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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Our 69th issue is being put together in the chaos of the holiday season. It’s hard, but the team always manages to pull things together at the last minute! So I’ll just say best wishes from everyone at Wildside and Black Cat Weekly…Michael Bracken, Barb Goffman, Sam Hogan, Darrell Schweitzer, Cynthia Ward, Karl Wurf, and me. And I will note that we have two original stories this issue, by Phyllis Ann Karr and James A. Hearn, along with our usual mix of classics and modern tales. And some manage to fit neatly into both mystery and the fantastic categories (see the contents list below.)
Here’s this issue’s lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The Third Wish,” by James A. Hearn [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Where There’s Fire,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Bertie and the Christmas Tree,” by Peter Lovesey [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The 1961 Twelve,” by James Holding [short story]
“For Safe Deposit,” by Hal Meredith [short story]
The Rider of the Mohave, by James Fellom [novel]
“The Hammering Man,” by Edwin Balmer and William B. MacHarg [short story]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“The Third Wish,” by James A. Hearn [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Hammering Man,” by Edwin Balmer and William B. MacHarg [short story]
“Not-Quite-Living Treasure,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
“Come Home from Earth,” by Edmond Hamilton [short story]
“Piety,” by Margaret St. Clair [short story]
Planet Explorer, by Murray Leinster [novel]
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Seitenzahl: 855
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
THE THIRD WISH, by James A. Hearn
WHERE THERE’S FIRE, by Hal Charles
BERTIE AND THE CHRISTMAS TREE, by Peter Lovesey
THE 1861 TWELVE, by James Holding
FOR SAFE DEPOSIT, by Hal Meredith
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
THE RIDER OF THE MOHAVE, by James Fellom
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
THE HAMMERING MAN, by Edwin Balmer and William B. MacHarg
NOT-QUITE-LIVING TREASURE, by Phyllis Ann Karr
COME HOME FROM EARTH, by Edmond Hamilton
PIETY, by Margaret St. Clair
PLANET EXPLORER, by Murray Leinster
DEDICATION
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt
SOLAR CONSTANT
SAND DOOM
COMBAT TEAM
THE SWAMP WAS UPSIDE DOWN
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“The Third Wish” is copyright © 2022 by James A. Hearn and appears here for the first time.
“Where There’s Fire” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Bertie and the Christmas Tree” is copyright © 2007 by Peter Lovesey. Originally published in The Strand Magazine, October-December 2007 Issue. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The 1961 Twelve” is copyright © 1973 by James Holding. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, April 1973. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“For Safe Deposit,” by Hal Meredith, was first published in Answers, June 26, 1909.
The Rider of the Mohave, by James Fellom, was originally published in 1924.
“The Hammering Man,” byEdwin Balmer and William B. MacHarg, was originally published in 1910. This text taken from its appearance in Amazing Stories magazine (1927).
“Not-Quite-Living Treasure,” is copyright © 2022 by Phyllis Ann Karr and appears here for the first time.
“Come Home from Earth,” by Edmond Hamilton, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, February 1947.
“Piety” by Margaret St. Clair was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, December 1947.
Planet Explorer, by Murray Leinster (also published as Colonial Survey) was originally published in 1957.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
Our 69th issue is being put together in the chaos of the holiday season. It’s hard, but the team always manages to pull things together at the last minute! So I’ll just say best wishes from everyone at Wildside and Black Cat Weekly…Michael Bracken, Barb Goffman, Sam Hogan, Darrell Schweitzer, Cynthia Ward, Karl Wurf, and me. And I will note that we have two original stories this issue, by Phyllis Ann Karr and James A. Hearn, along with our usual mix of classics and modern tales. And some manage to fit neatly into both mystery and the fantastic categories (see the contents list below.)
Here’s this issue’s lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The Third Wish,” by James A. Hearn [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Where There’s Fire,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Bertie and the Christmas Tree,” by Peter Lovesey [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The 1961 Twelve,” by James Holding [short story]
“For Safe Deposit,” by Hal Meredith [short story]
The Rider of the Mohave, by James Fellom [novel]
“The Hammering Man,” by Edwin Balmer and William B. MacHarg [short story]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“The Third Wish,” by James A. Hearn [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Hammering Man,” by Edwin Balmer and William B. MacHarg [short story]
“Not-Quite-Living Treasure,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
“Come Home from Earth,” by Edmond Hamilton [short story]
“Piety,” by Margaret St. Clair [short story]
Planet Explorer, by Murray Leinster [novel]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Paul Di Filippo
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Karl Wurf
THE THIRD WISH,by James A. Hearn
“There’s nothing better than a white Christmas,” J.B. Black said wistfully as he looked out the window of his Lincoln Limousine for clouds that might portend snow. Spying one promising cumulus, the burly man tugged his wife’s sleeve and pointed between the skyscrapers of downtown Chicago. “Does that look like a storm cloud?”
Beside him, Charity Watkins Black didn’t bother to hide her yawn. There was one cloud all right, defying the otherwise clear twilight sky; but it was far away and rather puny, like a breeze from Lake Michigan could blow it away. She checked the forecast on her phone and said, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s zero chance for snow.”
“You’re not sorry,” J.B. said. “You may look like a modern-day Betty Grable on the outside, but inside, you’re all Grinch.”
“You and Bing Crosby can have snow and icicles; I’ll take surf and sand.” Charity took a sip of her Scotch and tried to forget what alcohol was doing to her figure.
J.B. frowned at the drink. “We’re picking up our daughter,” he reminded her.
“My daughter,” Charity said. “Until the adoption is finalized. And if I’m seeing Woody, I need more of these.” She rattled the ice in her highball for emphasis.
“You’ve had enough,” J.B. said.
Charity tried to slap his hand away, but he grabbed her wrist easily. J.B. squeezed his sausage-like fingers, and pain lanced up her arm. With a cry, she relinquished the glass.
“That’s better.”
Charity rubbed her wrist. “Says who?”
“Says your husband. That’s good enough, right?” J.B. downed the rest of the drink himself and fixed his keen eyes on her.
Charity tried not to wither beneath the heat of his glare. Mild-mannered Woody had never laid a finger on her, even when she flailed at him in her temper tantrums. She’d always thought of her first husband as weak because he refused to stand up for himself, to fight. Six months after their divorce, she wasn’t so sure anymore.
J.B. Black was a different sort of animal. Where Woody was quiet and predictable—an engineer who approached everything via the scientific method, including the bedroom—J.B. was boisterous and mercurial. Both men were handsome, but the difference was J.B. knew he was.
