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  ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  May 2007

  Vol. 129, No. 5. Whole No. 789

  Dell Magazines

  475 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  Edition Copyright © 2007 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications

  Ellery Queen is a registered trademark of the Estate of Ellery Queen. All rights reserved worldwide.

  All stories in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine are fiction. Any similarities are coincidental.

  ISSN 0013-6328 published monthly except for double-issues of March/April and September/October.

  Cover illustration by Frederic Glass, courtesy of George Hagenauer.

  CONTENTS

  FICTION

  Jangle BY BRYNN BONNER

  The People in the Flat Across the Road BY NATASHA COOPER

  Boy Inside the Man BY SARAH WEINMAN

  Clara's Sacrifice BY J.F. FREEDMAN

  They Never Listen BY MICHAEL Z. LEWIN

  D'ya Hear Me? BY MICHAEL Z. LEWIN

  Swift Among the Pirates BY EDWARD D.HOCH

  Mother's Milk BY CHRIS SIMMS

  Don't You Hate Having Two Heads? BY CHRISTINE POULSON

  Pool Players Are Nice People BY WILLIAM BANKIER

  SPECIAL FEATURE

  EQMM Readers Award

  REVIEWS

  Blog Bytes BY ED GORMAN

  The Jury Box BY JON L. BREEN

  DEPARTMENT OF FIRST STORIES

  The Book Case BY DALE C. ANDREWS & KURT SERCU

  PASSPORT TO CRIME

  World Savings Day in Hamminkeln BY JURGEN EHLERS

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  JANGLE by Brynn Bonner

  THE PEOPLE IN THE FLAT ACROSS THE ROAD by Natasha Cooper

  BOY INSIDE THE MAN by Sarah Weinman

  BLOG BYTES by Ed Gorman

  CLARA'S SACRIFICE by J. F. Freedman

  THE BOOK CASE by Dale C. Andrews and Kurt Sercu

  THEY NEVER LISTEN by Michael Z. Lewin

  SWIFT AMONG THE PIRATES by Edward D. Hoch

  MOTHER'S MILK by Chris Simms

  DON'T YOU HATE HAVING TWO HEADS? by Christine Poulson

  PASSPORT TO CRIME: WORLD SAVINGS DAY IN HAMMINKELN by Jurgen Ehlers

  POOL PLAYERS ARE NICE PEOPLE by William Bankier

  2006 READERS AWARD

  THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  NEXT ISSUE...

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  JANGLE by Brynn Bonner

  Art by Laurie Harden

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  Robert L. Fish Award winner Brynn Bonner launches a new series this issue featuring amateur sleuth Session Seabolt, the owner of a vintage vinyl record store. “I think the record collecting/rock music backdrop will resonate with lots of us old hippies,” she says. The pseudonymous author lives in North Carolina and is currently at work on a mainstream literary novel. She's had several previous stories in EQMM.

  If this scene were unfolding in a movie I'd be the cynical chick in the third row muttering, “Oh, pul-leeze, give me a break” right about now. Things like this do not happen in real life. At least not to me.

  This was the most raggedy-assed garage sale I'd been to this month. The house was a ‘fifties-era ranch sitting on a flat lot, a For Sale sign planted whomper-jawed in a patch of mangy grass out front. The garage was brimming with all manner of worn-out flotsam and jetsam, some of which had been regurgitated onto rickety sawhorse tables in the driveway. It looked so sad I'd almost skipped it altogether.

  But now in the gray light inside the garage I stood frozen—awestruck by what I was holding in my hand. The noxious smells of used motor oil, insecticides, and mildew flooded my nostrils and I willed myself not to hyperventilate.

  I've been scouring garage sales and flea markets for years ferreting out good vinyl records. It's getting harder now that people have tipped to their value, but that just adds to the challenge. I've made some decent finds in my time, but I count the day a wild success if I snag a couple of LPs in a dollar bin that I can turn over for twenty bucks apiece. My dreams are modest. This was in another category altogether!

