Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 Read online

  FICTION

  Saturday, September 1, 2012

  DEATH OF A DRAMA QUEEN

  by Doug Allyn

  Doug Allyn’s 2011 story “A Penny for the Boatman” was a standout not only for EQMM readers, who awarded it second place in the 2011 Readers Award vote, but for members of the Short Mystery Fiction...

  GYMNOPÉDIE NO. 1

  by Susan Lanigan

  The short fiction of Irish author Susan Lanigan has appeared in a variety of publications, including The Stinging Fly, Southword, The Sunday Tribune, the Irish Independent, and The Mayo News. She has...

  SKYLER HOBBS AND THE GARDEN GNOME BANDIT

  by Evan Lewis

  Evan Lewis’s story “Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man,” which appeared in our Department of First Stories in February 2010, won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for best short story by a new writer. Since then, the Oregon writer’s work has appeared in the Western anthology A Fistful of Legends, in...

  THE MUSE

  by Jonathan Santlofer

  Author of five crime novels, including Anatomy of Fear, which won the 2008 Nero Wolfe Award, Jonathan Santlofer has also appeared (as editor, contributor, and illustrator) in several anthologies....

  A PATH TO SOMEWHERE

  by Lou Manfredo

  Lou Manfredo began his Gus Oliver series in EQMM with the August 2009 story “Central Islin, U.S.A.” and continued it with January 2012’s “Home of the Brave.” This new episode brings in characters from his non-series 2006 story “The Alimony Prison.” In it, Oliver is presented with a case involving...

  FINAL VINYL

  by Brynn Bonner

  Brynn Bonner is the pseudonym of a North Carolina writer who debuted in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in 1998 with the Robert L. Fish Award-winning story “Clarity.” She has since been a regular contributor to EQMM. This new story brings back the protagonist of 2007’s “Jangle,” vinyl record...

  DARKLING

  by Val McDermid

  Val McDermid has become a bestselling author through books like the recent The Retribution (2011), in which crime profiler Tony Hill and Chief Inspector Carol Jordan are pitted against a serial killer. PW said of the book: “Superb. . . . The emotional wedge that the sadistic Jacko is able to drive...

  THE MISPLACED PERSON

  by Tom Tolnay

  Tom Tolnay describes himself as a short-fiction devotee and says he reads more than 200 short stories a year for pleasure. His own short stories have been published in widely different types of...

  AFTER CANA

  by Terence Faherty

  Owen Keane, Terence Faherty’s first series character and protagonist of his debut novel Deadstick, has appeared in EQMM a number of times over the years, always in thought-provoking cases. In...

  TIME FOR A CHANGE

  by Robert Barnard

  A Cartier Diamond Dagger Award winner for lifetime achievement, Robert Barnard has a devoted following on both sides of the Atlantic. In the U. S., he has been honored with the Nero Wolfe, Agatha, and Macavity awards, and he is a seven-time nominee for the Edgar (three times for stories in EQMM)....

  LAST LAUGH

  by Michael Z. Lewin

  Michael Z. Lewin is a longtime contributor to EQMM and AHMM, and his short stories appear in many other publications as well. We congratulate him on his recent nomination from the International Thriller Writers for best story of 2011 for “Anything to Win” (The Strand). Another bit of news related...

  CHAMPAWAT

  by Lia Matera

  Author of a dozen contemporary crime novels published to rave reviews and the winner of a Best Short Story Shamus Award, Lia Matera has now shown that her light shines equally bright in the realm of...

  BLACK MASK

  Next Article

  FICTION

  DEATH OF A DRAMA QUEEN

  by Doug Allyn

  Art by Mark Evans

  Doug Allyn’s 2011 story “A Penny for the Boatman” was a standout not only for EQMM readers, who awarded it second place in the 2011 Readers Award vote, but for members of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, who nominated the story for a best novella Derringer Award. In December of 2011, for the first time, the Michigan author made one of his published short stories available in a stand-alone Kindle edition (see “The Christmas Mitzvah”).

  “I’m pregnant,” Sherry said.

  The background noise in the restaurant suddenly seemed to fade a bit. I began doing the math in my head . . . then stopped. It had been far too long.

  “Well?” she prompted. “Say something.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “Or not. Which is it?”

  “I’m still working that part out.” She looked away, glancing around the crowded dining room. The Jury’s Inn is a block from Hauser Center, the police station where I work. As a local TV reporter, Sherry spends a lot of time here. Everywhere she looked, people would smile at her and nod. She’s a petite blonde, strikingly attractive, and a northern Michigan celebrity.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  “More than one. The biggest is my boss. Jack Milano.”

  “The station manager? What about him?”

  “He’s . . . every ambitious girl’s mistake, Dylan. We were at a convention, we were both a little buzzed and got carried away. He’s tried to follow up on it since, to make more of it than it was, but he’s married.”

  “Have you told him about your situation?”

  “I dropped it on him as soon as I found out,” she said, with the imp’s grin I remembered all too well. “I was hoping it would scare him off.”