And the big man acted like it. Charity knew women found her new husband attractive, with his broad shoulders and dark hair swept back like a young Clark Gable. And he was rich; somehow, J.B. actually smelled like bundled hundred dollar bills fresh from the bank. Coupled with his Italian suits and gold Rolex, he was a walking aphrodisiac, though the effect was spoiled by a gaudy fraternity ring worn where his wedding band should be.
“Am I right?” J.B. repeated.
“Yes.” Charity blinked first and turned away from J.B.’s stare. He returned to cloud-gazing, a satisfied smirk on his face.
He’s under stress, Charity thought. And was it any wonder, when his business “associates” depended on him for seemingly everything? Those tough-looking men didn’t as much as sneeze unless J.B. gave the word.
Charity didn’t like the odd hours they kept, much less the guns they carried and tried to hide from her. But the money and alcohol flowed freely, with enough dough from her allowance for acting lessons. So what if J.B. bent the rules? What powerful man didn’t to get what he wanted?
The limo passed by Broadway Playhouse’s marquee for It’s a Wonderful Life, and Charity sighed with longing. She was pretty enough to be famous and would be one day—that’s what her psychic-slash-hairstylist always told her, with her long blond hair and still-girlish figure. Fortunately, having a child hadn’t wrecked her body, as she’d feared when Jasmine was born. When Charity made it, when her name was listed as a top-billed attraction on a marquee like the one disappearing behind the limo, she’d leave J.B. Black.
“I will,” Charity said aloud.
J.B.’s head swiveled on his corded neck. “Will what?”
“Nothing.”
As if reading her thoughts, J.B. took her hands in his with a tenderness that reminded her of when they’d first met in his nightclub. “I’ve made you happy,” he said, as if he’d followed some recipe and she were a fresh-from-the-oven Christmas cookie he planned to eat. “Today, you’re getting Jasmine back from that pervert husband. Full custody.”
Charity stifled a groan. Full custody. She’d left Woody to get away from domestic life, and now Jasmine was being dumped on her doorstep 24/7, with no visitation rights? J.B.’s stupid lawyer said ask for the moon, but nobody said the judge would actually give it to her. If only those damn pictures hadn’t popped up and ruined everything!
“What’s so funny?” J.B. asked.
Charity covered her mirthless laughter with red fingernails. “Woody. He’s many things, but he’s no pervert.”
J.B. gave a long whistle. “His work laptop says otherwise. Nasty overseas websites. He’s lucky those teenage girls were legally adults, or he’d be in jail.”
“Woody’s not like that. There must’ve been some mix up at his work. Some double-cross.” She looked at her husband meaningfully.
J.B. twisted the fraternity ring on his finger, an involuntary habit when he lied. “How would I know? I still say we should’ve taken Jasmine the moment Judge Cash signed the order.”
“And take her to the Caymans? That would’ve been the vacation from hell.”
J.B.’s eyes narrowed. “You having second thoughts?”
The lie came easily to her lips. “Certainly not. Are you?”
J.B. paused. “To be honest, your daughter’s always given me the creeps.”
That was the last thing Charity had expected him to say. “Don’t tell me the great J.B. Black, feared from Chicago to New York, is afraid of an eight-year-old girl?”
“I said creeps, not willies. There’s a difference.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the creeps?”
Her husband shrugged. “It’s that feeling you get when you walk into a room with a dead body, and you think maybe it twitched a finger. I’m talking about funerals,” he hastily amended.
“Sure you are,” Charity said.
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but Jasmine’s a dead ringer for that kid from Poltergeist. You know, the blond girl who puts her hands on the television and says, They’re here.”
Charity shivered. The resemblance was uncanny, at that. “Didn’t that actress die young?”
“And under mysterious circumstances, as did other people in that movie. Jasmine could be that girl’s twin.”
“What are you saying, J.B.? That we should hide the kitchen knives and lock the medicine cabinets when we bring her home?”
“You said it, not me.”
Charity giggled. “Maybe you’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and the last thing you’ll see is Jasmine aka Carol Anne with a butcher knife. If she gives you the creeps, it’s because you’re a superstitious mental case.”
J.B. took a rabbit’s foot charm from his pocket. “I’m a mental case who packs protection against the bad juju floating around the universe.”
“Do you want to adopt Jasmine or not?” Charity challenged, almost hoping he’d say no.
J.B.’s face was a frozen mask, his superstitions now submerged under a layer of ice. “A kid should be with her mother. Look how I turned out.”
“You’ve never met my mother,” Charity muttered as she reached for the Scotch.
J.B. put away his charm and took the bottle from her. “You’re gassed like the Goodyear Blimp.”
“So what? It’s Christmas Eve.”
“No.”
Charity placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed. “I have a present for you to unwrap tonight. Or do you want it now?”
“Now’s fine.” J.B. flipped the intercom and said to the driver, “It’s your life if you hit any potholes, Ted. And keep your eyes forward.”
“Yes, boss.”
When Charity was finished and enjoying another Scotch, J.B. took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “After New Year’s Eve, you’re laying off the stuff. And not just the booze. All of it.”
Charity pulled away. “What for?”
J.B. grinned. “Jasmine needs a baby brother.”
The words landed with the force of a blow. Charity sat in stunned silence while her husband informed her of his plans for Jerome Bryce Black, Jr. Little Jerome would have the best of everything, play college football, and join J.B.’s old fraternity. After graduation, he’d take the reins of the family business while dear old dad enjoyed a well-deserved retirement.
Charity belted the Scotch while J.B. rambled about how he’d be the father he never had. Outside, the one dark cloud from earlier had multiplied like a virus, blotting out the sunset and now the stars with a low-lying fog. Despite the threatening weather, crowds of last-minute shoppers jammed the downtown streets.
To Charity’s annoyance, J.B. poured himself a drink. Apparently, what was good for the goose wasn’t good for the gander. He said, “Let’s take Jasmine on our next trip to the Caymans. We’ll build sand castles, and I’ll teach her to swim.”
Charity snorted derisively. “Take Princess Jasmine to the beach? If we take a battery-powered DVD player, she might go.”
J.B.’s eyes bulged. “She’s still calling herself that ridiculous name?”
Charity nodded. “And still watching Disney’s Aladdin at all hours, according to Woody. Even at school, she won’t answer to anything but Princess Jasmine. The guidance counselor says it’s a phase.”
“Phase or not, it’s time for her to grow up.” J.B. patted the belt encircling his waist meaningfully. “Or else.”
Charity laughed at the thought of this powerful man trying to engage in a battle of wills with Jasmine. Her daughter was a force of nature, a little tornado who couldn’t be tamed. “She won’t listen to you.”
“I can be very persuasive.”
“You’ll break before she bends. Besides, if you lay a finger on her, she’d call CPS and your high-priced lawyers would be useless to help. Excuse me.” She took out her buzzing phone and frowned.
“Who is it?”
