-injury claims. I didn’t know any more about what happened in jail than any other television watcher.
Next, I walked over to Loss Prevention, the store’s euphemism for the shoplift-catching department. All the video cameras feed into six television screens that monitor the store inside and out. The sheriff’s office had already copied what they needed from the hard drive. Nobody was present. I spent some time rewinding and viewing, looking for proof that I had come in after the murder had occurred. I saw a stooped-over old man shuffling down the general merchandise aisle. He depressed me. Would I be that old, I wondered, before they let me out of prison? I pushed the video to fast-forward. I watched until the playback panned the bakery, and I caught a glimpse of Babette. I stayed on her image awhile, watching her mill about in the area separating the bakery, the deli, and the butcher. Butcher, Baker, Sandwich Maker—Uncle Bob’s didn’t have a candle department. My mind wandered to our possibilities, if there were any. All in all, it was better than thinking about jail.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The voice snapped me around. It was Kathy, the Loss Prevention supervisor. I should have smelled her coming.
“Killing time,” I said. Maybe I could have picked a better choice of words today.
“Get out of my chair and get out of here. I’m going to have to report this.”
“Report what? That I covered your station while you were beating back the nicotine beast again. I bet you smoke a brand we don’t even sell here.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Get out of here,” she whispered.
I left. I walked back over to the bakery, Babette still on my mind. She wasn’t there. The bakery manager, however, has a small display of her movies set up, which makes impulse buys easier. I borrowed a copy of Killing Time and carried it back to the breakroom. Here, I thought, no one would scowl at me. I popped the disc into the DVD player and settled back.
Watching the film, it amazed me that the Oscar Committee had overlooked it. A maniacal killer framed Babette’s boyfriend for murder using a watch set to the wrong time. Babette’s role was to allow the director to find as many different ways to get her T-shirt wet as possible. Babette, injured, escaped the killer’s clutches and limped to the swimming pool, where she hid under the diving board to escape. Just as she emerged dripping from the pool, having surmised the truth, the killer appeared and struck her down. A higher-paid actress got to solve the mystery and kill the murderer three scenes later. It was, I think, a credit to Debra’s acting chops that she was the last of the screamers whom the director killed. At least she got to die in a close-up.
I poured the bottom of the wine bottle into my cup. I knew what I needed to do before the detective arrested me. I didn’t like it. So, I did what any good potato would do. I procrastinated. I was still sitting, watching the tearful reunion of the heroine and her boyfriend just before the credits rolled, when Babette came back into the breakroom. She glanced briefly at the actress on screen.
“Bitch.”
“I prefer Spud Stud,” I answered.
She cocked her head and looked at me. “I’m going to miss those romantic things you say.”
Now, it was my turn to look at her.
“I called Mickey Tolanotti. He says he can get me a job as Heidi the Bavarian Brewmaster with the distributorship. I just told Bob and picked up my last check. The bus leaves tonight.”
“So we’re through?” my voice choked.
“I could promise we’ll call, but we both know that would be a lie. I’ll let you keep the baguette costume if it’ll help. In Cleveland, I’ll be wearing a short dress, arm garters, pigtails, and an apron. How’s this? Oktoberfest, ja,” she said, the last line in a lilting accent. Heidi’s German accent was not to be confused with Babette’s lilting French accent.
“Very convincing,” I said.
“I’m like The Sound of Music with a six-pack.”
“A beautiful woman and beer, these are a few of my favorite things.”
Our farewell banter was interrupted by the deputy bursting through the door. He pulled up when he saw that I was not alone.
“It looks like you two boys need to talk,” Babs said. She took a step toward me and embraced me, pulling my head close to her. “Run,” she whispered.
I untangled myself and looked at her. “Stick around, Babs, I may need a witness.”
“I’ve got a bus to catch,” she said, her eyes on the deputy who nodded his consent.
“I don’t think the lady needs to see this,” he said.
“Debra, please. I could really use your help right now.”
“I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“This won’t take long,” said the deputy. Seizing the conversation, businesslike, he sat down and turned on his recorder. He might not have wanted Babs here, but he could hardly argue with a neutral witness to whatever he had planned. I needed Babs here also.
“Potato Man, the lies just keep coming,” he said.
This time there was to be no soft sell or suggested narrative.
The deputy’s eyes cast down at the wine bottle. “I’ve got you on tape stealing this from the store. Now, I think that Charlie, the produce manager, caught you embezzling. I’ve got proof you lied about when you came to work today. The computer proves you were here before Charlie died. Finally, you failed to tell me that you had taken classes on crime scenes. I can prove you knew where to stand to avoid being caught on the store’s video cameras. I’ve done caught you in a five-pound bass of a lie, son. Why don’t you make it easier on yourself and just tell me exactly what happened?” He sat back, looking triumphant.
“And how did you know to check my continuing-ed classes?”
