Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box Read online

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  INTRODUCTION

  BY BRAD MELTZER

  It won’t hurt,” they told me.

  Right there, I was skeptical. Sure, the folks at the Mystery Writers of America seem like nice people. And they like mysteries (which is extra nice). But when they walked in with those nice smiles and asked me to be the editor of this year’s MWA anthology, I knew I was in for some pain—especially when they said it’d be easy.

  But then the MWA folks added that one key phrase that every writer longs to hear: “We’ll do all the work for you.”

  See how tricky these bastards are?

  My reaction was instantaneous: “I’m in.”

  Then, in a bit of verbal fine print, they delivered the final piece of news: “You have to invite ten of your friends to write stories.”

  Wait. So beyond all this heavy lifting I don’t have to do, I also get to work with ten dear friends, all of whom will use their gorgeous talents to make me look good?

  “Count me in. I’ll do your next thirty anthologies.”

  And so, this book was born. The theme would be a mystery box. What’s in the box? That was for our writers to decide: a long-lost gun, a personal secret, or Gwyneth Paltrow’s head (just like in Seven). The box could be real (like the gun), or metaphoric (like their heart). But they had to use a box.

  All I needed after that were friends—the real secret ingredient—whose talents I have admired for years. Let me say it as clearly as I can: I love every writer in this book. And I owe every writer in this book. They are the ones who solved and then shared their secrets. But what I appreciate most is simply their friendship and generosity.

  So thank you to my dear friends Steve Berry, Jim Born, Jan Burke, Joe Finder, Laura Lippman, Katherine Neville, Karin Slaughter, Tom Rob Smith, R. L. Stine, and Charles Todd for volunteering and for sharing. I feel truly honored that each of you said yes. I’m thrilled to have each of you in my life. And I know every editor of these anthologies thinks they have the best group of writers. They are all wrong. We have the best. And that’s not even all.

  A huge thanks also goes to Tony Broadbent, Angela Gerst, Joseph Goodrich, Libby Fischer Hellmann, S. W. Hubbard, Mary Anne Kelly, C. E. Lawrence, R. T. Lawton, Catherine Mambretti, Stephen Ross, and Jonathan Stone for doing the hardest things of all: putting themselves out there and sharing their own secrets. To everyone reading this: Go buy all their books. Please.

  A special thank-you also goes to incredible miracle workers Barry Zeman of MWA and Larry Segriff of Tekno Books, who kept true to their promises and did all the real work. They are the reasons this book exists, and I thank them for their never-ending patience with me. And yes, it truly was painless.

  Special thanks also to all the judges who helped read the volumes of submissions: Peter Blauner, Wendy Hornsby, Annette Meyers, Kris Montee, and T. Jefferson Parker, all of them wonderful writers themselves. Thank you to my secret weapons in publishing: Mitch Hoffman, Lindsey Rose, Jamie Raab, and all my dear friends at Grand Central Publishing. Thank you to Noah Kuttler, who is the best. And finally, thank you to Cori, Jonas, Lila, and Theo, for being the secret in my own mystery box, and for always having faith.

  THE AMIABLE MISS EDITH MONTAGUE

  BY JAN BURKE

  The murder of my beloved great-aunt, Miss Edith Montague, always known in our small but enterprising town as a most amiable woman, came as a tremendous shock to her nearest and dearest.

  Since I am her only surviving heir, I suppose her nearest and dearest would be me. She was one of two children of the founder of Montague Manufacturing, my great-grandfather, the inventor Marcus Montague, for whom I was named in a shameless attempt by my parents to curry her favor. The other child, the ne’er-do-well from whom I am descended, squandered his portion of his inheritance and died destitute. An annual allotment from Aunt Edith allowed my parents to live fairly comfortably during their brief lives.

  The woman I called Aunt Edith (from the start, she gently told me she preferred this to “great-aunt”) was in complete control of the sizable Montague fortune.

  As her sole heir, I might have been placed in the awkward position of being suspect number one, if I hadn’t had an undisputed alibi on the night of her murder. At the time of her death, you see, I was having dinner with the chief of police.

  Occasionally fate makes up for all its cruel tricks by actually doing one a good turn. That one, however, was hardly enough to make up for the loss of Aunt Edith.

  She had taken me in after my parents died of typhoid fever—the illness apparently the result of hiring a rather unsanitary cook. Had my parents not sent me to boarding school, I probably would have met the same destiny. This was perhaps the only reason I ever had to be grateful for being sent to the Billingsfield Academy, although at the time I probably would have chosen typhoid fever over the torments meted out by the headmaster and my classmates. Aunt Edith, nearly the only relative who showed any concern for my welfare, rescued me from them.

  Another unmarried, wealthy lady of a certain age might have found the unexpected responsibility of raising a ten-year-old boy daunting, but Aunt Edith seemed overjoyed at the prospect. She brought me to live with her. Indeed, over the next fifteen years she gave me more kindness and attention than I had received from my own fun-loving but rather negligent parents.