  “Did it?”

  “I wish.” She sighed. “Instead, he started blathering about leaving his wife, starting a new life together. This could be a total disaster for me, Dylan. The network is cutting back. If it gets out that Jack and I were involved, New York would fire us both.”

  “That is a problem.”

  “And not the only one,” she said.

  “Rob Gilchrist,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Rumor has it you’ve been seeing Rob.”

  “Are you keeping tabs on me, LaCrosse? I’m flattered.”

  “Valhalla’s a small town. People talk. And Rob is a major catch.”

  “Now you’re being snide.”

  “No, I mean it. You always wanted to be on top of the heap. The Gilchrists are old money. Lumber mills, paper mills, you name it, they own it.”

  “My God, do you really think I’m that shallow?”

  I almost said yes, but didn’t want to start an argument. Fighting with Sherry is no fun at all. She’s bright and perceptive, with a reporter’s instinct for the jugular. Her gibes can pierce you to the bone. She’s always sorry after a spat, always apologizes with tears, makeup sex, or both. But afterward, at three in the morning, the barbs fester under your skin like snakebites. Because they’re at least partly true.

  “Okay, how can I help, Sherry?” I asked.

  “I need some advice, Dylan.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because we may be over, love, but I think you still care about me a little. And I trust you. You were always terrific at keeping secrets. Especially your own. So? Can you help me out here? What should I do?”

  “About Rob?”

  “No, about my situation.”

  “Ah.” I sipped my coffee, considering that one for a moment. For a split second it occurred to me she might be probing my feelings, hoping to restart our affair. Not likely. She said it herself. We were over. A part of me still regretted that.

  “I know how you feel about your family, Dylan,” she said, leaning in, lowering her voice. “
They’re terrific. But I grew up in foster care. And it wasn’t wonderful. Being a mother is an awesome responsibility. My mom, whoever she was, obviously wasn’t wired for it. Nor am I.”

  “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

  “I still want to know what you think. The truth.”

  “Fair enough. I think that particular decision belongs to the woman who has to make it. Have you told the father?”

  “No.”

  There was something in her tone.

  “Do you know who . . . ?” I asked.

  “No.” She shook her head miserably. “And don’t get all judgmental on me, LaCrosse.”

  “I’m the last one who could throw stones, Sherry. But if you’re asking for advice, I think that should be your next move. You need to know.”

  “Why?” she asked. “What’s the difference?”

  “If it’s Rob, that’ll close the books on your boss, Milano . . . if that’s what you want. And it might convince Rob to marry you. If that’s what you want. And if you decide to lie—”

  “Lie? About a thing like this? My God, Dylan, what kind of person do you think I am?”

  “You wanted advice.”

  “I also asked you a question.”

  “And I’m saying that in affairs of the heart, the truth isn’t your only option. If a new love asks you how many lovers you’ve had before, you don’t necessarily owe him the truth, besides . . .” I paused a beat, waiting.

  “You can’t handle the truth!” we said together, both of us doing our best Jack Nicholson, turning a few heads at nearby tables. And for a moment I remembered how much fun we used to have. Before we ran off the rails.

  “Fair enough.” She nodded, smiling now. “Your advice is right on the money, as always, LaCrosse. Totally objective.”

  That wasn’t quite true. When you care for someone a lot, you never really stop caring. Or at least I don’t. Sherry knew that. And she played on it sometimes.

  “There is one more thing you could do for me,” she said, stirring her coffee. Avoiding my eyes.

  “I thought there might be,” I said drily. “What is it?”

  “Would you check into their backgrounds for me, Dylan? Let me know if there are any land mines I should avoid?”

  “Hell, you’re a reporter, you can run a background check as easily as I can.”

  “Reading the news on local TV doesn’t make me Diane Sawyer, LaCrosse. I can’t use station resources to check up on my boss, and I don’t have access to the Law Enforcement Information Net.”

  My ears perked up. “The L.E.I.N. is for criminal suspects. I can’t use it for a personal situation. Why would their names be on it, anyway?”

  “I hope they’re not, but . . .”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Sherry?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s . . . a little hard to explain, Dylan. You know my background. I grew up tough. I’m a newswoman, which makes me a realist, I think. But lately . . . I read a story in a college lit class once. ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes.’ Ray Bradbury, I think. That’s how I feel. Like something bad is coming.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably just a case of raging hormones, but I’d feel better if you checked things out. I’ll pay for your time. I know how pathetic a cop’s salary is.”

  “I’d work for food, but I’ve tasted your cooking.”

  “Touché, love. Call me,” she said, rising to go. She paused for a moment, looking down at me.

  “I miss us sometimes,” she said.

  “Me too,” I admitted.

  And for a moment, with her golden hair haloed against the Inn’s wagon-wheel candelabra, I felt a sharp pang of loss. Sherry was an exceptional woman, bright and fun and perky. And the neediest person I’d ever known.