“See for yourself.” Charity angled the screen so J.B. could watch a video. It was Woody’s living room, where Jasmine sat by a fat Christmas tree and unwrapped a present.
J.B. inched closer. “Who’s the skirt with nice legs?”
Charity punched him in the ribs. Next to Jasmine was a pretty, dark-haired woman Charity didn’t recognize, and she felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. Who was this interloper?
Suddenly, Jasmine squealed and held up a golden lamp with a long snout. Daddy! I love it! The video ended.
J.B. was apoplectic. “A genie’s lamp? This is Woodrow’s revenge on you. On us.”
“Woody doesn’t have a vengeful bone in his body. Listen to this.” She read aloud a text, doing a spot-on impersonation of Woodrow William Watkins: Charity, thanks for letting me have Jasmine for Christmas Eve. She loves her new lamp; her first wish was for a white Christmas. Isn’t that sweet? I hope you’re well, and I hope the three of you are happy together. Take care of her, J.B., and yourself. See you at 8PM. Best, Woody.
“What a complete sap,” J.B. said. He crunched ice between his teeth and spat it into his glass.
Charity agreed; Woody was a sap. A decent, kind-hearted sap. She glanced at her watch and saw it was almost seven. Uh-oh. She’d promised Woody he could have Jasmine until eight, and the limo was nearly there. “Let’s stop somewhere, J.B. Do some shopping.”
“Shopping on Christmas Eve? No thanks.”
“We’re an hour early. They might be having dinner.”
“I have a holiday party tonight,” J.B. said.
“Your poker night isn’t a holiday party.”
“Drop it, honey.”
Charity fell silent and tried not to gnash her teeth. She’d discovered honey was a code-word, a signal J.B. was about to go beyond his normal state of angry. She folded her hands in her lap and fumed quietly.
Too soon, the limo entered a sleepy neighborhood of modest homes. They passed inflatable decorations, sleighs pulled by plastic reindeer, and blinking lights hung in all directions. Kitschy and garish, yet it pulled on her heartstrings.
When the limo turned on Buttermilk Lane, Charity felt her insides lurch. Once upon a time, she’d thought of these homes as beautiful; later, as cookie-cutter prisons for frustrated housewives, overworked fathers, and spoiled children.
And now, what did she feel? Nostalgia? So soon after her escape? There was Mrs. Perry’s plastic nativity scene, with half the bulbs burned out as always. And there was Bobby walking his energetic golden retriever, the one who wanted to be friends with everyone. No, Bobby was the dog’s name.
The limo pulled over.
“Will you look at that?” J.B. said appreciatively. “Looks like the freakin’ North Pole.”
Charity gaped at the decorations covering her former home. It must’ve taken days for Woody to string lights between the trees and put an actual sleigh on the roof. When had he found the time? Then she remembered; he’d lost his dream job testing circuit boards.
J.B. opened his car door. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You go, dear. I’ll stay.”
“Like hell.” J.B. exited the limo and came around to her side. She tried to lock the door, but he threw it open before she could. “Get out, honey.”
“It’s cold.”
J.B. pulled her up forcefully, his nose inches from hers. “Your last name’s Black now.” His words emerged as a fog in the chill air. “You’re a strong woman who’ll raise strong sons.”
Charity shook her head and turned away, not wanting to see this house and the family she’d abandoned. Woody would be wearing one of his ugly Christmas sweaters. For Jasmine, something sky-blue, her favorite color, to match the princess in Aladdin.
“If you aren’t the woman I thought you were,” J.B. spat, “then pretend. Those acting lessons I’m paying for should be useful for something, God knows.”
Charity fell in beside him. The walk to the front door seemed like a thousand miles, and with every step memories of her old life flooded her mind. As she rang the doorbell, snow began to fall.
“I’ll be damned,” J.B. said.
“I’ve no doubt,” Charity said under her breath.
If J.B. heard the remark, he gave no sign. He gawked like a child at the fat snowflakes drifting down. “It’s snowing and it wasn’t supposed to snow. Zero chance, you said.”
“So?”
“Jasmine’s first wish came true.”
* * * *
Three hours earlier, Woodrow Watkins was drizzling honey on a Christmas goose. He slid the bird into the oven, brought his fingertips together, and kissed them.
“C’est parfait, Riya,” he said, doing his best impression of a French accent and failing miserably.
The woman dicing vegetables at the kitchen island rolled her brown eyes. “Perfection is unattainable,” Riya Zahir said. “It’s the asymptote the curve of our lives may never touch.”
“Au contraire,” Woodrow countered. “Have you seen this house? It’s Christmas personified.”
Riya’s hand swept the air, a motion that seemed to encompass not only Woodrow’s over-decorated home, but his entire life. “These grand gestures aren’t what Jasmine will remember about today.”
“No? Then what’ll she remember?”
“Her father’s love.”
Woodrow’s harrumph fogged the oven’s window, then evaporated. “This recipe’s an approximation of the goose served in Bob Cratchit’s home. And the lights festooning this house—”
“Festooning?” Riya interrupted.
“Yes, festooning. Add some snow, and this would be a perfect Christmas Eve.”
“Very impressive,” Riya admitted. “Is that real holly along your stairwell?”
“Everything’s real this year. See that monster?” Woodrow pointed into his living room, where a blond girl sat next to an enormous Christmas tree and watched a movie. Sky-blue luggage matching her clothes was stacked by the front door like an impatient guest eager to leave, putting a catch in Woodrow’s throat.
Riya blinked in confusion. “Monster? I see only Jasmine.”
“Not Jasmine. My tree; it’s real this year. Unless you’re implying my only child’s a monster?”
“Perish the thought,” Riya laughed. “Is a real tree significant?”
Woodrow nodded. “I’ve had them since I was a kid. Then I married Charity.”
Riya held up a hand, but Woodrow launched into another story of his ex-wife. On their first Christmas together, the majestic pine he’d brought home had made Charity’s skin itch and her eyes gush. Between sneezes, she’d commanded Woodrow to haul it away, even though he’d spent all night decorating it as a surprise for baby Jasmine.
“That’s a terrible story,” Riya said. “Almost as bad as your sweater.”
Woodrow affectionately patted the mishmash of green and red snowflakes covering his middle-aged paunch. “My mother knitted this, God rest her soul. And it’s a terrible story because Charity’s a terrible woman.”
Riya said, “Forget her. Let’s concentrate on making Jasmine’s last Christmas Eve here as near perfection as possible. Where’s your cinnamon?”
The words last Christmas Eve chilled Woodrow’s soul like a wintry wind. He glanced at his watch; a mere four hours until eight o’clock. Four hours until Charity and J.B. Black whisked Jasmine away to their suburban mansion.