  I said she was nearly the only relative, because I suppose I must give some credit to my somewhat misguided uncle Gilbert, whom I had never met. He was not actually my uncle, but some sort of cousin of my father. Aunt Edith told me he was her favorite relative, a salesman who traveled a great deal, and said it with a kind of twinkle in her eye that made me wonder things I dared not ask. He occasionally sent odd packages—never twice from the same address—with terse notes. In general, the contents were designed to ensure that although I was being raised by a maiden aunt, I was exposed to masculine entertainments. As I aged, they grew increasingly risqué.

  He should have known that Aunt Edith was not the type to tie a boy to her apron strings, and indeed, she made sure I met and made friends with other males. If it was Uncle Gilbert who sent the pair of stilts, it was Aunt Edith who encouraged me to give them a try and, as in other areas of my life, cheered my successes and patched me up after my failures. Uncle Gilbert might send me packets of French postcards, but it was she who arranged for a male friend to discuss the facts of life with me in a no-nonsense fashion. I always had the suspicion she would have done so herself, but she rightly assumed I would have been mortified to hear of such things from her.

  In almost every other sort of life lesson, she was my guiding light, an example I tried to emulate. She was someone whose confidence in me steadied me enough to leave the past behind and look forward. I knew that in the natural course of things, she would most likely predecease me, but not this soon. And not in this horrible way.

  Jenksville is normally a peaceful community. Our entire police force consists of fifteen individuals. So the evening of Wednesday, May third, the night she was murdered, it did not
take the officer sent by our single detective very long to locate the detective’s uncle, Chief Irons, who was enjoying a good cigar and a fine brandy at Jenksville’s best restaurant. The other fourteen members of the force knew where we were, because throughout the day, they had been hopeful that at some point during that dinner, I would hand the chief a check from my aunt, a donation large enough to help the department buy its first automobile. As usual, she did not seek publicity for her generosity. I’m sure Chief Irons was secretly relieved to have the check in hand before events took our minds away from dinner.

  Some hours later I stood motionless in the center of the room in which Aunt Edith had died, staring at disorder that was entirely foreign to it, trying not to look at the bloodstained carpet. It was a room she had used as a study, the place where she kept her business records, wrote correspondence, made telephone calls, held committee meetings, and read quietly before the fireplace.

  One end of the room was lined in bookshelves, now in some disarray. Detective Mortimer Osburn was at the opposite side, leaning his ample posterior against the handsome tiger maple desk where Aunt Edith had spent part of each day.

  The clock over the elaborately carved mantel had run down, and so had I, although Detective Osburn seemed as oblivious of this fact as he was of any possible clues.

  “So, to review,” he said, not for the first time, “your cook and housekeeper, Mrs. McCray, who does not reside on the premises, has worked here for some time?”

  “She has spent nearly twenty years working for my aunt, and is entirely trustworthy. She is so distraught that I have given her the week off, but she and her husband live nearby—in a home my aunt bought for her as a wedding present—and I’m sure she would be happy to answer any questions you may have for her.”

  “No, no, that’s all right—known her all my life. In fact, I helped her when she fell and broke her arm a few months ago.”

  “Yes, my aunt told me about that. She was grateful for your assistance. And I’m sure you know Mrs. McCray has recovered.”

  He shifted his weight. “As for Mrs. McCray, officially, you see, I have to ask these questions.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Surely only once?”

  His ears grew red, and he consulted his notes again, muttering something about never knowing “what might occur to a person on reexamination.” He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, Mrs. McCray, who does not reside on the premises, admitted four individuals into the home at seven this evening.”

  I took out my pocket watch. “As of an hour ago, yesterday evening.”

  “Yes, well, I apologize, Mr. Montague, I do realize it is very late, but I want to make sure I have all of this straight before I leave. Last time, I promise, then I’ll be on my way. I wouldn’t want you to feel it necessary to hire outside help.”

  At last I saw what this dithering and delay was all about. Clorinda.

  For a moment I considered reassuring Osburn that the odds of Clorinda Ainsbury’s involving herself in this case were remote indeed. Instead I wound my watch, returned it to my vest, and waited for the fourth recitation of the few facts at Osburn’s disposal.

  Osburn went back to his notes.

  “Mrs. McCray left not long after she admitted Mrs. Wainwright, Mr. Dillon, Miss Freedman, and Mrs. Conrad. All were expected as visitors today.”

  “It was a meeting of the Jenksville Opera Society.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—just the four of them. Executive committee?”

  “The entire society.”

  Osburn raised his brows.

  “My aunt did not intend to perform. If you heard the other four sing, you’d understand why it has been of limited interest to their fellow citizens.”

  Osburn snorted a laugh, but I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Aunt Edith would never have said anything cutting about anyone of her acquaintance, a forbearance I found infinitely admirable and impossible to imitate. Whenever I had said as much to her, a sparkle would come into her eyes and she would smile sweetly. Then she would say that someday she would tell me the secret of her ability to hold her tongue, but in the meantime, she found my observations so amusing, she begged me not to withhold them from her. I don’t know if she really did find them amusing, but it was like Aunt Edith to never make one feel as if one were at fault.