  Heads turned as she walked out of the restaurant. They always did.

  We’d been wrong for each other, no question about that. Our affair had flared like a Roman candle, and burned out almost as quickly. But it had been intense while it lasted. For me, at least.

  And now? We were less than lovers, but more than friends. The French probably have a phrase for it. Exes avec regrets? Something like that.

  But when Sherry had spoken about feeling uneasy, there’d been none of the usual mischief in her eyes. That bothered me. Sherry was practically fearless. If she was worried about something, so was I.

  Besides, I’d told her a half-truth. As a detective on the North Shore Major Crimes unit, there are legal restrictions on my ability to run background checks.

  Plugging a name into the Law Enforcement Information Network requires a case number, a badge number, and my personal password. Every request is logged and filed for future reference.

  But the L.E.I.N. isn’t the only way to get information. The Internet knows everything about everybody and it’s an open book if you know where to look. St. Mark Zuckerberg had it right: The Right to Privacy is like Santa Claus, a quaint little notion nobody really believes in anymore.

  I ran background checks on Jack Milano and Rob Gilchrist, off the books. And I turned up a few interesting bits of information. I left a message on Sherry’s voicemail, but she didn’t call me back.

  Ever.

  She was already dead.

  Six in the morning, I was toweling down after a shower when my cell phone gurgled. My partner, Zina Redfern.

  “Dylan? Are you awake?”

  “Sort of. What’s up?”

  “We have a probable homicide and a major problem.”

  “Who’s the victim?”

  “Sherry Sinclair. The TV reporter.”

  Dead air for a moment.

  “Sweet Jesus,” somebody said. Me, I suppose. All the oxygen seemed to go out of the room. “I’ll be there in—”

  “No! You stay right where you are. That’s an order.”

  “You can’t—”

  “It’s not coming from me, Dylan, it’s from Chief Kazmarek. You can’t work the case, and you know it.”

  I wanted to argue, but didn’t. She was right.

  “Okay. What the hell happened, Zee?”

  “Her car went off the Beame Hill turnout west of Valhalla. It rolled down the embankment and went into the creek at the bottom, upside down. The body’s been removed, and the state police forensics unit is already working the crime scene.”

  “What about the time line?”

  “We aren’t sure yet. At least twenty-four hours ago.”

  The twenty-four was a rough guess, the onset of her rigor mortis and its passing. “You said it was a probable homicide?”

  “There’s some damage to the trunk of her car, Dylan. Like it was pushed over the embankment. But there’s no sign of a second vehicle, and the EMT said her throat was bruised. The airbags deployed. He doubts she was killed in the crash.”

  I absorbed that. “What else?”

  “You know what else. By North Shore standards Sherry Sinclair was a celebrity, and it’s common knowledge you two were involved at one point. That puts you on the suspect list, Dylan. You know the drill, so let’s get you cleared. When did you see her last?”

  “Last week. Friday. We met for coffee, at the Jury’s Inn.”

  “Socially? Romantically?”

  “Socially. We’ve been over for a while, but we stayed friends.”

  “With benefits?”

  “Sexually, in other words?”

  “In exactly those words.”

  “No, we haven’t been involved in that way for nearly a year.” I’m pregnant, Sherry said. And I began doing the math . . . Zee was saying something.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You lost me. What did you say?”

  “As soon as we have a time of death, I’ll need an alibi statement. Chief

  Kazmarek has ordered me to take the lead on the case. Van Duzen will back me up. In the meantime, you have to stay clear of this,
Dylan. Are we gonna have a problem?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Dylan?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Don’t think. You know the chief’s right.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Damn it, LaCrosse—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “I promise I won’t put you in a situation.”

  “You’ll stay out of it?”

  “I won’t put you in a situation,” I repeated. Which wasn’t quite the same thing. And we both knew it.

  It was Zina’s turn to go silent.

  “I can live with that,” she sighed. “So. Now that you’re officially sitting on the sidelines, what have you got for me?”

  “For openers, you’re not looking at one homicide,” I said. “You’re probably looking at two.”

  As soon as I hung up, I threw on jeans and a leather jacket, scrambled into my Jeep, and headed straight for the Beame Hill turnout. I hadn’t promised to stay away, and Zee knew better than to expect it.

  Michigan’s North Shore counties are a study in contrasts. Along the lakefront, real estate is sky high, posh condos and hotels are sprouting like anthills, funded by Internet money. Newcomer money.

  Ten miles inland you’re in much rougher country, rolling, timbered hills, sparsely populated with blink-and-you’ve-missed-it villages with ramshackle houses scattered along the edges of the Huron State Forest, an untracked territory bigger than half the nations in the U.N.

  Northern police jurisdictions are a patchwork quilt as well. The state police cover the freeways, and share coverage of the interior with the sheriff’s departments and the Department of Natural Resources. Murder and mayhem fall to the North Shore Major Crimes unit based in Valhalla. My unit. As second in command, I should have been leading this investigation. But there was nothing ordinary about this case.