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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Sprache: Englisch
Our 79th issue features a pair of original mysteries by N.M. Cedeño (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Bryon Quertermous (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Cedeño is no stranger to BCW readers, having already appeared in our pages twice before. Hopefully Bryon Quertermous will match that hat trick, too.
Rounding out the mystery section are a pair of novels: Francis Beeding’s The House of Doctor Edwardes (filmed by Alfred Hitchcock as Spellbound) and The House on the Cliff, by Franklin W. Dixon, which you may recognize as the very first Hardy Boys book. If you grew up reading the modern revisions of the original Hardy Boys series (which began in 1927), you’re in for a shock: these brothers are tougher, edgier, and face real peril. They were definitely watered down beginning in the 1950s. And often the titles were the only things that remained from the original stories.
And, of course, no issue would be complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet).
In the science fiction & fantasy section, Phyllis Ann Karr continues the adventures of her legendary fantasy duo, Frostflower and Thorn, in “Night of the Short Knives.” Don’t skip her Afterword about the story; it’s fascinating. Plus we have tales by Philip José Farmer, a rare science fiction foray by mystery author Wenzell Brown, and tales by Oliver Saari and George O. Smith. Great stuff.
Here’s the lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Disappearance of a Serial Spouse,” by N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“An Impossible Theft,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Visiting Artist,” by Bryon Quertermous [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
The House of Doctor Edwardes, by Francis Beeding [novel]
The House on the Cliff, by Franklin W. Dixon [novel, Hardy Boys #1]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Night of the Short Knives,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story, Frostflower & Thorn]
Daughter,” by Philip José Farmer [short story]
“Murderer’s Chain,” by Wenzell Brown [short story]
“Moon Dust,” by Oliver Saari [short story]
“Bombs Awry,” by George O. Smith [novella]
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Seitenzahl: 822
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
DISAPPEARANCE OF A SERIAL SPOUSE, by N. M. CEDEÑO
AN IMPOSSIBLE THEFT, by Hal Charles
VISITING ARTIST, by Bryon Quertermous
THE HOUSE OF DOCTOR EDWARDES, by Francis Beeding
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
EPILOGUE
THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF by Franklin W. Dixon
CHAPTER 1 The Haunted House
CHAPTER 2 The Storm
CHAPTER 3 Empty Tool Boxes
CHAPTER 4 The Chase in the Bay
CHAPTER 5 The Rescue
CHAPTER 6 Snackley
CHAPTER 7 Bound and Gagged
CHAPTER 8 The Stolen Witness
CHAPTER 9 The Strange Message
CHAPTER 10 The Vain Search
CHAPTER 11 The Cap on the Peg
CHAPTER 12 Pointed Questions
CHAPTER 13 A Plan of Attack
CHAPTER 14 Private Property
CHAPTER 15 Smugglers
CHAPTER 16 The Secret Passage
CHAPTER 17 The Chamber in the Cliff
CHAPTER 18 A Startling Discovery
CHAPTER 19 Captured
CHAPTER 20 Dire Threats
CHAPTER 21 Quick Work
CHAPTER 22 Into the Haunted House
CHAPTER 23 Rescue
CHAPTER 24 The Round-Up
CHAPTER 25 The Mystery Explained
NIGHT OF THE SHORT KNIVES, by Phyllis Ann Karr
DAUGHTER, by Philip José Farmer
MURDERER’S CHAIN, by Wenzell Brown
MOON DUST, by Oliver Saari
BOMBS AWRY, by George O. Smith
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“Disappearance of a Serial Spouse” is copyright © 2023 by N. M. Cedeño and appears here for the first time.
“An Impossible Theft” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Visiting Artist” is copyright © 2023 by Bryon Quertermous and appears here for the first time.
The House of Doctor Edwardes, by FrancisBeeding, was originally published in 1927.
The House on the Cliff, by Franklin W. Dixon, was originally published in 1927.
“Night of the Short Knives” is copyright © 1990 by Phyllis Ann Karr. Originally published in The Women Who Walk Through Fire, Vol 2, ed Susanna J Sturgis. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Daughter,” by Philip José Farmer, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, Winter 1954.
“Murderer’s Chain,” by Wenzell Brown, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, March 1960.
“Moon Dust,” by Oliver Saari, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, Winter 1954.
“Bombs Awry,” by George O. Smith, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1952.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
Our 79th issue features a pair of original mysteries by N.M. Cedeño (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Bryon Quertermous (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Cedeño is no stranger to BCW readers, having already appeared in our pages twice before. Hopefully Bryon Quertermous will match that hat trick, too.
Rounding out the mystery section are a pair of novels: Francis Beeding’s The House of Doctor Edwardes (filmed by Alfred Hitchcock as Spellbound) and The House on the Cliff, by Franklin W. Dixon, which you may recognize as the very first Hardy Boys book. If you grew up reading the modern revisions of the original Hardy Boys series (which began in 1927), you’re in for a shock: these brothers are tougher, edgier, and face real peril. They were definitely watered down beginning in the 1950s. And often the titles were the only things that remained from the original stories.
And, of course, no issue would be complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet).
In the science fiction & fantasy section, Phyllis Ann Karr continues the adventures of her legendary fantasy duo, Frostflower and Thorn, in “Night of the Short Knives.” Don’t skip her Afterword about the story; it’s fascinating. Plus we have tales by Philip José Farmer, a rare science fiction foray by mystery author Wenzell Brown, and tales by Oliver Saari and George O. Smith. Great stuff.
Here’s the lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Disappearance of a Serial Spouse,” by N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“An Impossible Theft,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Visiting Artist,” by Bryon Quertermous [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
The House of Doctor Edwardes, by FrancisBeeding [novel]
The House on the Cliff, by Franklin W. Dixon [novel, Hardy Boys #1]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Night of the Short Knives,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story, Frostflower & Thorn]
Daughter,” by Philip José Farmer [short story]
“Murderer’s Chain,” by Wenzell Brown [short story]
“Moon Dust,” by Oliver Saari [short story]
“Bombs Awry,” by George O. Smith [novella]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Paul Di Filippo
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Enid North
Karl Wurf
DISAPPEARANCE OF A SERIAL SPOUSE,by N. M. CEDEÑO
Some private investigators hide alcohol in their desks; I hide family-size bags of chocolate. I started my professional life as a middle-school teacher with a genealogical research hobby. Then genetic genealogy became a method of finding the missing and giving identities to the genetically unmoored. Inspired by the idea of connecting people with lost relatives, I switched careers. I worked to get my license, put up a webpage, and then dove into research on behalf of clients searching for family. It was fascinating work that sometimes gave disheartening results. I hadn’t bargained for all the people who didn’t want to be found and didn’t want to connect, which sometimes made me wonder if my work actually accomplished anything.