“Potato Man, I don’t reveal my investigative sources. Now, tell me what happened.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Was it an anonymous tip from a French maid? Maybe a German fräulein? I’ll take a guess here. I bet your tipster had an East Texas accent, lots of slow talk, and extra syllables.”
“I hear you were gonna tamper with my crime scene,” the deputy said, trying to retake the initiative.
I moved faster. “I only had a conversation like that with one person, the same one who advised me to run, to do things to make me look guilty.”
“Ms. Babette, I think you should depart. This here man is starting to get irrational,” the deputy said.
She stood to leave.
“Make her stay,” I said, talking quickly. “Actresses understand about camera angles. I think actors call it hitting the mark. She has years of experience in knowing where and how to stand to avoid the video system in this building.”
“You being afraid is no reason to start accusing your friends,” Babette said, her voice high and innocent. “I wasn’t even here when it happened.”
My eyes blazed into hers. “You know how to make those access cards from your time at the hotel in Vegas,” I said, then turned to the deputy. “She made magnetic keys for a hotel before she came to work here.” I turned back to her, my head on a swivel. “Or here’s another way you could’ve done it. I know better than anyone how warm these costumes are. You could have safely hidden in the meat locker for hours in that baguette costume. Then come out in the confusion after the body was discovered and swiped your card into work.” I spun back to the deputy. “Have you even looked in the meat locker for a knife? There is one missing in the butcher shop. You can’t stab someone with a parsnip, organic or otherwise, but you can put a parsnip in a knife wound. Check the video. She is first seen between the butcher counter and the bakery.”
Babs batted her eyes at the deputy. “You checked my hands. You didn’t find any blood.”
I didn’t bat my eyes in reply. I didn’t think it would help. “We’re food handlers. There are boxes of plastic gloves all over this store. Ask the director of Death on the Delta—she spent the whole movie wet and cold. This woman knows how to handle a chill if she is determined.”
“All we’re doing is wasting time. I am not gonna miss my bus to listen to all these scurrilous accusations,” Babs said.
Perhaps the deputy, in the stress of the moment, heard the word ‘all’ being dragged out a bit longer than it normally would. Perhaps he remembered an anonymous tipster.
“I’ll personally drive you to the bus station,” he offered. “Let’s you and me hear the man out.”
Babs huffed and sat back hard in her chair, her lower lip erupting into a pout. No attempt at finding her good side. She began the staccato intake of breath signaling a cry was coming on. Most men rush to aid a woman when tears flow. I pressed forward before my deputy could get gallant.
“My swipe card could have been reproduced, or maybe it was stolen temporarily when we met here in the breakroom. Go back and look at the body. Is he wearing a watch?”
The deputy shifted his weight on the seat.
“Is that how you know the time of death? Does he have a broken watch smashed in the fight of his life? Is it one of those flexible band watches, the kind that is easy to slip on? The kind the store sells down on aisle two? Did that metal band scratch away at the makeup on his skin? It would, I bet, if he was in a death struggle with a parsnip-wielding potato? Body paint scraped off and skin showing. But if it was put on after death, then he wouldn’t be flailing around. The body paint would be intact.”
To his credit, the deputy pulled out his phone to quickly check his crime-scene photographs. I pushed ahead while I had his attention fully locked on my theory.
“Have you seen her movie Thief of Time? We could watch it, I’ve got it in the player right here. Do you know what the serial killer does to evade capture? He uses a watch. Look at the movie. Poor injured Babette, doubled over in pain, tries to limp to safety. Then, go back to the store’s surveillance tapes. A stooped old man came into the store earlier today and shoplifted a watch. Inventory control will prove nobody bought one. You can’t see the old man’s face. A big hat covers it. Watch the tape, then go look back at her movie. Don’t watch the wet T-shirt, look at the limp. They’re identical.”
“This is crazy,” Debra said, her voice rising in anger, the tears a memory. “He is making up wild stories to distract you. We’ve got security. She’d have caught a watch thief.”
“She smokes so many cigarettes, she gets thank-you notes from R. J. Reynolds,” I answered. “Everybody knows when she is outside the employee entrance. Just look for the gray smoke.”
While the deputy’s ears had been tuned to our back-and-forth, his eyes had stayed on the images stored in his phone. He lifted his head and spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact tone.
“This is nonsense,” he said, placing special emphasis on the word ‘is.’ “And Ms. Debra or Ms. Babette, whatever name you prefer, I apologize that you’ve had to listen to it. A celebrity like yourself deserves better. I think the best thing to do is for me to get you out of here and away from this man and his reprehensible accusations. I’d like you to come downtown with me so that you and I can sit down in a nice safe place, have some peace and quiet, and talk about this whole misunderstanding. Why don’t you come on downtown with me now?” He extended his hand as gentlemanly and chivalrously as any character in one of Debra’s movies.
She sat still and looked at the hand. I, the deputy, and the recorder all waited quietly.
“Go to hell.” Her batter-dipped East Texas accent came through loud and clear.