  I've been obsessed with re-cords since I was a kid. ‘Course, back then they weren't collectibles. They were the natural way to listen to music: as God intended—hisses, pops, and all. It makes me feel old to realize I'm in the cusp generation where CDs came along and took the humanity out of the experience, reducing those fragile, tactile grooves to a sterile string of ones and zeros.

  But twenty-nine isn't old. In fact it's pretty young to be on a second career. I used to be a respectable CPA, but I've recently come to own a vintage vinyl shop. Therefore I could legitimately claim it's just business for me to be out on weekends pawing through people's discards. But I'd be doing it anyway. It's a sickness, really, this collecting thing. Not that I'd ever take the cure.

  My hands shook as I tucked the album into the middle of the stack I had set aside and hugged them to my chest, hoping nobody had noticed my reaction.

  The homeowner was a nice middle-aged guy. He'd been chatting with me and I gave him a smile, trying not to look so dazed he'd take me for a pothead, which he might well have, considering the raft of ‘sixties psychedelic record jackets I was clutching.

  "Got you some good jangle, huh?” he said, pointing to the records.

  "What?” I asked, the word coming out an octave higher than I'd intended.

  "Jangle pop. That guitar sound,” the man said, tapping the copy of The Byrds’ Mr. Tambourine Man on the top of the stack. It was the 1971 pressing with the orange label. I could probably get four or five bucks for it—a good return on my dollar investment but chump change compared to what I had sandwiched in the stack.

  "Yeah,” I said, trying out the smile again. “I like jangle pop."

  He nodded. “Me too. Like to listen to it first thing in the day. You know, like Dylan said, ‘in the jingle-jangle morning.'” He sang the words.

  I nodded and stretched the smile wider, feeling a snake of guilt slithering up my spine. The man had no clue what he had. And I was about to plunk down a few crumpled dollar bills and walk out of here with a record I could get a thousand dollars for in a heartbeat—maybe more, maybe lots more. I wouldn't know what I really had until I could listen to it and authenticate it.

  But all was fair in love, war, and garage sales, right? He was selling; I was buying. I had nothing to feel guilty about. So why did I?

  Because I hate taking advantage of someone's ignorance, especially a nice guy like him. He was about Daddy's age, with a slight paunch, a hairline in full retreat, and a smile that made his eyes crinkle. I liked him, but then I'm predisposed to liking older men. I grew up with Daddy's bandmates always around and they all doted on me. And no, nothing hinky—ever. I'd trust any one of them with my very life.

  This guy had been talking bands and rock trivia as I flipped through his record collection. The albums were well cared for and he was obviously attached to them, but his wife was making him get rid of them, he told me with a grimace. Which made me wonder what kind of a shrew he'd married.

  "We're moving to a condo and she says they'll junk up the pla
ce. Anyhow, she's partial to country-and-western,” he said, pulling a face.

  I shook my head from side to side and gave him a sympathetic tsk.

  "Hey,” he said, “you got something to play those on? There's a nice little turntable over there. And some speakers, too."

  I opened my mouth to tell him I had a setup that probably cost more than his car, but thought better of it. “Yes, I've got my daddy's old stereo with a turntable,” I said, which was true. Of course, full disclosure would have meant telling him my father was Sonny Seabolt, the former lead guitarist for Copper Hill and one of the pickiest men on the planet when it came to sound reproduction. But why go there?

  "Well, that's good then,” he said, his blue eyes getting a faraway look. “I was just kind of hoping that turntable would go to somebody who'd actually use it and groove on it like I did back in the day, listening to these.” He ran a hand over the ridged tops of the records still in the crate and let out a wistful sigh.

  Geez, he was killing me.

  "Okay,” I said, “let me take a look."

  The receiver was a piece of junk and the speakers were a step above tin cans, but the turntable wasn't half bad. I looked at the ten-dollar sticker—way underpriced. The speakers, on the other hand, were ten apiece and the receiver fifteen. Highway robbery. But who was I to point a finger?

