AHMM, May 2012 Read online

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  AHMM, May 2012

  by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Mystery/Crime

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cover by Stanley Martucci/Getty Images

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  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: UNEXPECTED by Linda Landrigan

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Fiction: SHANKS COMMENCES by Robert Lopresti

  Fiction: LEWIS AND CLARK by John M. Floyd

  Fiction: SPRING BREAK by R.T. Lawton

  Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH: DOGWATCH

  Fiction: WIND POWER by Eve Fisher

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Fiction: FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY by Ron Goulart

  Fiction: FASHIONED FOR MURDER by Shauna Washington

  Fiction: MR. CROCKETT AND THE BEAR by Evan Lewis

  Fiction: CARRY-ON by Wayne J. Gardiner

  Department: THE STORY THAT WON

  Department: COMING IN JUNE 2012

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: UNEXPECTED

  by Linda Landrigan

  When a character encounters the unexpected, the results may be thrills or chuckles. This month, it's definitely the latter. Mystery writer Longshanks, for instance, surely didn't expect to encounter a body when returning to his alma mater to give a speech in Robert Lopresti's “Shanks Commences.” (Look for some sly references to the author's erstwhile Criminal Brief blogmates.) R. T. Lawton's hapless burglars didn't expect to find themselves surrounded by college students when their “Spring Break” job went awry. Fashionista Stacey Deshay didn't expect a murderous mess at the home of her client in “Fashioned for Murder” by Shauna Washington. And a pair of bank robbers didn't count on the forest savvy of their Boy Scout hostages in John M. Floyd's “Lewis and Clark.”

  Meanwhile, Davy Crockett returns, sharp as ever, as the feisty conscience of his attorney descendant David Crockett in Evan Lewis's “Mr. Crockett and the Bear.” Cartoonist Wes Goodhill gets caught up (literally) in his in-laws’ con game in Ron Goulart's “Fun for the Whole Family.” Wayne J. Gardiner presents a case of mistaken identity in “Carry-on.” And the residents of Laskin, South Dakota, get more than information when an alternative energy consultant comes to spread a little hot air in Eve Fisher's “Wind Power.”

  A batch of amusing and entertaining stories—and there's nothing unexpected about that.

  —Linda Landrigan, Editor

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  Department: THE LINEUP

  Eve Fisher is the author of the novel The Best Is Yet to Be (Guidepost).

  John M. Floyd is the author of three collections of short stories: Rainbow's End, Midnight, and Clockwork.

  “Carry-on” is Wayne J. Gardiner's third story for AHMM.

  Ron Goulart is the author of Sky-rocket Steele (Wildside), and Cheap Thrills: The Amazing! Thrilling! Astonishing! History of Pulp Fiction (Hermes). Retired Federal Agent R. T. Lawton has made his stories available as e-books, including 9 Twin Brothers Bail Bond Mysteries, and 9 Historical Mysteries.

  Evan Lewis received MWA's Robert L. Fish Award for “Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man” (EQMM, Feb. 2010).

  Robert Lopresti is the author of Such a Killing Crime (Kearney Street Books). He blogs at Sleuthsayers.org.

  Las Vegas native Shauna Washington is a fashion consultant. “Fashioned for Murder” is her first publication.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  Fiction: SHANKS COMMENCES

  by Robert Lopresti

  “You write detective stories, don't you?” said the police officer.

  Leopold Longshanks's usual reply to that question was “Guilty,” but it seemed inappropriate tonight.

  “That's right.”

  They were seated on the top floor of the college library, outside the Special Collections Room. Through its glass walls Shanks saw half a dozen cops at work. They seemed wildly out of place in the chamber, which looked like a Victorian gentleman's study with rugs, overstuffed chairs, and wood-paneled walls.

  And lots and lots of bookcases.

  There were two doors in the back wall. Shanks knew that one led to a climate-controlled vault for manuscripts. The other revealed the office of Dr. Ezra Rosetti, the director of Special Collections. That's where most of the police officers were going, because that's where the body had been found.

  “Mr. Longshanks?” the cop repeated. His name was Lieutenant Steinbock.

  “I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.”

  “I said I hope you aren't one of those writers who think you can help the police solve crimes.”

  “God forbid.”

  “I'm glad to hear that.”

  “I just make things up. I don't know anything about solving real crimes.”

  “Excellent.” Steinbock opened his notebook.

  “I do have one question, though,” said Shanks. “Where are my books?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I left a dozen of my novels sitting on the corner of that desk.” He pointed through the glass. There was nothing on the big antique desk now except a phone and a blotter. “So who moved them?”

  Steinbock frowned. He stood up and walked toward the door, muttering something under his breath. Shanks couldn't hear what he said, but he suspected it wasn't an expression of gratitude.

  “What's missing exactly?”

  “Twelve hardcover novels. All written by me.”

  He watched as Steinbock walked into the room and spoke to one of the uniformed cops.