  “Perhaps I haven’t a proper appreciation for their art,” I said to Osburn. “In any case, I cannot believe any of them would want to harm their patron.”

  “My unc—er, Chief Irons will find out soon enough.”

  Wisely, his uncle had decided to ask additional questions of the witnesses himself at the station. “My deepest sympathies, Marcus,” the chief said to me as he prepared to take his leave. “Your aunt was a fine woman who will be deeply missed.” He unthinkingly reached to pat the pocket in which he had placed the check, caught himself at it, then offered his condolences again. He left the house just after the coroner removed Aunt Edith’s body.

  Now, several hours later, Osburn scratched his head. “Truth is, sir, I can’t think of anyone in Jenksville who’d want to harm her. That’s why I’m sure it had to be a stranger. Some thief!”

  “There are many valuable items in this room. Why would a thief leave them behind?”

  “Something or someone scared him off.”

  I made no comment.

  “You left the house at seven-thirty?”

  “Yes, and as I’ve said, drove to the police station, where I met Chief Irons. I took him to dinner.”

  “Yes, of course. And you heard no arguing or anything of that sort?”

  “No. But the garage is at the back of the property, where the stables once were. I left through the back door, and didn’t walk past this room or interrupt the meeting to say good-bye.”

  I felt my throat tighten, then chided myself for wishing for something that could not change. I did not stop to say good-bye. I did not know… could not have known…

  “The Opera Society meeting lasted until eight-thirty,” Osburn said. “Then all four left together. Mr. Dillon drove the ladies home, then realized that he had left his notebook here and returned. That was at some time after nine, he said, and he was considering not disturbing your aunt at such an hour, until he saw the lights were still on. Then he noticed the front door was ajar and came in, and found—”

  “Yes. I heard him tell Chief Irons what happened after that.” I couldn’t bear another recitation of the story of Mr. Dillon’s discovery of my aunt’s body, lying before the hearth. She had apparently received a single, mighty blow to the back of her head as she stood in front of the fireplace. The police had arrived quickly, but she was already dead. The coroner believed she was killed instantly. She had not suffered, but that fact alone is not the healing comfort some seem to think it will be to the bereaved. A death in the family will teach you that people are capable of saying the damnedest things.

  “So the only thing that’s missing is a wooden box?” Osburn asked again.

  “I can’t be sure. I will need to put the room in order again, and attempt to do a complete survey, but so far, it seems to be the only thing that is gone. Whoever was in here apparently searched for it until he or she discovered the false bottom of that desk drawer.”

  Again I confirmed to him that the only thing missing was the large, locked wooden box in which my aunt had stored receipts, canceled checks, and old bills. The bank would be notified in the morning to be especially vigilant regarding forgeries or other problems with my aunt’s account, but I still could not see why someone alone in the house would overlook items in the other rooms, such as expensive jewelry, priceless works of art, and the silver pieces in the dining room. Even here in the study, in the very desk he had rooted through, a large sum of cash had been left behind. Why leave that and other valuable items in the desk and take only that box?

  Osburn hinted that it might be best if he remained to guard me, but this service I quickly declined. Eventually he l
eft.

  Although it was the very thing I had been hoping he would do for several hours, I found myself wanting even his obnoxious company not long after he was gone. Alone, I began to realize that his dull conversation had distanced me from my own thoughts and feelings.

  I was still in a state of shock, wishing I could find relief in tears but not really able to believe that my aunt was dead, let alone that someone had murdered her.

  I decided I could not face spending another moment in the study. I locked the front and back doors and ensured that the windows were latched. It was a warm evening, but I decided I would rather suffer heat than a return of the intruder.

  I reached my bedroom and was debating whether I should close my window, which was, after all, upstairs and at the back of the house, when I heard someone in the alley.

  I was frightened, but I have a pistol and have practiced with it faithfully. I took it and a flashlight from my nightstand and hurried outside.

  Someone was rummaging around near the garage.

  “Who’s there?” I called. “Come out now—I’m armed and won’t hesitate to shoot.”

  “Don’t shoot!” an all-too-familiar voice said.

  “Detective Osburn,” I said, lowering my weapon.

  “I was just making sure your back gate is secure.”

  “Detective Osburn, it is now after two in the morning. Go home. Now. I don’t mean to be rude, but really, if I see you around the house again, I will be forced to report to your uncle that you have been pestering me.”

  He left.

  I went back into the house, relocked the doors, went upstairs, put the gun and flashlight away, and undressed.

  I finally wept—of all the stupid things to set me off, it was donning an old pair of pajamas she had given me—and lay awake until exhaustion finally blessed me with a dreamless sleep.

  I awakened at dawn to find a body in my bed.

  This one was alive, warm, and naked.

  “Clorinda?” I said drowsily, thinking I must still be asleep and dreaming.