  "Let me think about it,” I told him, even though I already knew I'd buy the stuff just to assuage my guilt. I'd keep the turntable and junk the rest.

  I noticed two women looking at an iridescent glass bowl—the kind you arrange fruit in. Decorator stuff. I pegged the women as what my friend Dave calls “glassies.” They're at every flea market bird-dogging Depression glass, milk glass, crystal, and other things that shatter. I saw these two look at one another, their postures stiffening. They looked like twin meerkats. They had an earnest whispered conversation, snatched up the bowl, and headed for the rickety card table where the wife was ringing up sales.

  She was an icicle of a woman, narrow and brittle—and obviously cold since she was making her husband get rid of his vinyl. As my daddy might say, that's pure-d, double-damn cold.

  She eyed the two glassies, then peeled off the masking-tape sticker with her acrylic talons. “This isn't for sale,” she said, setting the bowl carefully on the floor against the wall behind her.

  "But it had a price on it,” one of the women protested. She was a slender Junior League type with a hundred-dollar highlighting job and I'd bet she was accustomed to getting what she wanted when she revved up that high-decibel whine.

  "Mistake,” the woman said, her mouth turning down at the corners as if it might melt right off her face like something in a Dali painting. “Wasn't supposed to be out here,” she said. “That was my mama's and I wouldn't part with it for the world.” Her drawn-on eyebrows migrated defiantly north on her forehead until it looked like they should have had a sign beneath them announcing umpteen million burgers sold.

  The way I figured it, that precious bowl would be at the antique appraiser's by the end of the week. Be cool, I warned myself, this woman's got radar. I browsed the table of knickknacks pretending to consider each item, but the records clutched to my chest felt like they were going to catch fire if I didn't get out of there soon. I picked up a ceramic dish with a chip in the rim and a best-selling thriller so the records wouldn't get too much scrutiny and headed for the table.

  One of the big-hat country singers was crooning away on a stereo inside the house. I didn't recognize the song—something about the sun. I like a little Johnny Cash now and again, and some days nobody but Willie or Waylon will cure what's ailing me, but the current crop doesn't do it for me, so I don't keep up much on country.

  "Hi there,” I said, real friendly, as I started digging in my bag for cash.

  The woman didn't answer. She picked up the dish and studied the sticker, punching with long skinny fingers on a small calculator. She counted the records—twice—and punched some more, then slung words at me. “Eleven seventy-five. You want a bag?"

  She was overcharging me by three dollars and I didn't think it was accidental, but the less attention I drew the better, so I decided to let it go. I had my money ready, but when I looked up, the man was standing behind his wife looking all sad-eyed as he wiped the dustcover of the turntable with a cloth.

  "You know, I think I'll take that stereo equipment too. Could you box it up for me?” I asked.

  "Sure thing,” he answered, perking up.

  "Bring it all over here and let me get the prices off first. That's your old set, right?” the woman said, her voice smoker-low and gravelly.

  "Yep,” he answered, and heaved a sigh. “Give her the whole shebang for thirty, Alma."

  "Price that's on ‘em's what they cost, Hank,” Alma answered, snipping off the end of each word like she was pinching off the heads of flowers.

  Hank looked at me and pursed his lips, giving me an apologetic shrug. I shrugged back to let him know I appreciated the try.

  "Hey,” I said cheerfully, looking from one to the other. “If you want to make me a good price, I might be interested in taking all the rest of the records off your hands."

  Hank smiled broadly, but didn't get a word out.

  "Price that's on them is what they cost,” Alma said again, her voice flat. “See that?” She lifted a skeletal arm toward the wall of the garage behind her. The handmade sign read NO CHECKS, NO HAGGLING, NO RETURNS. ALL SALES FINAL. She swiped her hand in the air as if I didn't know to read from left to right. I could have sworn I heard her bones clattering as she put her arm back down on the table.

  My guilt was now completely purged. “Okay,” I said, trying to keep a Cheshire-cat grin off my face. “That'll be it, then."

