EQMM, June 2012 Read online

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  EQMM, June 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 photo from the Vetta Collection/istockphoto.com

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  CONTENTS

  Black Mask: ONE SOUL AT A TIME by Dana Cameron

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  Novelette: THE RITUAL OF MR. TARPLEE by Simon Brett

  Novelette: JENNY'S GHOST by David Dean

  Passport to Crime: ANNETTE WRITES A BALLADE by Judith Merchant

  Novelette: TUNNEL VISION by Gene Breaznell

  Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Steve Steinbock

  Novelette: MR. MONK AND THE TALKING CAR by Lee Goldberg

  Department of First Stories: WALKING OUT by Judith L. Shadford

  Novelette: TORT by Ken Bruen

  Novelette: THE RETURN OF THE MUMMY by Steven Saylor

  Novelette: ONE ANGRY JULIUS KATZ AND ELEVEN BEFUDDLED JURORS by Dave Zeltserman

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  Black Mask: ONE SOUL AT A TIME

  by Dana Cameron

  We begin this issue with a tale on the dark side, by this year's Malice Domestic toastmaster, Dana Cameron. Her role at the Malice convention—which honors traditional mysteries—grew out of her own fiction in the classical vein, of which we'll have an example later this year: a story from her archaeologist Emma Fielding series. Readers who want to experience the Massachusetts writer's full range won't want to miss the series that brought her Anthony and Macavity awards last year, either: the “Fangborn” urban fantasy stories.

  It was one line in the obituary that sent me driving north. That, and the thought of a wheelchair overturned on the bluff above a dark river.

  I don't usually read obituaries. This one popped up in my e-mail, from a sender I didn't recognize. The only other things in the message were an article describing Naomi Deagan's career and an address, a lawyer's office in Portland, Maine. Ordinarily, I would have deleted an e-mail from an unknown sender, or, if it wasn't recognizably spam, hunted down the sender to discuss his interest in me. But invoking the name Naomi Deagan compelled me, as surely as the sun goes down and gravity sucks.

  I called my manager and asked him to fill in for me at the bar for a few days. Then I called my boyfriend Joe and asked him to look after my dog while I was out of town. These three new responsibilities—"responsibilities” sounded better than “encumbrances"—I was learning to live with certainly did complicate life. It's hard, trying to balance personal connections with self-preservation.

  Joe asked if he should come with me. As a testament to him, I thought about it, for nearly ten seconds. I finally said no. This was on me.

  If Ms. Deagan couldn't go to the police herself, it wasn't for me to bring in strangers.

  It took me most of the next day to make the drive from Maryland to Portland. I made good time, but not conspicuously good time. We don't like the “c word” in my circles, and I couldn't afford any kind of official attention, not since I'd left my previous job under a cloud.

  The article said Naomi's death was an accident, that she'd wheeled herself too close to the edge of her property, and had apparently fallen into the river when she'd attempted to stand. The tone of the article suggested bad luck and pride on her part, which was a polite way to hint at suicide. Her body had been broken, tumbled around by the water, and trapped among the craggy rocks when the tide went out.

  If she hadn't died on impact . . .

  I turned that thought off.

  The last time I'd seen Naomi Deagan was about five years ago, when she'd visited D.C. Before her retirement, she'd been a professor of anthropology at a tony eastern college, and I'd been a student in several of her classes. I thought a lot about what I'd learned from her. She emphasized, over and over, how the world could be changed one soul at a time. One person could make a difference with the right choice, the correct action. She'd lit many candles against the darkness in her time. Hearing her, I had trusted her at a vulnerable moment in my life.

  Caught in an interminable traffic jam in Connecticut, I caught myself whistling under my breath. I'd missed being on my own, a solitary goal ahead of me. I liked the bar well enough, but this was familiar and comfortable. No one but me to worry about.

  Thanks to that snarl on I-95, I didn't make it to the Portland lawyer's office before closing. I found dinner at a small joint on Congress Street and a cheap room nearby. I was lucky; it was fall, but after the peak of leaf-peeping.

  When I showed up at the lawyer's building the next morning, I was shown to an office. Alison Spector was in her mid forties, her pale blond hair short and slicked back. She worked at a keyboard but turned off the monitor when I entered. The room and her suit were modern, almost to the point of severity: hard lines, sharp angles, stark contrasts in black and white. Two things added color to the office: the rows of leather-bound law books and her desk. The desk was old, a mahogany monster from the nineteenth century. There was a story there, that piece of history in this museum of modern art.

  When she turned to me, her blue-gray eyes were so arresting I at first thought they might have been the result of contacts or a medical condition. There was ice behind those eyes that put me on alert, the kind of ancient, glacial ice that cracked continents and drove humanity to the margins. In this, she reminded me of my former employer.