Riya touched Woodrow’s arm. “Be in the moment. Don’t think about that doorbell ringing.”
“Are you an engineer or a mind-reader?”
Riya’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I have many talents. I possess a djinn who peers into your brain and whispers your secrets to me.”
“No more genies,” Woodrow groaned. “We have those in spades around here.” He looked again to the living room, where Jasmine watched Aladdin for the second time today.
“Djinn,” Riya corrected. “I speak of spirits created before humans, magical beings capable of good or evil and appearing throughout the Quran. Not the lamp-dwelling variety of Scheherazade’s Arabian Nights or sing-along Disney movies.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Riya placed her fists on her slender hips. “If you believe in virgin births and angels heralding your Messiah’s arrival, you must also believe in their counterparts.”
“Counterparts?”
“Demons and other spirits,” Riya said gravely.
Woodrow’s retort died in his throat. Movement in the living room flashed in the corner of his eye, something large and dark. He turned his head, but there was only Jasmine in the blinking lights from the Christmas tree, talking to herself.
Foolish man, he chided silently. There weren’t any spirits lurking in the shadows of his home, no horned devils with forked tails. Not even the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, or Future. “Riya, there are troubles enough in the real world without throwing spirits into the mix.”
“Like your ex-wife.” Riya reached up and cradled his grizzled chin, her deft fingers tracing the outline of twin dimples discernable underneath his graying beard.
Woodrow sighed beneath her touch. But for Riya’s friendship, the shocking change in his parental rights would’ve destroyed him. Unfit to parent any child, the custody order declared. The inexplicable, disgusting images on Woodrow’s work computer had cost him Jasmine and his job of fifteen years. He’d no idea how they got there, and his protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears. At the hearing’s conclusion, Charity, in a rare act of grace and against the judge’s advice, agreed Woodrow could keep Jasmine through Christmas Eve.
Riya tugged Woodrow’s beard as if to pull him back to the present. “Jasmine loves you; no judge’s decree will change that.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He poured two glasses of egg nog, added Jack Daniel’s to his, and handed the other to Riya. “To the spirit of Christmas. May it comfort all in need.”
“Hear, hear. To time with loved ones.”
Loved ones, Woodrow thought as Charity’s mocking face rose before him. For nine years, she’d played the role of the seemingly content housewife. Then one evening, with Jasmine tucked snugly in bed, Charity threw out the script. She personally served him with divorce papers, packed her bags into the family car, and drove away.
Her response to his bewildered questions: I need to chase my dreams, Woody. Before I’m too old.
On lonely mornings staring into his coffee cup, Woodrow wondered if Charity had found her dreams in the arms of J.B. Black. Her former club patron certainly had the money and connections to give her what she wanted, but would stardom make her happy?
These thoughts were interrupted by a loud, riotous song from the living room. Woodrow jumped, nearly dropping an orange. “Sweetheart,” he called to Jasmine, “please turn down the volume.”
“But Daddy, it’s my favorite song.”
“Jasmine,” warned Woodrow.
“I’m Princess Jasmine, thank you.”
“If you’re a princess, then I’m your sultan. You must obey me.”
The little girl screwed up her face as she considered this, a brass lamp in her hands. She cocked her head to one side, then nodded.
“Genie says your logic is,” Jasmine fumbled over the next word, “in-es-cap-a-ble. Carpet agrees.” She affectionately patted the square of carpet beneath her, then turned down the volume.
“Thanks. Don’t fly away before dinner.”
Jasmine groaned. “My carpet can’t really fly, silly. That’s pretend.”
“Good girl.”
“Unless I wished for it to fly.”
“You’re the silly one,” Woodrow chuckled, though a scowl crept over his face at her matter-of-fact tone.
“What’s wrong?” Riya asked.
“This movie. Jasmine watches it, over and over, since the divorce.”
Riya shrugged. “She’ll grow out of it.”
Woodrow’s zester rasped faster against an orange. “Last year, it was Mulan, The Little Mermaid, and a dozen other princess films. Now, six straight months of Aladdin, with no signs of stopping.”
Riya took the orange from Woodrow; the zester had penetrated the fruit’s skin and juice was leaking on the counter. “I suppose it doesn’t help that her name’s Jasmine, like Aladdin’s girlfriend.”
Woodrow took the towel Riya offered and wiped his hands. “Princess Jasmine. She even calls herself that at school. Charity and I can’t make her stop.”
Riya scraped diced dates into a mixing bowl. “Where’d you get the lamp?”
“Some eBay dealer in India.”
“With that long snout, it looks like something from One Thousand and One Nights.”
“Yeah,” Woodrow agreed. He spread his hands and waved them ominously. “There’s a powerful genie living inside.”
“Jasmine’s right. You are silly.”
Woodrow lowered his hands. “I shouldn’t have bought the thing; it’s only reinforcing her obsession with magic.”
“She’s eight. Young children like Jasmine need imagination to process negative emotions.”
As if speaking her name once too often had summoned her, the little girl appeared in the kitchen doorway with her lamp. “I’m ready to make my first wish,” she proclaimed.
Though skinny, there was a straightness to Jasmine’s back that made her look bigger than she was. With her blond hair and pretty mouth, she was a Charity in miniature, down to her unblinking blue eyes.
“What’s your wish?” Woodrow asked.
Jasmine’s lips compressed into a line. “I don’t want to live with Mommy.”
“Sweetheart, we’ve been over this.”
“She’s a bad Mommy and left without saying goodbye. I wish I could live with—”
Before she finished the sentence, Woodrow rushed forward and put a hand over her mouth. He bent down until he was face-to-face with his daughter, while Riya stood at a respectful distance.
“Don’t say things about Mommy,” Woodrow said. “And don’t make wishes about changing what you can’t change. Not even in pretend. Promise me?”
For a long moment, Jasmine stared at him defiantly; but then her expression softened, and she kissed his hand.
“I promise.”
Woodrow hugged her. “Good girl. Let’s think of a good wish that’ll help people. Riya, suggestions?”
“How about wishing away climate change?” Riya offered.
Jasmine brightened. “My teacher says the world is getting too warm, too fast. I know what’ll fix that.” She held her lamp aloft and cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice seemed to grow in stature. “My first wish is for snow. That way, we’ll have a white Christmas and fix the Earth.”
As Jasmine’s words died away, some joint impulse made the two adults glance out the kitchen window. Through Woodrow’s zigzag of Christmas lights, they saw a dome of brilliant blue sky. To the east, above the churning waters of Lake Michigan, was a single dark cumulus cloud. When they turned back to Jasmine, they found she’d returned to the living room as silently as she’d come.
Riya said, “I’m afraid the forecast calls for sunny skies all week.”