So, as my office door opened one Monday afternoon, I slid my bag of chocolates into a drawer and hastily wiped my hands on my jeans to remove any trace of food coloring from the hard candy shells while hoping I could help the woman who entered.
Wearing a tailored red suit that spoke of affluence, she appeared to be in her fifties and moved with assurance. Her expensively cut and dyed brown hair was bobbed at an angle, shorter above the nape of her neck but lengthening to her chin in front.
Rising from my chair, I said, “Welcome to Laster Genetic Genealogy and Investigation. I’m Maya Laster.”
“Bettina Pride,” the lady responded. “Call me Betty.” Her voice was clear with a musical lilt.
“How can I help you?” I asked. My own voice, which was always raspy, sounded even rougher compared to Betty’s bell-like tones.
“I want to find out what happened to my father, George Pride. He vanished in June 1975.”
I gestured to the cushioned visitor’s chair across from my desk. “Please sit.” After opening the new-client file on my laptop, I collected her basic personal information and explained my fees. That done, I asked, “When and where was your father last seen?”
Betty said, “I was four years old, and we were living here in Dallas. My mother told me that my father left for a four-week business trip to Alaska. He never came home.”
“Were the police involved at the time?”
“Mom reported Dad missing, but the police said he was an adult with every right to leave. He took clothing with him in suitcases, so they suggested he moved out. Then, mom discovered that he wasn’t on a business trip. His company told her that his sales region covered Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and Arkansas. They didn’t send him to Alaska.”
“The police decided he’d abandoned his wife and child?”
“Yes. But my mother disagreed. She never doubted that he’d return if he could. Mom died last year. Her last wish was that I find out what happened to Dad.”
“What was your mother’s name?” I asked.
“Tina Constance Pride. She was his fourth wife. The first three were Monica, Erica, and Rita, all with the last name Pride.” Betty took out her phone, “I can send you a file of the information I’ve accumulated. It includes marriage dates, photos, and the wives’ full names and dates of birth. My half-siblings are listed, too.”
I gave her my email address, and she sent the files.
Betty put down her phone. “My father was the king of flirting and had charm to spare. He traveled for work and married all four wives without divorcing any.”
I gave her a sympathetic look. “He was a bigamist.”
“Yes, but I only remember a generous man who brought me gifts every time he came home. Mom discovered that Dad didn’t divorce his previous wives when she tried to have him declared dead. A bitter lawsuit ensued, and, consequently, the half-siblings I’ve approached don’t want to have any relationship with me. That’s another reason why I’d like to locate Dad’s family. Since Mom died, I have no relatives who want to acknowledge me. I’d like to meet relatives, Ms. Laster.”
“I can’t guarantee that any relatives I locate will agree to meet you.” My stomach clenched. For me, genetic genealogy had always been about the thrill of connecting people. But my last three cases had ended in disappointment for my clients because newfound relatives didn’t want to face family complexities, or in some cases, ugly truths that I’d exposed. They’d left me pondering the value of my work. If I connected no one, what did I achieve? I swallowed my own frustration at the memory of those cases and focused on Betty Pride. I asked, “Have you ever taken a genetic test for ancestry purposes?”
“Yes. Besides the half-siblings I already knew, the results included two half-siblings with the last name Silversmith. One of the Silversmiths was born three weeks after Dad left, and the other was born in 1969, before my parents even met. It’s possible my father went to live with another family under another name.” An undertone of disappointment came through as she spoke.
“Having those genetic results will save us time. With your ancestry report, I can begin researching your father’s family.”
* * * *
After Betty left, I dug into the case, starting with the missing man, George Pride, and soon discovered that he didn’t exist. His birth certificate was fake. A sinking feeling told me that I’d be revealing ugly truths to another family soon, but I kept going.
Reviewing the genealogy results Betty provided, I wondered about those unknown half-siblings. Any number of scenarios could explain why they were named Silversmith instead of Pride—adoption, name changes, or birth out of wedlock. Or maybe George Pride’s last name was really Silversmith.
Using the ancestry results from Betty Pride and all her half-siblings, census records, and obituaries, I began to build family trees, searching for her father’s true identity. Eight hours later, as my stomach growled in a way that chocolate wouldn’t cure and my blond hair stood on end from running my fingers through it, I found a name: Roger Silversmith. He was an only child, as were his parents. He had no cousins or siblings.
Roger Silversmith had an interesting history. He was reported missing in July 1975 by his wife, Jessica Silversmith, whom he’d married in 1964. He was still listed as missing on a national missing persons database. The picture of Roger Silversmith on the database matched the picture of George Pride.
Before his marriage to Jessica, Roger Silversmith had married and divorced two wives, Sandra Connors and Mary Smithers. Even more interesting, Jessica Silversmith was still alive, and her husband’s missing person case was an open cold case for the Oklahoma City Police.
Since it was approaching midnight, I decided to wait until morning to call them. Tired and hungry, I called it a night.
* * * *
Tuesday morning, I spoke to a detective named Cruz in the cold case unit. After updating her on what I’d discovered, she sent me a copy of her file on the disappearance of Roger Silversmith. According to the file notes, in mid-July 1975, Roger attended the birth of his third child, a daughter named Lorraine, with his wife Jessica. He gave out cigars, ate a family dinner, left for work, and vanished. His family and friends swore he wouldn’t have abandoned his wife, kids, and new baby. Everyone suspected foul play.
The Oklahoma City Police file contained information on Roger Silversmith’s employer. Comparing the file with the information Betty provided, I discovered that her father worked for two companies under two different names and social security numbers, an easy thing to do at a time when getting a new social security number required no proof of identity. As George Pride, her father worked as a traveling salesman, who covered the same territory as Roger Silversmith, who worked for a rival company selling the same products. The Oklahoma file indicated that his employer found him to be a reliable salesman who fell in the middle of the pack in his sales force. I suspected Roger gave half his sales to each company.
I drew up a timeline of Roger’s life.
Born 1940 in Texas.
Married Sandra in Texarkana in 1960, divorced in 1962.
Married Mary in Hot Springs in 1962, divorced in 1964.
Married Jessica in Oklahoma City in 1964.