  “How can I help you, Jayne?”

  It was one of my names, anyway.

  Ms. Spector's voice was carefully modulated, but her polite words lacked warmth or concern; they were just the quickest way to get me to tell my story. She was cold, she was hard, and she was . . . odd. Part of it was the stillness in which she held herself. She didn't offer a hand, she didn't smile when I came in, none of the usual social niceties. Regular people move, fidget, have tells.

  Ms. Spector gave me the creeps, and I don't creep eas
y. But the name that summoned me was also a password to me. I should trust this woman.

  “I received an e-mail,” I said. “With Naomi Deagan's obituary and this address.”

  “And what does that mean to you?”

  I paused. She showed no surprise that a stranger had appeared to ask about an e-mail. “There's an error. ‘Last of seven sisters.’ She was an only child. She talked about it when she discussed family structures in class.”

  A slight nod. That was the right answer, and I was the correct recipient. I saw the lawyer relax, ever so slightly.

  “I'm sorry she's passed, but I haven't seen her in years. Why am I here?”

  “To receive this.” Ms. Spector reached into a drawer and removed an envelope. “I don't know what's in it. Occasionally, Naomi would come in and exchange one envelope for another.”

  She paused, and watched as I disappeared the envelope into my messenger bag. The envelope was heavy; something other than paper was inside. A key, maybe.

  “I don't believe her death was an accident. I saw her the day before she died. She was in the wheelchair, but looking forward to rehab and walking again. She had her cane with her as a reminder of her goal—can you describe that cane to me?”

  “She always had it with her. Dark wood, polished ebony, maybe. The end was sheathed in brass.”

  She nodded.

  “Why didn't you investigate if you thought she was killed?” I asked.

  Her pale lips compressed, fading to near invisibility. “There was no evidence for anything else. But you knew her, so you know as often as she rallied the campus to protest the war or started fund-raising for a local shelter, she'd look into things . . . other people wouldn't have dared to. At those times, she'd come in and leave instructions of what to do . . . if. There was a list of names, in rotation, one every week. I had instructions to send that e-mail to one of those names if she didn't show up the next week or if I thought there was something wrong about her death. I assume that's why she wanted you. To investigate.”

  I didn't say anything. I didn't want to speculate about what this woman knew about me, and my place on that rotating list.

  “Since she trusted you so, you may know what she thought you could do. I don't. I'd prefer to keep it that way. I'd prefer you keep as low profile as possible, but if you can't, please let me know.”

  She slid a card across the desk. It didn't match the ones on the receptionist's desk. No firm or address, just her name and number. “When you leave Naomi's house, please let me know. I'll take things from there.”

  “When I leave her house?”

  “Stay there, while you're here. Read what's in the envelope. Decide. Call me after . . . before you leave town.”

  There was something about her manner now, not quite a crack in her perfect self-control. She wanted something badly, and if she didn't get it, it would be the worse for someone.

  She knew Naomi Deagan, I guessed. “I really am sorry to hear about her death.” I thought carefully before I spoke next. “She was . . . an extraordinary person. She showed up at exactly the right time in my life.”

  Shortly before I should have graduated, my parents were killed. I was about to get myself into a world of trouble doing something about it, when on impulse, I stopped by her office to say goodbye. The advice she gave me that day saved my life. It also put me on the road to my first career, one I loved and was good at. It was possible that in that hour, she made me.

  “Many people could say the same thing,” Spector said. She spent the next moment choosing what she would say. I doubted she would tell me what she owed Naomi, but I was curious.

  “You know she never would have fallen,” she said finally. “She never would have been able to wheel herself off the path, so close to the edge. And if she'd decided it was her time, she wouldn't have chosen the river. You know this was no accident; she wasn't careless or silly.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Sort it out. Make it right.”

  I nodded. I don't take orders anymore, except for pitchers of beer. But this order came direct from Naomi Deagan.

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  I pulled up to the house, killed the engine, and opened the envelope. There was a key, as I'd expected, and alarm codes. I let myself in and looked around. I didn't know the place, and had never been here, but it reminded me of her office, when I'd first met her, twelve or so years ago. Photos everywhere. A chronology of her life in joyful disorder, memories treasured but not smothering. She hadn't always been an academic; she'd said after the U.S. Army had shown her the world in war, she needed to get to know it in peace. Naomi in army dress uniform; Naomi as a graduate student in anthropology, studying women's roles in many cultures; Naomi and her students abroad and at Wellesley. She'd always had a keen eye and a profound sense of justice, saying that when cultures created ways for women to act outside the law, it was often because they were beneath the law's notice.