Woodrow took off his apron. “At least there’ll be no snow to shovel or icicles to dodge. Let’s finish the movie with Jasmine while the goose cooks.”
They retired to the living room and sat on the couch, Jasmine at their feet. When the evil wizard was defeated and Aladdin’s last wish was granted, Woodrow brought out board games. Jasmine wanted to watch the movie again, but Woodrow reminded her they had a guest, and the guest wanted to play games. Jasmine reluctantly agreed when he told her princesses were always courteous to guests.
“What should we play?” Riya asked.
“Mouse Trap,” Jasmine said.
“You always say Mouse Trap. How about Yahtzee?” Woodrow shook the box invitingly, but his daughter was unmoved.
“Mouse Trap.”
“Engineering can be fun,” Riya said.
Sighing, Woodrow unboxed the game and they began to play. Jasmine relished trapping the “nasty” mice, shouting with glee whenever the cage fell. When the game was over, she took the last mouse in her hands and dangled it by the tail.
“I’m going to feed you to a cat.”
Riya and Woodrow exchanged a worried look. Her father said, “What for?”
“Because they’re vermin,” Jasmine declared. She looked to her left and said, “Genie says mice carry diseases. There was a big plague, a long time ago. Rats and mice had fleas that killed people.”
“The Black Death?” Riya whispered to Woodrow.
“Things not good for anything should be dead,” Jasmine said, apparently agreeing with Genie. “Like vermin.”
Woodrow cleared his throat. “Anybody for Candy Land?”
Jasmine twirled the plastic mouse above the tabletop. “That’s for babies.” Woodrow reached for the mouse, but Jasmine wrapped her arms around it like a cat protecting its kill.
“I made candy canes,” Woodrow said nonchalantly.
Jasmine’s arms relaxed a fraction. “Big ones?”
“We’ll have some if we play Candy Land.”
Jasmine gave up the mouse, admonishing it to stay in its box or become a cat’s lunch. They played more games, ate too many candy canes, and giggled at Woodrow’s endless dad jokes. Throughout the afternoon, the lamp was never far from Jasmine’s grasp, nor was the invisible genie she sometimes addressed during their play.
At seven o’clock, Woodrow rushed them to the dining table for his perfectly planned meal. As Riya and Jasmine took their seats, he retrieved the goose from the oven and carefully placed it on the table.
An awed silence fell. Along with potatoes, stuffing, applesauce, and Christmas pudding, the meal was exactly as described in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.
Woodrow, savoring the moment, scraped a knife along a sharpener. As he carved the goose, the delicious smell of sage and onion stuffing filled the room.
“Woodrow, you’ve crossed the perfection asymptote,” Riya said with a wink. “What do you think, Princess?”
Jasmine’s smile revealed small white teeth. “Genie couldn’t have made it better if he tried.”
Woodrow took his daughter’s hand. It was perfect, just as he’d known it would be. As he sat down at the table to begin a heartfelt prayer of thanks, rehearsed painstakingly the night before, the doorbell rang.
* * * *
The next morning, J.B. Black drew back the curtains on his bedroom window and whooped like a kid. A white Christmas! A thick blanket of snow lay over his estate, glistening brightly under a blue sky. It must’ve snowed all night, and the icicles hanging from his roof were as thick as baseball bats.
“Baby, come look at this,” he called to Charity.
His wife stirred fitfully, then turned over. “Go away.”
J.B. yanked the covers off. “Get dressed. I want Jasmine’s first Christmas morning in my house to be something special. Better than anything Woody ever did.”
“Better than Woody at Christmas?” Charity scoffed. “Good luck.”
J.B. threw a pair of pink slippers at her head; fortunately for Charity, she’d just bent down to look for them.
“Hey! Watch it.”
“I don’t need luck when I have my own elves.”
Charity eyed him curiously. “Elves? Did you hit the good stuff during last night’s poker game?”
J.B. chuckled as he slipped on a sweater. “I sent the boys on some errands. Like Santa, they worked all night. Oh yeah, this looks good. Woody, eat your heart out.”
“What looks good?”
J.B. was scrolling through pictures on his phone of his estate transformed into a winter wonderland. Downstairs, his men had put up not one but three fully decorated trees. Each had a bounty of presents under their boughs, all for Jasmine. Real holly lined his hallways, and colored lights outside blazed like Times Square.
“The boys really outdid themselves,” J.B. said triumphantly. He held up his phone to show his wife.
“Is that a live tree?” Charity groaned.
“Of course. They threw the artificial one out. And there are two more live trees: one in my study, and another in the den. You okay?”
“Peachy.”
J.B. eyed her askance, then shrugged. He headed for the door and said, “I instructed Chef to cook a breakfast fit for a king. Don’t take too long to put on your face; I got a ton of presents for Jasmine, and I want to watch her open them.”
* * * *
Charity sat on a couch with a cup of coffee, trying not to sneeze. Beside her, J.B. was a block of ice in a blood-red sweater embroidered with, “My wife went to the North Pole, and all I got was this stupid sweater.” He was staring daggers at Jasmine, who sat placidly holding her lamp.
Behind her, the live tree sparkled with tinsel and multicolored lights. Next to this was a mountain of wrapped packages, all unopened.
“I don’t want your stupid gifts,” Jasmine said. “I want to go home.”
“Sweetheart,” Charity began, then stopped. That was what Woody always called her. “Darling, this is your home. And J.B. spent a lot of time picking out these gifts.” It was a lie, of course. His “boys” had done all the shopping, and who knew what those knuckleheads had bought for a young girl.
“I sure did,” chimed in J.B.
“I don’t want them.” Jasmine sniffed and rubbed her nose on her sleeve. “Why won’t you take me home?”
With an effort, J.B.’s jaw unclenched and he heaved a deep sigh. “That’s okay, Jasmine.”
“Princess Jasmine.”
“Princess Jasmine,” he said soothingly.
Charity frowned; this wasn’t J.B.’s oily voice, the one he reserved for coaxing Charity into bed when she had a headache, or for putting worried business associates at ease when they owed him money and feared for their limbs. No; this was the charming voice she’d heard when J.B. had first courted her.
“You don’t know me very well right now,” J.B. was saying. “One day, you’ll think of me as your friend and this as your home.”
Charity could hardly believe her ears. Who was this man sitting beside her?
“I’ll tell you a secret,” J.B. continued. “I know what it’s like to miss home. When I was small, a lot younger than you, my father left one night and never came back.”
Jasmine scooched forward, interested. “Really?”
“Really. That was my first home, and it was special to me. But me and my Ma, we had to leave because we couldn’t pay the rent without Dad. Then one day, we went to a new house, and I had a new Dad. He became my friend, and his house became my new home.”
Jasmine shook her head. “We’ll never be friends.”