Created a new identity as George Pride.
Married Monica in Amarillo in 1966.
Married Erica in Baton Rouge in 1967.
Married Rita in Houston in 1969.
Married Betty’s mother Tina in Dallas in 1970. Betty was born in 1971.
Disappeared in July 1975 after visiting Jessica for the birth of his daughter, Lorraine.
I reviewed the court documents related to George Pride being declared dead. Monica, Erica, Rita, and Tina all claimed that they were married to George, but that he traveled regularly for work. Including Jessica Silversmith, the man was seeing at least five wives at the time of his disappearance. Given the pace at which he’d married, I wondered if Tina was his last wife.
I’d submitted Betty Pride’s genetic profile to my favorite genetic genealogy database the previous day. My search results came back with additional family members for Betty. Another half-sibling appeared, but this one wasn’t named Silversmith or Pride. This one was named Johnson. Raymond Johnson, son of Pamela and Roger Johnson, was born in 1974. Pamela, now deceased, had lived in Fort Worth, Texas, and had married Roger Johnson in 1973. By comparing Raymond Johnson’s genetic family tree to Betty Pride’s, I determined Roger Johnson was Roger Silversmith.
Searching for Roger Johnson, I found one final marriage record. He’d married Angela Currant in Waco, Texas, in late June 1975, only a month before he vanished.
Angela, Pamela, Monica, Erica, Rita, Tina, Sandra, Mary, Jessica: nine marriages with only two divorces, under three different identities. A busy man. After sending a message to Detective Cruz updating her on what I’d found, I knew my next step would be to talk to Jessica Silversmith, one of the last people to see the missing man in July 1975. I’d have to go see her in Oklahoma.
* * * *
Wednesday morning, I printed a copy of my research file, packed it with my laptop, and drove north on I-35 from Dallas to Oklahoma City to see Jessica Silversmith in person.
The Silversmith residence sat on a quiet neighborhood street in Oklahoma City. I rang the doorbell. After a brief wait, an octogenarian with fine silver hair in a halo of curls around her head answered the door. She wore a yellow day dress and leaned heavily on a cane, giving her a stooped posture.
I said, “I’m Maya Laster. I was hired to investigate a missing person case in Dallas. Your husband, Roger Silversmith, vanished in 1975. His disappearance is related to my case.”
The woman gave me a stunned look and her right hand flew to her chest, which told me that the Oklahoma City Police hadn’t contacted her about developments in the case yet. “Do you have information about Roger?” she asked in a breathless voice.
“Yes, ma’am. May I come in and explain?” I wondered if her heart could take the news I had.
“Who is it, Maw?” A younger voice with a musical cadence and clear tones, reminding me of my client, Betty Pride, came from within the house.
Mrs. Silversmith said, “Lorraine, it’s an investigator with news on your father.”
Lorraine appeared behind her mother wearing stylish white linen capris, a red blouse, and a skeptical look. “Sounds like a scam to me. Can I see some identification?”
The resemblance between Lorraine and her half-sister, my client Betty, went beyond their similar voices. They shared the same poise, coloring, profile, and build. I showed her my investigator’s license and explained that I’d been in contact with a cold case detective at the Oklahoma City PD regarding the disappearance of Roger Silversmith because his case had intersected with one that I was working.
Lorraine’s skeptical expression remained. She said, “Well, Maw, let’s see what she has to say. Come in, Ms. Laster.”
Mrs. Silversmith directed me to a comfortable sitting room at the front of the house. “Can I offer you some iced tea? You sound parched.”
“No thank you, ma’am. Fluids won’t improve my voice. It always sounds rough.” I sat on a blue loveseat as Mrs. Silversmith lowered herself into a well-used, tan recliner. Lorraine remained standing with her arms crossed.
I explained the disappearance of George Pride before producing wedding photos showing the man with his wives Monica, Erica, Rita, and Tina from my file.
Mrs. Silversmith stared at the photos with a soft frown on her wrinkled lips. “Yes. This is Roger.”
“His wife, Tina Pride, reported him missing in 1975 when he didn’t return from a business trip. Tina Pride’s daughter Betty hired me to find out what happened to her father. I discovered that George Pride was an alias. Using genetic genealogy research, I found that George Pride was Roger Silversmith, but that he also went by the name Roger Johnson.” I laid out the research for them.
Lorraine uncrossed her arms and sank to her knees next to her mother. “Oh, Maw. I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Silversmith’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I suspected that Roger saw other women when he traveled, but I had no idea he would marry them.” Mrs. Silversmith read the list of marriages, then handed it to her daughter.
Lorraine examined the list. “His last wife was Angela Currant. I wonder if she’s related to Uncle Morgan?”
Her mother shook her head. “I don’t know. We’d have to ask Ellen.”
“Who’s Ellen?” I asked.
Mrs. Silversmith said, “Ellen is my sister. Her husband Morgan Currant died five years ago. I’ve never heard her mention anyone named Angela, but Morgan wasn’t close to his family.”
“Did Morgan Currant know your husband, Roger?”
“Yes. Ellen and Morgan always helped me when Roger was away. Their boy Greg was the same age as my son. Morgan couldn’t understand why a man with family would travel as much as Roger did. He never liked Roger.” She paused. “Or anyone else, except for Ellen and the kids. Morgan was antisocial.”
“The police report on your husband’s disappearance said that he ate dinner with your family before he vanished. Did anyone notice anything unusual in his behavior?”
“No. He regretted having to leave for work. Morgan suggested he call his boss and ask for a few days of vacation, but Roger said he couldn’t. He didn’t want to anger his client and lose the account.”
I left after getting Ellen Currant’s contact information and promising to update Jessica on the case. Then I drove back to Texas. Bypassing my office in Dallas, Waco was my next stop. The last wife, Angela Currant, lived there. She’d married Roger in June 1975 but hadn’t reported him missing.
* * * *
The drive to Waco took longer than expected thanks to accidents on I-35, so I checked into a hotel for the night before visiting Angela Currant the next morning. She lived in an apartment not far from Baylor University.
Angela answered the door wearing black leggings matched with a thigh-length, wrap tunic that exposed tanned cleavage. She held a steaming cup of coffee in her French-manicured hand. A tall, graceful woman with curling, brown hair tumbling to her shoulders and a suspiciously unlined face and neck, Angela looked at least two decades younger than her seventy years. She greeted me with a question in her silver eyes. “Can I help you?”
I presented my identification. “I’m hoping you can help me solve a missing person case.”