  After a long time with the photos, I examined the rest of the envelope's contents. There were several typed sheets, including a list of three men's names, with addresses. A summary paragraph for each of them.

  She'd learned from whispered rumors and her own investigations the men had been preying on the migrant-worker community that went through Maine every year, raking blueberries, harvesting broccoli, picking apples. The men had been kidnapping young women and selling them, never more than one or two, but year after year. The migrant workers had little or no legal standing, perhaps not even the language to explain that their daughters and sisters hadn't just “gone on to the next farm.”

  Three men, three names. One had the farm and orchard and the connections with the migrant community. One ran the gas station on the edge of town and knew the comings and goings of everyone around. And with the last, I suddenly understood Naomi's circumspection and my role here: The last was the chief of police, who was diverting complaints from the victims’ families with lies or outright aggression.

  One of these men had probably killed Naomi, but they were all guilty. As Ms. Spector had said, I had to make it right.

  Naomi wouldn't have left this information behind if she could have gone through official channels. Not with the police chief involved. I couldn't go through official channels, either, not after my last, career-limiting dispute with my boss. The one with eyes like Spector's, the one who now believed I was dead.

  But Naomi wouldn't have gone after them or left this for me if each of these men hadn't earned himself a bullet. And I owed her everything.

  In the kitchen, I ran the tap for a while, waited for the water to get cold. I drank several glasses while I thought.

  I only had a few days. The less time I spent up here, the fewer traces I'd leave. I had to fly under the radar to honor the last request of a dead woman.

  The next day, I changed my appearance. I was going real-estate hunting, and needed to look the part. A digital camera, a prissy little notebook, a barn coat, and sensible shoes. I looked like any other tourist from “away” trying to dress like a local.

  I saw the police car outside the coffee shop in the center of town, and pulled up behind it. Feeding the meter, I could see in through the window. Chief of Police Bill Grafton was greeted by everyone who came in, but he sat by himself. Someone who liked the badge and the gun, but didn't mix with civilians, oil on top of water.

  I sat down with the real-estate section of the Portland Press-Herald in front of me, and began to listen as I circled mnemonics:

  Privacy—the distance between him and everyone else was significant. Spacious, with a large back deck—he was a big guy, mostly going to fat. Fixer-upper, needs some cosmetic work—he had a bad scratch on his cheek that looked a little infected, and he had dandruff. Gas and oil—well, he wasn't too careful about his hygiene or what he ordered to eat. It gave me a good picture of who he was, of how he might react.

  When he got up to leave, the waitress glared venomously after him. He hadn't paid, much less left a tip.

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* *

  I drove out to the gas station next. My map was all circled and covered with scribbles; there was a look of pretty confusion on my face. The attendant was a young guy, eager to help, but the name on his shirt didn't match the name on my list. It was only when I asked about an entirely fictitious house, recommended by an entirely fictitious friend, that he called the older guy, the owner, who'd lived here all his life. His was the right name—Hadlock—and I kept my smile genuine as he set me straight. He had a grizzled crew cut; he was short and stocky, built like a two-by-four and just as hard. Grease was embedded in his nails and calloused hands. I tried not to stare at the cast on his left leg, the bruises upside his cheek, and his cut lip. The marks were exactly as though he'd been struck with a narrow stick, perhaps a polished cane shod in brass.

  He directed me away from the road that was my next objective. He explained that property was owned by Ben Brody, who wasn't planning on selling. I must mean another road? Closer to the edge of town?

  I smiled, thanked him, then paid for my gas with cash, inside his office. I asked for the key to the ladies’ room, before my next stop.

  The Brody farm was off the beaten path. For this one, I took a much more elliptical approach, parking behind the farm and hiking in along a dirt fire road. No sense traipsing through the woods unless I had to, not during hunting season. I did a loop or two, with my birding glasses and notebook, and got the lay of the land. I missed Vera, my dog; she would have loved this kind of thing. Remembering Vera reminded me of Joe; I was surprised I missed him so much. That worried me. Other people complicate things.

  I saw two men, one younger, one older; father and son, a couple of string beans in worn-out coveralls. Brody Junior was unloading a load of fertilizer and boxes of Coleman fuel from several camping supply stores. They might be legitimately farming and planning on cooking outdoors, but with those ingredients, in those quantities, it suggested a sideline in meth production in addition to human trafficking. That reassured me about my objectives. They moved the materials to a shed away from the house. They had that much good sense, anyway; meth labs are dangerously volatile. I got a look inside the shed and shuddered. Stacks of ingredients—precursors, reagents, solvents, and catalysts in every home-grown form—lined the walls.