Charity watched as J.B. slumped his shoulders, a deflated Christmas balloon. It was too much; the lamp, the ludicrous name her daughter insisted upon, and worst of all, the ingratitude. Woody had indulged Jasmine too much, and it was time to put a stop to this nonsense.
“This is your home!” Charity yelled. She sneezed loudly, then slammed her coffee cup on the table. “Your name is Jasmine Anne Watkins. You’re a spoiled brat from Chicago, not a princess in a fairy tale, and your lamp’s a cheap piece of junk.”
Jasmine clutched the lamp to her chest. “You’re wrong, Mommy.”
“There are no genies. No magic. Just a miserable world that will chew you up and spit you out if you let it.”
J.B. gawped at his wife while Jasmine’s eyes shone with a fierce, defiant light.
“I want to go home.”
Charity roughly wiped tears from her cheeks. Damn that live tree! “Then use your precious lamp and make a wish. You made it snow, didn’t you? Wish yourself back to 513 Buttermilk Lane. Go on.”
Jasmine’s head drooped. “I can’t.”
“Why not? You have a genie. Is the wish too big for him, poor thing?”
The insult brought Jasmine’s chin up. “I promised Daddy I wouldn’t wish for that.”
“Really? I think it’s because your genie doesn’t exist.”
“He does so.”
“Lay off, honey,” J.B. said darkly. “You’re ruining my Christmas.”
Charity ignored her husband and the underlying threat. “Prove it. Here’s a wish for you: why don’t you wish you’d never been born?”
J.B. grabbed Charity’s arm. “That’s a terrible thing to wish for. Princess Jasmine, don’t wish for that.”
Jasmine wasn’t paying attention to him or Charity. Instead, her head was tilted to one side as she stared at a point up and to her left.
“What’s she looking at?” J.B. asked.
“They’re here,” Charity mocked, though her eyes shied away from the space where a shadow hung just at the edge of her vision.
“Genie says I can’t wish for that, either. He says it would create a temporary paradox.”
J.B. sat up straighter. “A what?”
“Excuse me. He said a temporal paradox.”
Charity was about to speak, but the anxious expression on J.B.’s face quieted her. His hand was in his pocket, no doubt clutching the rabbit’s foot. The creeps.
“Temporal paradox,” J.B. muttered.
“What’s that?” Charity asked.
“Like freakin’ Star Trek, when Captain Picard was vacationing on that planet with the hot aliens, and there was this weapon from the future he was predestined to find and destroy, but if he’d already destroyed it, how could it come back in time? Temporal paradox.”
Charity stared at him blankly.
“Never mind.” To Jasmine, J.B. said, “Why don’t you go outside and play in the snow? We’ll open presents later.”
“Can I take my lamp with me? It’s been a long time since Genie’s seen any snow.”
Over Charity’s resounding No, J.B. interrupted his wife and said, “Run along, Princess Jasmine.”
* * * *
The afternoon sun was casting long shadows on the ground when Charity and J.B. Black went outside to bring Jasmine in for a Christmas dinner. After some searching, they found her behind their three-story mansion building a snowman. His base was shoved against a wall, a large ball of packed snow, and the golden lamp was on the ground beside her.
J.B., eyeing the lamp as if it were a snake, gave it a wide berth. “It’s dinnertime.”
Jasmine didn’t respond.
“Chef cooked macaroni and cheese. Your mom says that’s your favorite.”
Jasmine picked up the snowman’s head, stood on her tiptoes, and set it on his body. “I’m not hungry.”
Charity stepped forward, but a stern look from her husband forestalled her.
“Let me handle this.” J.B. bunched up the muscles of his arms as he folded them across his chest, a tactic he sometimes used to intimidate business rivals. “We’re not asking. We’re telling you.”
“Leave me alone, if you know what’s good for you.”
J.B. cracked his knuckles.
“She’s a girl,” Charity said. “Not some degenerate gambler behind in his payments.”
J.B. ignored her. “You’ll come inside, or I’ll take you over my shoulder. Your choice.”
Slowly, Jasmine turned to face them. She bent down and picked up her lamp, stroking it like a puppy. “I’m ready to make my second wish. Do you want to hear it?”
J.B.’s snigger couldn’t hide the slight tremor in his voice. “Go ahead. It, ahem, won’t change anything.”
Jasmine took a deep breath. “I wish you’d leave me alone, forever.”
The laughter died on J.B.’s lips. He felt a strange sensation steal across his body, a sense of unraveling, like the knots of his tangled life had been severed with a sharp razor. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he looked up.
Something overhead flashed in the sun’s dying light. It was beautiful whatever it was, sparkling like the star of Bethlehem must have, some two thousand years ago. As he opened his mouth to scream, the tumbling icicle from the third story pierced his right eye and sank deep into his head. He staggered backward into the snow, a look of utter surprise forever frozen on his face.
A gibbering Charity flung herself on top of her husband and clutched desperately at the thing protruding from his head, as if removing it would make him right again. The thick icicle slipped from her grasp after she pulled it out, her lips quivering in a shriek that wouldn’t come.
Jasmine watched impassively. “J.B. was vermin. I don’t know how, but he hurt Daddy.”
Charity scrambled away from her daughter on all fours, backing herself against her home’s brick wall until she couldn’t go any farther. Her eyes were so wide the whites were visible all the way around the irises.
Jasmine took the icicle—now tinged with red—and stuck it into the snowman’s head for a nose. Satisfied, she picked up her lamp and said, “I have one more wish, Mommy. Remember that.”
“One more wish,” Charity echoed dully.
“After we call the police, you’re going to take me home.”
Charity looked up. “Take you home?”
“Yes.”
“Take you home!” With new vigor, Charity stood and looked at the mansion behind her, the dead man in the snow momentarily forgotten. “I’m free,” she whispered. “No more J.B., no more Jasmine. I’m finally free.” Like proverbial Christmas sugar plums, visions danced in Charity’s head. With J.B.’s money, she’d go to New York—no, Hollywood—and start the life she’d always dreamed of. She’d do some modeling between acting roles, just to keep herself busy, date a director or a rock star, and keep a cabana boy or two around for fun. The life she’d always deserved was finally within her grasp.
“Free?” Jasmine said. “You’re not free, Mommy.”
Charity turned to her daughter, a look of animalistic terror building on her face, a tigress that senses the ground giving way above a hidden pit. Her gaze flicked to the ancient lamp, then back to Jasmine.
The little girl folded her arms and smiled. “Daddy will take you back, though you don’t deserve it, and we’re going to be a happy family again.”
“No. God, no.”
“We will,” Jasmine declared. “No more drinks. No white powder or parties or stupid acting lessons. You’re going to have more brothers and sisters for me, and you’re never leaving us again. Or Genie promises you’ll end up worse than J.B.” For effect, Jasmine kicked the dead man at her feet. “Understood?”