Angela tilted her head looking at me. “Really? Who’s missing?”
“You knew him as Roger Johnson.”
“Honey, that’s a name I haven’t heard in ages. Come in and tell me what this is about.” She stepped back from the door and allowed me to enter. “Would you like some coffee? Join me in the kitchen.”
I passed through a chic sitting room and under an archway leading into a chrome-and-marble retro-modern kitchen.
Angela went to a cupboard for a mug. “Coffee? Sugar? Milk?”
“Black is fine.”
She poured coffee, and we sat at her candy-apple-red kitchen table.
“You look more like a teacher than a detective,” she said, surveying my jeans and wash-and-wear, conservatively cut blouse, “but your voice is more like Janis Joplin or Bonnie Tyler.”
“I was a teacher once, but I prefer investigations. I specialize in genetic genealogy.” I sipped my coffee, then got down to business. “When did you last see Roger Johnson?”
Angela squinted her eyes. “That would have been June 1975. I received the annulment papers in July. We were only married a few weeks, and I barely saw him during that time. He was always traveling for work.” She paused and gave me a wry look. “We married two months after we met, a real whirlwind romance. I should have known he might regret jumping into matrimony. But this is ancient history. I can’t imagine how it could affect anything today. When did he disappear?”
“July 1975.” I explained the research connecting George Pride to Roger Silversmith to Roger Johnson and showed her the wedding photos.
“Good Lord, you mean I was his ninth wife? And his name wasn’t even Johnson? Honey, this beats everything I could have imagined.” She fingered the photos. “But this is Roger.” She studied the list of marriages. “I guess I should be glad he requested an annulment.”
I asked, “Do you have copies of the paperwork for the annulment or any letters he wrote you? I would like to see those.”
“Give me a minute.” She pushed away from the table, stood, and left the kitchen.
I sipped coffee until Angela returned with papers in her hand.
She placed the papers on the table. “I have our wedding pictures, marriage license, marriage certificate, the letter from Roger asking for an annulment, and the annulment papers.”
The letter was typed and signed with initials. I picked up the marriage license and the annulment paperwork and compared the signatures. They didn’t match. “Angela, did you see Roger sign the marriage license?”
“Of course.”
“The signature on the license doesn’t match the one on the annulment.” I handed her the papers.
She stared at the signatures, looking back and forth from one to the other. “You’re right. Does that mean Roger didn’t send these papers? If he didn’t, who did?”
“Angela, are you related to someone named Morgan Currant? He was married to a woman named Ellen, and he died about five years ago.”
“That’s another blast from the past. Morgan was my cousin. He wasn’t the most social person. He barely interacted with anyone, even family. I did attend his wedding to Ellen. We weren’t good at keeping in touch. That was my fault as much as his. I was a free spirit in the 1970s, so I rarely saw Morgan that decade.”
“Did you see Morgan in 1975 after you married Roger?”
Angela looked at me blankly. “I don’t know. I could check my journals.” She left the room again and returned with a floral-covered book. “Here we go. 1975.” She opened the book and skimmed the pages. “I met Roger in April. We married in June.” Angela flipped through the pages, searching. “Here! I saw Morgan and Ellen at my sister Julianne’s wedding on July 4. Roger was away on business. We’d eloped so no one had met him. Everyone asked about him, so I showed them our wedding photo.”
“Both Morgan and Ellen saw the photo?” I asked.
“Yes. What do they have to do with this?”
“Ellen Currant is Jessica Silversmith’s sister.” I pointed to the list of marriages.
“Roger was married to Ellen’s sister? Ellen never said anything.” She put her manicured hand to her cheek, and I could see her processing the information. “Do you think Roger vanished because Morgan and Ellen discovered his game?”
“I don’t know, but Ellen might. I’m going to talk to her next. Please, do me a favor and don’t contact her.”
Angela tucked a brown curl behind her ears. “Honey, I want to know what happened. Call me when you find out.”
“I will.”
A few minutes later, I left Angela’s apartment. Heading north on I-35 back to Oklahoma and Ellen Currant’s address, I munched on chocolate-covered pretzels and pondered the possibility of murder. Could Ellen or her husband have killed Roger Silversmith? Could I be driving to meet a murderer? This case had taken an unexpected turn into territory far beyond my usual archival work.
* * * *
Five hours later, I parked at a brick, ranch-style house on the outskirts of Oklahoma City. Sitting in my car, I called Detective Cruz, but she wasn’t available, so I left a message about what I’d discovered and where I was before I walked up to the door and rang the doorbell.
A stout woman with iron gray hair in a chignon answered. My notes indicated that she was older than her sister Jessica, but she looked healthier, with a rigid posture and a formidable expression. “What do you want?”
“Ellen Currant? Your sister Jessica gave me your address.” I produced my identification.
“Ms. Laster. Jessica mentioned you.” She looked at me critically, reminding me of the principal at my last teaching job: a stickler who demanded high standards from everyone.
“May I come in?” I asked.
“Yes. Jessica asked me to speak to you, but I don’t know anything,” Ellen said as she led me into a formal sitting room. The room looked rarely used, with pristine white couches and a Persian area carpet. She sat in a wingback chair and gestured for me to sit on the white couch. “Go on. Ask your questions.”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of George Pride. He vanished in 1975.” I extracted wedding photos from my file and handed them to Ellen. “Based on my research, I can prove that George Pride had nine wives and went by at least three names. His real name was Roger Silversmith, but he also used the alias Roger Johnson.”
Ellen glanced at the photos then returned them to me. “I knew he was rotten.”
“I’ve already spoken to Angela Currant.”
Ellen stared at me with pursed lips but didn’t comment.
“She said she showed you and your husband her wedding photo in July 1975, shortly before Roger disappeared. Did you or your husband confront Roger about his bigamy?”
Ellen folded her hands in her lap. “My late husband said he would handle it.”
“How did he handle it?”
“He spoke to Roger privately. Roger agreed to have his marriage to Angela annulled and to leave Jessica and never return. Jessica and the kids were better without him,” Ellen said in a decisive voice that brooked no disagreement.
I doubted her version of events but didn’t argue. “Tell me about your husband. What was he like?”
“My husband loved his family fiercely, but he wasn’t demonstrative and couldn’t make conversation at all. We helped Jessica raise her kids. Morgan would have done anything to protect those kids. He was horrified by what Roger had done.”
“I can’t find any trace of Roger after 1975. If Roger argued with Morgan, could the argument have become violent?”