  Shanks sighed. It was going to be a long night.

  The lieutenant resumed his seat. “We'll look for your books. Now, you'd better start at the beginning.”

  “Really?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The current wisdom in writing fiction is to start in the middle, where things get interesting, and then go back to fill in whatever seems necessary.”

  The detective seemed to be at a loss for words, but his glare spoke volumes.

  “Never mind,” said Shanks. “The beginning it is. Two years ago I received a letter from Calvin Floyd.”

  “The librarian.”

  “Director of the college library, yes. One of my novels won an award, and he sent congratulations on behalf of my alma mater. We exchanged quite a few e-mails and eventually he called to talk about my future plans.”

  * * * *

  “What do you mean, I'm without a shoe?” Shanks had asked. He looked down to his office carpet where a rather nice pair of brown loafers covered his argyles.

  “I said you were without issue," said Floyd, over the phone.

  “Oh, I've got plenty of issues.”

  Floyd sighed. His voice was high-pitched but pleasant. “Now, you're teasing me. I mean you and your wife have no children, so I'm wondering if you have decided where you will leave your manuscripts and other papers. Future generations of readers and scholars will want to study them.”

  That was a shock.
Shanks had more or less assumed that he and Cora would live beyond the end of literacy, which might be next Tuesday the way things seemed to be going.

  To his surprise, Cora had thought it was a fine idea. “If the college wants to cart some of your papers out of here when you're gone, that's some junk I won't have to deal with.”

  “Maybe I could arrange for them to cart me off, as well.”

  “Now, that would be a full-service institution. Seriously, Shanks, this is a chance to be honored now and honored later, too. You've earned it. What's the downside?”

  Well, the obvious one was that it would allow his literary remains to be poked with a stick by any future grad student with time on his hands and a desire to prove Leopold Longshanks's work had been inspired by Oedipal issues, alcoholism, or fear of crabgrass.

  On the other hand, it might be fun to plant a few jokers in the deck. For example, he could fake some evidence that his recent noir extravaganza, Bloodsoaked, had been inspired by the novels of Emily Bronte. Let future professors ponder that one.

  * * * *

  “So that's why you're here?” asked Lieutenant Steinbock. “To deliver your papers?”

  “Well, most of them won't come until after I die. But we signed the formal agreement last fall and the college invited me to be the commencement speaker. The dozen novels were sort of a down payment.”

  “And when exactly did Mr. Floyd tell you who would actually control your papers?”

  “You mean the head of Special Collections,” Shanks said, casting a glance at the cops in the glass room. “Not until I got to campus this morning.”

  “So you didn't know your old enemy would be in charge of your legacy?”

  “Wow,” said Shanks, raising a bushy eyebrow. “I'm trying to figure out how many things are wrong with that sentence. My legacy, as you call it, lies in my published works. My rough drafts and grocery lists are only interesting, if at all, because of the actual books. And anyway, Dr. Rosetti wasn't my enemy.”

  “What would you call him?”

  “A former professor. The worst thing he ever did was give me a D.”

  “In Creative Writing, I understand. That must have hurt for a future writer.”

  “Actually, when I took his course I was hoping to be a trumpet player. But let's assume I was outraged. Wouldn't you say that making a living as an author all these years was revenge enough? I hardly needed to. May I ask how he was killed?”

  “Letter opener to the throat, Mr. Longshanks. How did you feel when you found out he was going to be in charge of your papers?”

  “Astonished, mostly. I graduated about thirty years ago. I had assumed that most of my old professors had gone to their rewards by now, or at least to Florida.”

  * * * *

  “Dr. Rosetti says the snowy winters here are good for him,” Calvin Floyd had explained. Shanks and Cora were in the library director's office, having just had a tour of the campus. The librarian looked a bit grim as he told them this, as if it were regrettable news.

  Shanks thought about what it must be like to be Rosetti's boss. He shuddered.

  “I'm surprised he's working in here. He's not a librarian, is he?”

  “Oh my, no.” Floyd spoke with uncharacteristic force. He was a thin man, and could could seem a little vague until he started talking about books. Or, as it turned out, Rosetti. “His doctorate is in English. But he's been a collector of rare books for most of his life, and—”

  “He donated them to the college,” Cora guessed.

  “Some of them.”

  With strings attached, Shanks thought. Rosetti controls Special Collections or they don't get more of his treasures. You almost had to admire the old scoundrel.

  “Welcome, Mr. Longshanks!” The newcomer was a bright-eyed young woman. “What a pleasure to meet you at last. I heard you speak at a mystery convention a few years ago. I'm Dina Lundin.”

  “Mr. Floyd mentioned you,” Shanks said. “You teach a course on mysteries, don't you?”

  “When my boss lets me.” She stepped aside and Shanks realized a man had been standing behind her. The department head was almost as short and round as one of Santa's elves, and even had a gray beard.

  “Richard Upton. It's a pleasure.”