In the space of a few moments, Charity Watkins Black seemed to grow smaller, an old woman with her shoulders hunched and her face downcast. Dreams of the theater—of fame, money, and freedom—evaporated as quickly as her ragged breaths in the chill wind.
“Yes, Princess Jasmine.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An Edgar Award nominee for Best Short Story, James A. Hearn writes in a variety of genres, including mystery, crime, science fiction, fantasy, and horror. His work has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir, and Monsters, Movies & Mayhem.
WHERE THERE’S FIRE,by Hal Charles
Carly Simmons peered through the large plate glass window of her B&B at the dark clouds of smoke rising above the trees in the valley below. She was thankful that her property perched on a mountaintop separated from the valley by a winding river popular for its speckled trout fishing.
Unfortunately, the little town of Crystal Haven sat in the valley on the other side of the river and for the last two days had been under siege from one of the too-frequent forest fires that plagued the area.
As Carly checked the other windows to be sure they were securely closed to keep out the inevitable smoke drifting up the mountain, she noticed something shiny on the floor next to the front door. Scooping up the object, she recognized a stylish diamond tennis bracelet—one with the price tag still attached. And what a price! One of her guests must have dropped it upon leaving that morning.
Even though her three guests had checked out ahead of schedule because of the forest fire, Carly was certain that it was just a matter of time before the bracelet’s owner called to see if she had found it.
When her phone rang, Carly picked up the receiver to hear the voice of her good friend Tom Delworth, Crystal Haven’s longtime sheriff. Tom was supposed to join her that morning for their weekly Thursday morning coffee, but with the fire, she had expected that he would call to cancel.
Carly was surprised, however, when the sheriff told her that he would miss coffee that morning because the previous night someone had broken into the town’s only jewelry store and stolen several thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise. Before she could respond, the line went dead.
Carly looked down at the diamond bracelet. As difficult as it was to believe, one of her guests must be the thief.
Because of the fire, Carly had advised her guests to stay inside the night before, and she thought all three had gone to bed shortly after dinner. Obviously, one of them had other ideas.
When Carly called Tom’s number to report her discovery and got his voice mail, she left a brief message, reasoning that the fire and the theft had him too busy to pick up.
Pouring a cup of the coffee she had made after her guests had left, Carly thought about the three distinct individuals who had rented rooms from her.
Benton Cundiff purported to be an executive escaping the drudgery of the office for a few days of trout fishing and freedom. While he didn’t seem to be very experienced in the sport, Carly figured the freedom was more inviting than the fishing. As she remembered, though, he had seemed awfully anxious to check out that morning.
Rebekka Stern had struck Carly as a typical millennial caught up in a world of electronics and progressive ideas. From the group’s first breakfast together, the athletic young woman had locked horns with her fellow lodgers over everything from why she held to a strict vegan diet to the countless reasons she drove an electric vehicle. She claimed that she was cutting her visit short because the fire made her daily five-mile run impossible.
Carly’s third guest, Kevin Clark, was a bookish type totally out of place in the mountains. Being sequestered in the B&B didn’t seem to bother him in the least. Even before Carly’s suggestion to stay inside, Clark had hardly spent a minute outside his room other than for meals. Carly had wondered why he had opted for a stay at her back-to-nature B&B.
Not hearing from Tom, Carly began the cleanup and preparation for her next guests, hoping she wouldn’t receive a passel of cancellations.
As soon as she opened the door to Rebekka Stern’s room, Carly immediately punched in Tom’s number once again, realizing she knew who had dropped the stolen bracelet.
SOLUTION
Opening the door to Rebekka’s room, Carly was struck by the unmistakable smell of burning wood. Her millennial guest had obviously sneaked out of the B&B the previous evening, driven to town in her noiseless electric vehicle, robbed the jewelry store amid the chaos caused by the fire, and returned unnoticed. After hearing the state police had apprehended Rebekka, Carly wondered if the state prison provided a vegan menu.
The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,
personally selected by one of the most acclaimed
short stories authors and editors in the mystery
field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.
BERTIE AND THE CHRISTMAS TREE,by Peter Lovesey
It’s almost too much for one man, being the Prince of Wales AND the son of Father Christmas. In case this confuses you, I’d better explain. My Papa, the late Prince Albert of blessed memory, is credited with inventing Christmas as we know it. He is supposed to have introduced the Christmas tree (a German tradition) to Britain, started the practice of sending cards and—for all I know—served up the first plum pudding. Never mind that this is absolute bunkum. People believe it, and who am I to stand in the way of public opinion?
The true facts, if you want them, are that a Christmas tree was first put up at Windsor by my great-grandmother, Queen Charlotte (of Mecklenburg-Strelitz), as early as 1800, and my Mama’s childhood Christmases were never without a decorated tree. It was only thanks to a popular periodical, the Illustrated London News, that our family custom was made public in 1848, and my parents were depicted standing beside a fine tree decked with glass ornaments. My father was no fool. The year in question had been an absolute stinker for royalty, with republicanism rearing its odious head all over Europe, so it did no harm to show ourselves in a good light. Decent British sentiment was wooed by Papa and it became de rigueur to dig up a spruce, bring it into the home, and cover it with tinsel and trinkets. Truth to tell, Papa was tickled pink at being the man who invented Christmas. He started presenting trees to all and sundry, including the regiments. If you’re a royal and revolution is in the wind, it’s no bad thing to keep the army on your side.
From that time, the festive season fizzed like a sherbet drink. “A most dear, happy time,” Mama called it. We royals were well used to exchanging gifts and rewarding the servants, and it now extended to the nation at large. Suddenly carol-singing was all the rage. And thanks to the penny post, the practice of sending greetings cards became a universal custom, if not a duty.
I was a mere child when all this happened and a callow youth when the unthinkable burst upon us and Papa caught a dreadful chill and joined the angels. As fate would have it, his passing occurred just before Christmas, on December 14, 1861. I shan’t dwell on this tragedy except to remark that Christmases from that year on were tinged with sadness. As a family, we couldn’t think about saluting the happy morn until the calendar had passed what Mama always spoke of as “the dreadful fourteenth.” So you see, dear reader, we would wake up on the fifteenth and discover we had ten days in which to prepare. I mention this as a prelude to my account of the great crime of Christmas, 1890.
It all started most innocently.
“Bertie,” my dear wife, Alexandra, said in her most governessy tone, “you’d better not lie there all morning. Ten days from now it will be Christmas, and we’ve done nothing about it.”
I don’t think I answered. I had much else on my mind at the end of 1890, not least the Queen’s displeasure at my involvement in what was termed the Baccarat Scandal.