Ellen looked away. “Morgan wasn’t a violent man.”
“Was Roger?” I asked. “Men who flout social rules the way Roger did typically don’t think rules apply to them. Confronting them may be dangerous.”
“Roger had a temper. He expected everyone to dance to his schedule. Seeing what you found, he probably needed everything to run like clockwork to balance all those wives.”
“You suspect Roger is dead, don’t you?”
Ellen sat silently for so long that I began to wonder if she’d answer. Then she said, “Morgan left a letter with our wills. It’s not to be opened until after my death.”
“Will you let me read it? If it has nothing to do with Roger Silversmith, you won’t have to know what it says.”
“And if it does?”
“I’ll have to take it to the police.”
Ellen’s face crumpled and her head drooped. Suddenly she looked as fragile as her sister.
I moved to kneel in front of her and covered one of her hands with mine. “Please, ma’am. Several of Roger’s wives are still alive. And he had many children. One of his daughters hired me to find out what happened. They deserve answers. They are victims, just like Jessica and her kids.”
She clasped my hand, and I helped her rise from the wingback chair.
Ellen left the room and returned carrying a fireproof lockbox. She handed me the box and a key. “I don’t want to see the letter.”
The doorbell rang. Ellen went to answer it as I returned to the white couch with the box.
A clean-shaven man with a receding hairline above thick glasses entered the house. “Mama, what is this about Aunt Jessica and a private detective?”
I rose. “That’s me. Maya Laster. I’m investigating the disappearance of your aunt’s husband.”
He stared at me before his eyes traveled to the lock box on the couch. “What are you doing with the lock box? Why are you here?”
Ellen said, “Calm down, Greg. She’s going to read Dad’s letter.”
“No! No one reads Dad’s letter. He insisted, and I promised as executor of your wills.” Greg strode toward me and took the box and the key.
Ellen’s voice came swift and sharp. “Greg, stop. Your Uncle Roger had nine wives and I don’t know how many children. One of his daughters hired Ms. Laster to find out why her father vanished. That woman deserves the truth.”
Greg’s head swung toward me. “Nine wives? He had multiple other families? That’s why he never stayed home more than a few days?”
“Yes,” I said. “Even if you take that letter now, I’m going to have to report its existence to the police. They are reviewing your uncle’s case.”
Greg inserted the key in the box and opened it. He plucked a letter from inside and placed the box on the couch. “In that case, I’m reading this letter.” He looked at his mother. “If it needs to be destroyed, I’ll take care of it.” Greg slid his finger under the envelope flap and unsealed the letter. Pulling out a sheet of paper, he read hastily before looking at his mother. “Mama, we should destroy this.”
“I can’t believe your father would murder Roger.” Her voice shook, and she sank into her wingback chair with her hands over her face.
Greg stepped to her side. “He didn’t. It was an accident.”
Ellen’s head came up. “Then the truth must come out.”
I said, “If you destroy the letter, the police will think it was murder.”
Greg’s fist closed on the sheet of paper, and he stared at the ceiling with anguish in his eyes. “Uncle Roger bragged about having other families when Dad confronted him. When Dad criticized him, he got angry. They fought, and Uncle Roger fell.” Greg handed me the crumpled paper.
The sheet of stationary was covered in closely spaced handwriting. Skimming down, I read to the end and spoke softly to Ellen, “I’m so sorry, Ellen, but the police will need to dig up your basement.”
We called the police, and a sense of satisfaction settled over me. I’d found the truth for Betty. I spent the rest of the day and part of Friday awaiting the completion of the excavation in the basement.
* * * *
The following Monday, I met with Betty Pride in my office and explained what happened to her father over a bowl of wrapped chocolate kisses.
“The police recovered skeletal remains from the Currant’s basement. Morgan Currant’s hand-written confession states that the death was an accident. Your father met Morgan in Morgan’s garage. When Morgan confronted him about his bigamy, your father became angry, and they fought. Your father tripped over a lawn mower when Morgan pushed him, and he fell backward. The base of his skull landed on a pickax leaning against the wall, killing him instantly. The medical examiner will have to do an autopsy, but the detective in charge confirmed that the skull they found had a wound consistent with the injury described in Morgan’s letter.”
“Nine wives and three names.” She looked at me in amazement. “How is that even possible?”
“Before the proliferation of computers, cross-checking information was harder. And before 1974, anyone could request a social security number by filling out an application. No proof of identity was required. Your father simply requested social security numbers under fake names and used those at different jobs. He may have forged birth certificates, too.”
“And no one suspected anything until he married someone obliquely related to one of his other wives.” Betty bit her lip. “I’m glad Mom never knew but knowing what happened to Dad is a weight off my mind.”
“The Oklahoma City Police will be reaching out to the surviving widows and children to inform them. You have more half-siblings, if you want to meet them.” I studied her profile. “Your half-sister Lorraine resembles you.”
“Does she want to meet me?” Betty asked. Her jawline tensed, prepared for rejection.
“Yes. Lorraine and her two siblings would like to meet you. The Johnson half-sibling, Raymond, is still processing the information. You’ll have to give him time.”
The tension melted from Betty’s face. “That’s wonderful, Ms. Laster.”
I couldn’t give Betty her father, but I could give her the truth. Family connections were icing on the cake. I’d become a genetic genealogist to connect people, but finally realized that another part of the job mattered more. Connecting people gave me a warm glow of pleasure but finding facts and truth for my clients was an achievement that gave me long-term satisfaction. The truth would stand no matter how people responded to it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
N. M. Cedeño writes mystery and crime fiction short stories and novels. She is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and Sisters in Crime: Heart of Texas Chapter. Her stories have appeared in anthologies and in magazines, including Analog: Science Fiction and Fact, After Dinner Conversation: Philosophy and Ethics Short Stories, Black Cat Weekly, and Black Cat Mystery Magazine. Cedeño blogs with other Heart of Texas mystery writers at InkStainedWretches.home.blog. For more information please visit nmcedeno.com.
AN IMPOSSIBLE THEFT,by Hal Charles
When Detective Casey Armstrong entered the large room toward the rear of the Clear Creek Community Center, she was immediately approached by a gaunt figure she recognized as Blanton Collier, owner of the town’s largest jewelry store.
“It’s about time you got here,” said Collier. “I pay good taxes and—”
“Now just a minute,” interrupted Casey. “My dispatcher didn’t give me any details, but he said you reported a robbery. If you could fill me in on what happened, we can go from there,”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Detective,” said Collier, noticeably dialing back his anger, “but I’m still trying to wrap my head around the theft.”