  The four of them shook hands. “Well, thanks for letting Dina teach mysteries.”

  “There's a price,” she said, cheerfully. “I have to do two sections of freshman comp for every fun course.”

  “Then I truly appreciate your sacrifice,” said Shanks.

  “Dina's great with the frosh,” said Upton. “Personally, I can't stand the little monsters.”

  Floyd had been talking on the phone. Now he hung up with the look of a man trying to conceal annoyance. “Excuse me, everyone. President Warren has taken our other guests directly to the Special Collections Room, so we had better join them.”

  Floyd marched out into the main floor of the library and the rest of the group followed. An assistant hurried up to the director and they talked together as they walked.

  Shanks heard the two professors talking behind him. “Think it was an accident?” asked Upton.

  “Nope,” said Lundin.

  “What do you mean?” asked Cora.

  Upton laughed. “Our president gravitates toward power. When she escorts wealthy donors to the library it never occurred to her to bring them to Cal.”

  “You mean Rosetti runs the library?” asked Shanks.

  “No. He has no desire to. He just wants to run Special Collections as his own personal kingdom, and since that's the part alumni and donors care about—”

  “It's all the president cares about,” Cora finished. “Sounds like the tail wagging the dog.”

  “I bought a bottle of rare champagne years ago,” Upton said. “I was saving it for my fiftieth wedding anniversary. The day Ezra Rosetti retired from my department I popped the cork.”

  “Didn't that annoy your wife?”

  “It was her idea. She said my not being Rossetti's boss would add years to our marriage.”

  Floyd was waiting for them beside the elevator. “Lots of preparations for tonight's dinner,” he said apologetically.

  Why is the librarian in charge of the dinner, Shanks wondered. Maybe they needed some cookbooks.

  * * * *

  “So you came up here,” said Lieutenant Steinbock. He wasn't drumming his fingers on the table, but looked like he might start at any moment.

  “Correct,” said Shanks. “President Warren was already in the Special Collections Room with the other two guests.”

  The cop looked at his notes. “That would be Mrs. Velma Preese and Mr. Grey G. Johnson, the other speakers.”

  “They aren't making speeches. They're just getting honorary degrees.”

  “Yeah? In what?”

  “It doesn't matter much. Honorary degrees are for achievement, not for knowing anything.”

  “So what did they achieve, exactly?”

  “As I understand it, money.”

  * * * *

  Velma Preese was a gray-haired, confused-looking woman in her sixties. Upton had explained that her husband was an alumnus of the college who had left the school a lot of rare books in his will.

  “Walter hardly ever mentioned this place,” she had explained. “He just complained about the dunning letters they sent every year.”

  President Janice Warren—a bright-eyed politician in her early fifties—tried to hide her amusement. “I don't think our Development Office would be happy to hear the alumni newsletter described in quite that way. I must remember to tell them.”

  Grey G. Johnson was a wealthy alum in his sixties who had decided to make his gift while he was still alive and kicking. He was paying for a new gym.

  “Why is it always a gym?” Cora had muttered. “Do all rich men have fond memories of playing football?”

  “More likely,” said Shanks, “they have grim memories of being pushed around by football players.”

  “
Never spent much time in the library,” Johnson was saying. He was tall and distinguished looking with a smug air. “The business courses didn't require much more reading than the textbooks, thank God. I'm not much of a bookworm.”

  “And how have you made your money?” Cora asked.

  “In money, mostly. I finance start-up companies. It's gambling, but better odds then the casinos.”

  “So we're honoring three businessmen this year,” said a new voice.

  It sent a chill down Shanks's spine. Dr. Ezra Rosetti had appeared from his private office.

  He looked, as Cora put it later, like a grumpy Albert Einstein: wild gray hair, a sweater with elbow patches, and a perpetual scowl.

  Shanks realized with a shock that, except for the graying hair, the man hadn't changed a bit. It must be true that some people don't get wrinkles, they give them.

  * * * *

  “How did Professor Rosetti get along with everyone?” Steinbock asked.

  “Let's see,” said Shanks. “He fawned over Mrs. Preese, talking about what a wonderful gift her husband had made to the collection.” Not to the library, or the college, Shanks had noted. “Apparently, the books were early American literature and quite valuable. He was excited about them.”

  “How did he feel about your contribution?”

  Shanks paused. “I'm trying to decide between scorn and contempt."

  * * * *

  “The famous Mr. Longshanks,” Rosetti had said, or more accurately, sneered. “Have you learned the difference yet between preterit and past perfect?”

  “I practice constantly.” What would annoy you most? Probably if I look amused. Shanks smiled.

  “That's right,” said Upton. “You took a course from Dr. Rosetti, didn't you?”

  “Creative Writing,” said Shanks. “He gave me a D.”

  President Warren laughed. “Isn't it nice when a student turns out better than we expect?”

  “It must be,” said Rosetti.

  “What do you mean about three businessmen?” asked Cora.