“Bertie, you’re awake. I can see. It’s no use closing your eyes and wheezing like a grampus. That won’t make it go away. What are we going to do about presents for the courtiers and servants?”
I sighed and opened my eyes. “The usual. Lockets and chains for the ladies and pearl studs for the gentlemen. Books for the governesses. A framed picture of you and me for everyone else.”
“Yes, but not one of these items is ordered yet.”
“Francis Knollys can attend to it.”
“But you must tell him today. And we can’t ask Francis to write the Christmas cards. That’s a job for you and me, as well as presents for the children and decorations for the tree.” Her voice slipped up an octave, her vocal cords quavering with distress. “The tree, Bertie! We haven’t even got a tree.”
“My dear Alix,” I said, reaching for an extra pillow and sitting up in bed, “Sandringham is eight thousand acres with about a million trees. If the estate manager can’t find a decent spruce among them he’ll get his pearl stud from me in the place where he least wants it.”
“There’s no need for vulgarity, Bertie. It’s got to be a tall tree.”
“And it shall be. What happened to last year’s?”
A question I should never have asked.
Her eyes filled with tears. “It died, poor thing. It scattered needles all over the ballroom. I have my suspicion that it had no roots, that some unthinking person sawed the trunk at the base and thrust it into the tub.”
“Iniquitous.”
“Poor tree. They’re living things, Bertie. Make sure such an act of cruelty is not repeated this year. Tell them they must dig up the roots as well and find a really large tub to plant it in and keep the soil moist. When Christmas is over we’ll plant the living tree outside again.”
“What a splendid idea,” I said, and added a slight evasion. “I can’t think who sanctioned the murder of last year’s tree.”
She gave me a look and said, “I’ll choose the menu for the Christmas dinner.”
“Whitstable oysters,” I said.
“Bertie, oysters aren’t traditional.”
“What do you mean? There’s an R in the month.”
“But the rest of us want roast goose.”
“So do I. Roast goose and oysters.”
“Very well. That’s your treat settled. And you must think up some treats for the children. A magic lantern show.”
“They’re children no more,” I said. “The youngest is sixteen and Eddy is twenty-six.”
“Well, I want the magic lantern,” she said, practically stamping her little foot. Christmas was definitely coming.
The magic lantern was my annual entertainment for the family, and they knew the slides by heart. We would drape a large bedsheet between two sets of antlers and project the pictures onto it. They were mostly scenes of Scotland, about seventy in all, except for the last, which was the climax of the show, a star that altered shape several times as I cranked a little handle. This required me to stoop over the machine, and one year my beard caught fire, causing more gaiety than any of the Scottish scenes.
After a hearty breakfast I summoned my long-serving secretary, Sir Francis Knollys, and arranged for the keepsakes to be ordered by telegraph from my usual jeweler, Mr. Garrard, of the Haymarket. He’s a fortunate fellow, for we are obliged to keep a large retinue at Sandringham. As well as the pins and lockets, I thoughtfully ordered a gift for Alix of a large silver inkstand, which I knew she would adore. I believe the bill for everything was in excess of six hundred pounds. I’ve always lived beyond my means, but if the nation wants an heir presumptive, then it must allow him to be bounteous, I say. Garrard wired back promising to deliver the articles in presentation boxes by December 23, just time to wrap them and write labels on each one.
Next, I spoke to Hammond, my estate manager. The main tree, I said, should be at least twenty feet high and healthy.
“I’ll pick it myself, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “I know exactly where to go. In fact, I’ll fell it myself as well.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I said. “Felling won’t do at all.”
“But last year you said—”
“That was last year. The Princess has a sentimental regard for trees and she insists that we—that is to say you—dig the whole thing from the ground, roots and all, and plant it in a tub so that it will survive the experience.”
“With respect, sir, the ground’s awfully hard from the frosts.”
“With respect, Hammond, you’ll have to dig awfully hard.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“No. As I command.”
I ordered a search for the magic lantern. It always goes missing. In a house as large as Sandringham there are hundreds of cupboards. The show wouldn’t be until Christmas afternoon, but I like to have a rehearsal and make sure the slides are the right way up. You wouldn’t believe the catcalls when I get one wrong. Some of my family think they can get away with bad behavior in the dark. I don’t know where they get it from.
That evening Alix and I started the chore of signing Christmas cards. My festive spirit is well tested in the days before Christmas, and I must admit to unparliamentary language when Alix produces yet another stack for me to attend to. However, I was able to report that everything else was in hand.
“Have you addressed a card to your Mama?” she asked.
“I’m summoning my strength,” I said. Because of the Baccarat business, I was not in the best odor with the Queen. I confess to some relief that we wouldn’t be required to show our faces at Balmoral over Christmas. Mama deplores gambling of any sort, even on horses, and she was incensed that I might be required to appear as a witness. I wasn’t too sanguine at the prospect myself.
* * * *
A week passed. The Christmas preparations went well. The magic lantern was found and tested. Hammond did his digging, and the tree was erected in the ballroom. It took six men to lift it onto a trolley and trundle it through the house. We had immense fun with the stepladder used to hang the decorations, or, rather, I did, telling Alix I could see up to her knees and beyond when she was standing above me—which was true. She almost fell off while trying to adjust her skirt. She refused to go up again, so I invited one of her ladies-in-waiting to take her place, and the girl turned as red as a holly berry, and Alix was not at all amused. And then we had a jolly conversation of double-entendres about the pretty sights on view. I thought it jolly, anyway. I know a few ladies who would have thought it exceedingly funny.
A card arrived from Mama thanking me for mine and wishing me the blessings of Our Lord and a new year of duty and decorum. She never gives up. I’m told she was full of fun in her youth. It’s hard to imagine.
The one small anxiety in our arrangements was that the jewelry hadn’t arrived by the end of December 22. I know Mr. Garrard had promised to deliver by the day following, but in previous years he had always managed to get the consignment to us a day or so early. That evening I spoke to Knollys. He, too, was getting worried.
“Just to be sure, I’ll send a telegraph,” he said.
* * * *
Oh, my stars and garters, what a shock awaited us! Next morning Mr. Garrard wired back the following message:
Items were dispatched December 21. Cannot understand what has happened. Am coming personally by first available train.
Notwithstanding three inches of overnight snow, he was with us by midday, and I have never seen a man so discomposed. Quivering like a debutante’s fan, he was practically in tears. “I had my people working day and night to complete the order, Your Royal Highness,” he informed me. “It was all done, every item boxed up. I checked it myself, three times.”
“You can look me in the eye, Garrard,” I said. “I believe you. I’ve never had reason to doubt you before. Tell me, what arrangements did you make for the consignment to be delivered to Sandringham?”