“Exactly what was taken?”
“The Gifford diamond,” the jeweler said, looking as if the air had left his body. “A flawless stone beyond compare. I agreed to exhibit it to benefit this year’s charity drive.”
“When did you realize it was missing?” said Casey, looking around the room lavishly decorated with crystal vases filled with cut flowers, walls covered with tapestries and paintings, and tables offering a gourmet’s fantasy of fancy pastries.
“This morning when I arrived,” said Collier. “I went straight to the display case, and the Gifford was gone.”
“So,” said Casey, “someone took the diamond during the night.”
“That’s just it,” said Collier, shaking his head. “This place was locked tighter than Fort Knox, and a special guard was posted outside. Nobody could have broken in.”
“Then your diamond must have been taken before the room was locked.”
“Impossible!” said Collier. “I saw the gem in the case not 10 minutes before closing, and everybody was thoroughly checked by security before leaving the room.”
An avid mystery fan, Casey couldn’t help thinking about all those ‘impossible’ locked room crimes solved by Holmes, Marple, and Dupin. “Who were the last people to leave the room last night?”
“Let’s see. Jennifer Longmire, our local florist, who has graciously provided cut flowers for the exhibit. Then, of course, Bradley Stein, whose pastries have added inches to everyone’s waistline.”
“Anyone else?”
Collier paused for a second. “Now that I think of it, Larry Bailey, my store manager, left right before me.”
“Are those three here?” said Casey.
Collier scanned the room. “I don’t see Jennifer, but she’ll be here any minute now bringing some fresh-cut flowers to replace yesterday’s. And there’s Brad setting up the pastry table. I saw Larry just before you arrived.”
Approaching the stocky figure who looked like he had too close a relationship with his pastries, Casey said, “Mr. Stein, I understand you were here at closing last night.” She flashed her badge.
“As I have been every night since the exhibit opened.” Setting down a tray of eclairs, Stein said, “This must be about Blanton’s missing diamond.”
Casey nodded.
“Detective, I run a highly successful catering business, and I assure you I have no interest in taking my friend’s diamond. Besides, without the exhibit’s centerpiece, I’ll have to ‘eat’ the expense of all this food, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Leaving Stein to his goodies, Casey found Larry Bailey standing near a plush tapestry at the rear of the room. “Mr. Bailey,” she said, I’m Detective Casey Armstrong, and we need to talk about the theft.”
“I’m not sure I can be of much help. I spent the entire evening registering guests at the door.”
As Blanton Collier validated Bailey’s explanation, Casey noticed a young woman enter the room pushing a cart filled with bright flowers in crystal vases. Seeing the woman exchanging new vases for the ones sprinkled around the room, Casey called, “Ms. Longmire.”
When Casey identified herself, Jennifer said, “Is something wrong? I need to get these fresh flowers placed before the exhibit opens.”
Remembering the words of her idol, Sherlock Holmes, that “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” Casey said, “Ms. Longmire, I’m afraid in your case, diamonds are not a girl’s best friend.”
Solution
Casey’s love of mystery fiction had taught her an interesting fact: flawless diamonds are invisible in water. Confronted, Jennifer Longmire confessed that right before leaving the night before, she had dropped the Gifford diamond into one of the crystal vases, planning to retrieve it the next day when she exchanged new flowers for old. She planned to sell the gem to save her floundering business.
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.
VISITING ARTIST,by Bryon Quertermous
“I don’t get it,” Eden said, staring at the IMDb website. “Duff never comes to town to greet a visiting artist, especially not one without any major credits. He only tears himself away from Manhattan on the weekends.”
Justin rolled in his chair across the small office, away from Eden, and dumped a stack of papers into the trash can.
“Maybe he’s feeling charitable,” Justin said. “Or maybe he’s positioning himself for one of those lifetime achievement awards and wants to look like a mentor.”
“A mentor to who? It’s not like this guy’s IMDb credits are the only ones lacking.” Eden glanced his way, her blue eyes wide. “I checked the Broadway database and the Equity database. No listings, no stories, no website. Nothing. He’s a ghost.”
The floor creaked by the door, and they turned to see me filling the doorway and spying on them.
“Y’all really don’t have a lick of common sense between you,” I said.
“Hey, grandma,” Justin said. “Don’t hate on us kids.”
I smiled and pushed Justin’s chair across the room and into the wall. At age thirty-nine, I was only fifteen years older than Eden and Justin, our current acting apprentices, but that may as well have been a hundred years to them. The other apprentices in production and business tended to be a bit older, but these were the two I was in charge of and that made them see me more as a mother than a peer.
“It’s a fake name,” I said. “That’s why you can’t find anything about him.”
Justin popped up and took a couple of long strides to tower over me and Eden.
“Wow,” he said. “I guess that makes sense.”
“How do you know that?” Eden asked.
“What’s the name of this theater?” I asked.
Eden rolled her eyes and quickly said, “Shakespeare’s Basement.”
“And it’s named that because…”
Justin spun toward me, eager to answer one of the questions.
“That was the name of the first movie starring our dear founder, Duff Martin.”
“A movie directed by…”
Justin started to answer this one as well, but Eden held up her hand to stop him while keeping her eyes on me.
“You’re kidding, right? He wouldn’t do that, would he?”
“It’s a guess, but yeah, I think so. Why else would Duff insist on being here to greet our newest visiting artist, a visiting artist, I’ll note, who was not originally scheduled for this season?”
“I’m confused,” Justin said.
“The visiting artist is Theo Proper,” Eden said. “Duff feels like he owes his career to the guy even though Theo Proper is a pervert and sexual harasser at best and a rapist at worst.”
“This is why I wanted to be here when he arrives,” Duff said, clearing his throat dramatically before entering the office. “To head off the rumors and—”
“I quit,” Eden said, launching herself out of her chair. “I will not work with that man, and I’ll have my father’s law firm shut this entire place—”
“Please sit down and let me explain.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but Duff’s charisma made it hard for anyone to say no to him.
“You could have at least let us know beforehand,” I said. “You could have let me know.”
“I couldn’t.” Duff’s broad shoulders rose and fell. “He wanted to… They wanted to be the ones to—”
“They?” Justin asked.
“Theo and Mary Sue. Here together to work on a piece about forgiveness and moving forward and—”
“You brought his first victim here too?” Eden screeched. “When did this turn into Jerry Springer?”