  Hank carried the stereo to my car for me. “I was watching, you picked some great records,” he said, nodding at my bag. “I worked at a record store when I was a kid and half my paycheck went right back to the store every week. I always had the latest releases. You got some good ones."

  A fellow vinyl junkie. How could I do this to him? But I steeled myself with a glance at his witch of a wife and climbed behind the wheel of my getaway vehicle.

  I pulled over and parked as soon as I was around the first corner. I wiped my hands on my jean legs and carefully pulled out the gem, holding my breath.

  The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, mono, CL-1986, near mint. Hank may not have been house-proud, but he was very particular with his records, God love him. The vinyl was glossy and the label crisp. The spindle hole was unbruised. The jacket's colors were still vibrant and it had been stored vertical so no ring wear, that telltale sign that records have been stacked atop one another so the record embosses an impression into the cover. Only a tiny seam split in the bottom not even an inch long. Now the only question was, what was on the vinyl.

  There are numerous permutations of this album. Its legend began back in ‘sixty-three when Dylan walked out on a scheduled Ed Sullivan Show appearance because they wouldn't let him sing the anti-Red Scare song from this album that he had auditioned. Shortly afterwards either the record company, or maybe Dylan himself—the details are lost to the vagaries of time—pulled the album and scrubbed four tracks, including “Talkin’ John Birch Blues,” the song that had caused the flap. A few of the records that were already stamped got mingled in with the new release and labels and jackets got jumbled. All are valuable. Some are very valuable.

  "Yes, indeed. I do like me some jangle,” I said softly as I placed the record carefully back in the bag.

  I had a hard time keeping to the speed limit as I drove back to Session's Records and Music. The store's unapologetically named for me, Session Seabolt. My mother gave me the name to spite my father, who was away doing session work when I was born. Shortly after that she upped the ante by packing all her possessions into the back of her Thunderbird and driving out into the hot August night without a backward glance, leaving me and Sonny to find our own way in the world.

  Th
ere are stories of children raised by wolves. I was raised by a rock-and-roll band. I'm not sure it was any more civilized, but in the end I turned out okay.

  My life revolves around this record store now, but not long ago I was a responsible young professional. I even had a mortgage. The vanilla lifestyle was my cockeyed way of rebelling against my rock-star father, I guess.

  But then Uncle Eddie died and left me some money. Eddie was Copper Hill's bass player and a lifelong friend of Daddy's. They'd been through a lot together and were close as brothers, which wasn't an easy thing in their day and time since Eddie was black as midnight and Daddy is fish-belly white.

  Eddie was like a second father to me and he'd known it was my dream since I was a kid to someday own a record store. So he left me the money—with the life-altering stipulation that I had to use it to get a store up and turning a profit within a year or else the money would all revert to the state Republican Party. Uncle Eddie always did know how to push my buttons.

  The shop is right in the heart of the State U campus here in Raleigh. I run it with the help of my small cadre of part-time employees. Bliss Bynum is a college sophomore who yearns to be tragic and brooding, but despite her full Goth regalia her sunny disposition puts the lie to it. D. J. Rives looks like a teenage skate rat, but he's actually an M.B.A. grad student. And Tenpenny Patterson is a twenty-something chameleon whose persona changes daily depending on which of his five bands he's playing with that night.

  And finally there's Dave Burgess. Dave's an odd duck with a hazy background, but he knows things. He's my tenant, my Internet guy, my one-man security system, and my best friend. He's older than me and treats me like his naive little sister when I let him get away with it. He lives in an apartment he renovated in the basement of the shop. I live in an apartment above the shop and rent out my house to keep the operation lean, so I'm literally living and breathing records. And that's just fine with me.

  I parked in the alley and went in the back door hoping someone was around who'd appreciate my coup. I spotted Bliss and Tenpenny talking to a small cluster of regulars at the Ultimate Band Board. This gimmick had been Tenpenny's idea and it's a popular feature. There's a weekly drawing for the privilege of posting the ultimate band lineup. People often pop into the store just to get into a yap session about what's up on the board—and sometimes they actually buy something.