“Mary Sue is his wife now, and it was her idea,” Duff said. “They’ll be coming inside any second now. Just please keep an open mind until you hear what they have to say.”
I sighed and nodded defeatedly. Eden didn’t say anything, but she was fidgeting enough to power a small country. Duff led us into the lobby of the theater. There we fanned out into a semicircle, Duff and I in the middle with Eden on my side and Justin on Duff’s, as Theo and Mary Sue entered the theater.
Theo Proper was barely five feet tall and had wild brown hair that looked like a cross between Albert Einstein and Bob Dylan. He was wearing a burgundy corduroy suit with a paisley shirt underneath and orange-tinted ’70s-style glasses. Mary Sue Sun was taller by several inches and had bleached-blond hair worn straight.
She was wearing wide black yoga pants that came to the middle of her shins, mustard-yellow Doc Martens boots, a plain red T-shirt, and a yellow crushed-velvet vest and matching bow tie. Theo was in his late seventies and moved with the slow pace of age and money. Mary Sue was almost thirty years younger with calm, soothing movements.
Duff spread his arms wide and offered a booming welcome to the couple. We all put up a good front and welcomed them as Duff introduced us. He saved me for last.
“Peggy Knopf,” he said, “our artistic director, my right hand, and basically the woman who keeps this place up and running.”
“He’s not wrong,” I said, squashing my tendency to self-deprecate.
“We’ve got an apartment over the theater all set up for you,” Duff said, separating Theo, Mary Sue, and himself from the rest of us.
Theo nodded and whispered something in Duff’s ear. They hugged, and then Theo and Mary Sue went off to the apartment while Duff rejoined us.
“See. That wasn’t awful.”
“After what you said to the Times, I can’t believe you’re dragging the reputation of this theater and all of us through the mud for that monster,” Eden yelled.
“Shhhhhh,” Duff said, moving toward Eden to squeeze her arms—one of his go-to calming moves when someone was upset, despite that I’d told him umpteen times to respect personal space. I hurried to put myself between them, but Justin was already a step ahead of me and shoulder-clipped Duff to keep him from touching Eden.
“Dude,” he said. “Hands.”
Duff pulled his hands back like a chided toddler and snorted, then walked away.
“We’ve got to stop this,” Eden said.
“Let’s all go get a coffee and talk this out,” I said.
“Coffee? That’s your answer to this nightmare?”
I sighed and tried not to explode. She’d been like this a lot lately. Eden was an amazing actress because she was a raw wire. She was a former party girl and, if you believed the rumors, something of a suburban drug maven, but I’d never seen anyone put themselves out there so completely in front of strangers. She was also young and hadn’t quite learned how to harness it. That’s what the creative team and I had been working on with her.
Because of all of that, the stress of being in the final stretch before premiering our new play was getting to her, and the stress of working with someone so young and raw for the first time in ages was getting to me. Duff couldn’t have picked a worse time to spring his little surprise on us.
And I suspected that was why he’d done it. He’d hoped we’d all be so wrapped up in getting the new play across the finish line that we wouldn’t have the energy or the mental capacity to put up much of a fight. He hadn’t counted on Eden.
“We all just need to really think about this and make sure we don’t blow this opportunity,” I said.
“Opportunity?” Eden shrieked. “We have Hollywood’s number one rapist in our theater, and all you can think of is the opportunity? I expected better from you.”
I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. My voice dropped to barely a whisper, but I’m certain people on the other side of the country could hear what I was saying.
“There is more than one kind of opportunity,” I said. “We have an opportunity for justice.”
I felt the tension in her body ease when I said that, and I took my hands off her shoulders.
“Girl or not, you don’t have the right to touch me like that,” Eden said, matching my volume, if not quite my intensity.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Let’s take five, then we can meet with all of the other staff in the black box to game-plan.”
Eden nodded but didn’t move.
“Thank you,” she finally said. “Five.”
* * * *
The black box was part rehearsal space, part experimental theater, and part confessional. It’s where we worked out complicated scenes, complicated emotions, and had hard conversations. What we were about to discuss was all of that at once and was going to test even the most battle-hardened of us emotionally.
“I worked with Theo Proper at the peak of his power in Hollywood and New York,” I said to the group. “I know everything that he’s capable of.”
“Then why are you being such a—”
“Please, Eden, just give me the floor right now. You will be heard. I promise.”
She stopped talking, but she didn’t sit down on the floor with the rest of us. Instead she continued to pace and fidget. I wanted to give her the space to work through what she was feeling without being domineering, but she was distracting me and the others in the box with us. Luckily Justin spoke first and took the hit as the bad guy.
“For god’s sake, Eden, sit down will you. I’m getting the jitters just being around you.”
She finally calmed down enough to squat down next to him and chew on her nails instead of pacing around.
“We have to present an absolutely united front to make sure we’re heard,” I said. “No half-cocked improvised plans or emotional outbursts, okay?”
They all nodded, even Eden. I knew she wanted to do this right; I just wasn’t sure if she had the maturity or emotional fortitude to pull it off. There was no way to cut her out though, so it was just a matter of doing whatever I needed to do to keep her in check.
“You’d think murdering someone every night on stage would be more cathartic than it really is,” Eden said, smiling for the first time I’d seen all day.
“Glad to see you’re all in a better mood,” Duff said, interrupting us and sitting down next to Eden.
She stopped laughing and shifted away from him and closer to Justin.
“We were just talking through some stress relief from the burden of our current show,” I said.
“I’ll admit the timing of all of this could have been better,” he said.
“There was no time this was going to be a good idea, Duff,” I said.
“We’re going to have dinner here tonight, right?”
He looked at me, and I nodded.
“All I ask is that we make it through dinner civilly, and then tomorrow when we have our first session with them you can—”
“Wait a minute,” Eden said, as I watched any sense of calm she’d been able to tap into go up in a flame of rage. “You expect us to work with that—”
“It’s a good thing you’re focusing on stress relief,” Duff said to me, as if Eden weren’t there. “We can’t let this happen at dinner.”
They were all so much on edge I didn’t see how we’d avoid a huge emotional explosion at dinner—which I wasn’t necessarily opposed to.
“Come on, Duff. Maybe tonight isn’t a great time for a big get-together,” I said. “Let’s push the dinner back a night and give everyone time to get settled in and calmed down.”
“We’ve got a schedule to keep, and if I’m not mistaken, we’re all adults here and should be able to—”
“We’re all humans here. With emotions and fallible energy levels and stress. They’re just kids, really.”
Eden popped up when I said that, and I knew I’d pushed her toward her breaking point.
“We’re not children,” she screamed. “I know exactly what I’m doing and how I’m feeling.”
Duff muttered a curse under his breath, causing Eden to focus her ire back on him. I thought she was going to tear into him, but she just screamed loudly and left the studio. Justin tried to follow her out, but I stopped him.
“Let her go.”
I looked over at Duff who rolled his eyes at me.
“Let’s talk privately,” I said.
We stepped out of earshot of everyone else, and Duff said, “Nice control of your people.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t think something like this was going to happen.”
He shuffled his feet and looked away from me.
“I had to invite him. I kept reading the stories they were putting out about him, and they were getting worse and worse.”
“You don’t believe what all the women have said about him?”
“It’s more complicated than that. We don’t have all the information and—”
“I believe the women. The stuff he’s admitted to in public is bad enough.”
“It’s not like I’m an unsympathetic audience,” Duff said. “I made it very clear in that interview I gave to the New York Times that I find his behavior problematic. He’s made supporting his art very difficult.”
Who was he kidding? Duff and his pals wanted to help Theo Proper, despite everything he’d done, in order to avoid being tainted themselves. Bringing Theo here was proof of that.
“You want to support his art, yet you’re the one who suggested someone should drug him and give him a taste of what he’s done to women to shock him into changing.”
“That was hyperbole,” he growled. “We can make this all right through art here, Peg. If there wasn’t something still redeemable about him then why would Mary Sue be willing to do this?”
“Because she’s brainwashed. And you’re going to make it worse.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re a woman.”
I bit my tongue and clenched my fists so I didn’t punch him or go off on him about how one day he would pay for underestimating women.
“I can’t do this right now,” I said. “I need to go make sure my staff is ok.”
* * * *
We made it to dinnertime without any further blowups. Part of that was because Eden hadn’t been seen since she’d stormed out of the black box. We all had assumed she simply needed space and time to cool off, but when we sat down for dinner in the apartment’s dining room she was still missing.
“Peggy arranged for this abundant spread,” Duff said. “I know how much you love seafood, so I put her on it, and I don’t think she could have done a better job if she’d known it was you she was planning for.”
“You even got razor clams,” Theo said in his famous wheezy twang. “Such an unexpected treat. I never get razor clams.” He piled them on his plate.
We all dove into the food and chatted and ate and drank as the wine and beer flowed around the table. Without Eden around, I noticed the other younger staffers, especially Justin, were more comfortable talking to Theo and showing their true fandom for him. That’s what makes guys like him so difficult to deal with. Their charisma is off the charts, and they have the glow of decades of fame around them.
Everyone had seen Theo on the big screen and on late-night shows and on the news. Even when he was in the spotlight for something controversial, it just raised his profile with another generation. The only thing stopping Theo Proper from riding out his career as a legend was the misfortune of having a son from his first marriage who ended up with all of Theo’s charisma and hypnotic charm but who also had the intelligence and stubborn need for justice of his activist mother.
Theo’s son had written a scathing takedown of him, and Esquire had shared it with the world, moving the rumors and warnings that had long haunted the director from hushed conversations and back rooms to the front page. Theo hadn’t been completely excommunicated from the industry though, and factions had formed among people he’d worked with over the years, some of whom were trying to keep him relevant for their own sakes.
When the meal was winding down, Theo stood and spoke to the table.
“Wow. This was quite the scene,” Theo said. “The food was…mmmmm. Just. Wow. But the conversations have been the best. And the conversations are what we want to build around. We want you to ask us the hard questions, and we want to find an engaging and meaningful way to give the hard answers.”
“It’s what Theo and I always talked about in those early days of our careers,” Duff said. “We wanted to change the world through dialogue and develop something like this. With a group, not just one weirdo alone in a room on his computer.”
“I…I have to say I’ve done some good work as a weirdo alone in a room,” Theo said, laughing to himself. “Though I use a typewriter instead of a computer.”
“But you get the spirit of it,” Duff said. “If people want to gossip about you and have their say, they have to give you the same respect and let you have your say.”
Theo was about to answer again when Eden finally showed up, springing through the door holding a tray of tall silver frosted cups with colorful striped straws.
“We all know you don’t want us to really ask the hard questions,” she said.
“I do,” Theo said. “That’s—”
“But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so I’ll be a good girl and instead share my grandma’s recipe for chocolate milkshakes. They’re you’re favorite, right?”
Theo nodded, a bit surprised, as he took the drink she handed him. Nobody else had anything to say either as she went around the table and passed out the rest of the shakes.
“What’s everyone so quiet for?” she said, taking the last shake off the tray for herself and raising it in the air. “We’re theater people. To theater.”
A half-hearted clinking of glasses followed, then everyone drank their shakes as quickly as they could without getting ice-cream headaches. When the shakes were consumed, Duff invited everyone to join him in the main theater and get the conversational exercises started.
I kept my eye on Eden as she engaged with Theo and Mary Sue and seemed genuinely impressed with what they were doing. She was a good actress—there was no doubt about that—but she was exhibiting a level of emotional control I didn’t know she was capable of.
It made me very suspicious.
I also kept my eye on Theo as he walked around the stage waving his hands and communicating almost as much through body language as words. But it wasn’t long before he crept too much into the actors’ personal space, and his light touches to move them through various spots on the stage turned into heavy ones. I knew I should intervene before he crossed a boundary into harassment, but I was transfixed by Eden’s performance.
While Theo Proper’s movements were awkward and crass, Eden was commanding and breezy, easing out of potentially uncomfortable situations without offending Theo. Her confidence was breathtaking, and I wanted to know the source. Before Theo could do any more harm, I noticed a significant drop in his motor skills. It was like watching someone do a bad impression of a slow-motion movie before he finally wobbled off the stage completely and sat down.
“Creativity and inspiration are no match for the ravages of age, it seems,” he said theatrically as he swatted at the sides of his face trying to shake himself back to attention.
Eventually, he gave up the fight and excused himself back to the apartment with Mary Sue. Everyone else dispersed to their own places, including Duff. I had no interest in going home and dealing with my obnoxious landlord and his come-ons, so I bunked on the couch in my office and slept deeply and wonderfully until I was shocked awake by a piercing scream.
I followed the sound into the lobby, where Mary Sue Sun was screaming that Theo Proper was dead.
* * * *
When Mary Sue finally stopped screaming long enough to tell me what was going on, I called 911, then Duff.
