Black Cat Weekly #67

By Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Christine Poulson, Frank Zafiro and 6 more

Here’s issue #67’s lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf?” by Christine Poulson [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Loser Takes All,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Home for Christmas,” by Frank Zafiro [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Thubway Tham Reformth,” by Johnston McCulley [short story]
The Diamond Coterie, by Lawrence L. Lynch [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Power of the Cocoon,” by Nina Kiriki Hoffman [short story]
“Passed Down,” by Nina Kiriki Hoffman [short story]
“Planet of Doom,” by Stephen Marlowe [short story]
“The Manless Worlds,” by Murray Leinster [short story]
Rememory, by John Gregory Betancourt [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Dec 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667660783

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

WHAT’S THE TIME, MR. WOLF?, by Christine Poulson

WHAT’S IN A NAME?, by Hal Charles

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, by Frank Zafiro

THUBWAY THAM REFORMTH, by Johnston McCulley

THE DIAMOND COTERIE, by Lawrence L. Lynch

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

CHAPTER XL.

CHAPTER XLI.

CHAPTER XLII.

CHAPTER XLIII.

CHAPTER XLIV.

CHAPTER XLV.

CHAPTER XLVI.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE POWER OF THE COCOON, by Nina Kiriki Hoffman

PASSED DOWN, by Nina Kiriki Hoffman

PLANET OF DOOM, by Stephen Marlowe

THE MANLESS WORLDS by Murray Leinster

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

REMEMORY, by John Gregory Betancourt

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf? is copyright © 2014 by Christine Poulson. Originally published in Guilty Parties, A Crime Writers’ Association Anthology. Reprinted by permission of the author.

What’s In a Name is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Copyright © 2007 by Frank Zafiro. Originally published in Carols and Crimes, Gifts and Grifters. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Thubway Tham Reformth, by Johnston McCulley

The Diamond Coterie, by Lawrence L. Lynch

The Power of the Cocoon is copyright © 2012 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman. Originally published in Daily Science Fiction 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Passed Down is copyright © 2019 by Nina K. Hoffman. Originally published in Daily Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Planet of Doom was originally published in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, June 1956, under the pseudonym C.H. Thames.

The Manless Worlds, by Murray Leinster,was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, Feb. 1947.

Rememory is copyright © 1990 by John Gregory Betancourt. Reprinted by permission of the author.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 67th issue has a lot of fun stories. Some are puzzling mysteries, some have seasonal cheer, a couple are novels, some are action-adventures. One is even my third science fiction novel...1990’s Rememory, an action-adventure future thriller, which I hope you enjoy. It originally appeared from Warner Books as a paperback original in their Questar line. It didn’t sell very well, but seems to have developed a cult following, particularly in furry fandom (it features people who have been transformed into animals). I keep running into fans who loved it. (Very few of the books in Warner’s Questar line sold well, but in retrospect the editor, Brian Thomsen, selected quite a few books by writers who would go on to much critical fame. And he was indirectly responsible for my wife Kim and me meeting at a party in Brooklyn, so he has much to celebrated for!)

But back to the magazine. There are a number of people involved with putting out BCW each week, some more visible than others. Over the last year, probably the most important unsung hero has been Sam Hogan, who manages the contracts with the authors and does a lot of the initial prep work on the story files. Thanks, Sam! And our acquiring editors this year included Michael Bracken, Paul Di Filippo, Barb Goffman, Darrell Schweitzer, and Cynthia Ward; thanks to all of them. Though Paul has retired we hope to lure him back someday. And we really need to pester Darrell to find more stories.

As we head into 2023, I think we have found a winning formula for the Cat, and I hope to build on BCW’s success in the coming year with more original stories. If re-elected as editor, I promise next year will be bigger and better than ever! (Maybe I’ve been reading too many political editorials. Hmph.) Anway, on with the stories.

Here’s this issue’s lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf? by Christine Poulson [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Loser Takes All, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Home for Christmas, by Frank Zafiro [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Thubway Tham Reformth, by Johnston McCulley [short story]

The Diamond Coterie, by Lawrence L. Lynch [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Power of the Cocoon, by Nina Kiriki Hoffman [short story]

Passed Down, by Nina Kiriki Hoffman [short story]

Planet of Doom, by Stephen Marlowe [short story]

The Manless Worlds, by Murray Leinster [short story]

Rememory, by John Gregory Betancourt [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

WHAT’S THE TIME, MR. WOLF?,

by Christine Poulson

Soon be over, Frank said.

Thank God. Sheila exchanged a wry glance with her husband.

Before the party he hadn’t seen the need to hire an entertainer. How hard can it be to keep a few kids occupied for a couple of hours, he’d said. Sheila knew better. It had to be planned like a military campaign, every minute accounted for.

The woman had those kids in the palm of her hand. She was a passable ventriloquist and the fluffy white toy rabbit under her arm was singing, Happy Birthday to you, Squashed tomatoes and stew.

Shrieks of mirth went up from the four-year-olds sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Whatever we’re paying her it’s not enough, Frank conceded.

Sheila taught Year 6 at primary school, a job-share since she’d had Harry, but controlling a bunch of four year olds was a very different matter. And perhaps because she was an older parent—she and Frank had been over forty when Harry was born—she did find it a strain being responsible for so many little ones. Once again she counted heads. Yes, all present and correct. She could relax. Everything was under control. The birthday tea was over. Frank’s mum was in the kitchen, putting slices of birthday cake in the party bags. No-one had been sick, no-one had hurt themselves, hardly anyone had cried. And looking at Harry, who was actually holding his sides laughing, she knew it had all been worthwhile. But thank God she wouldn’t have to organise another children’s party for a whole year.

After the entertainer there was time for two more games, pass the parcel with Frank carefully manipulating the breaks in the music so that everyone would get a little gift, and then What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf? That was Harry’s favorite. He adored being the wolf and shouting Dinner-time. There was lots of shrieking and everyone got thoroughly over-excited, but it didn’t matter, because by then the parents were beginning to arrive. One by one, prompted by mums and dads, the children said thank you for having me and off they went. The party dwindled until there was only Harry left and one other child.

Where’s Evan’s mummy? Harry asked.

Oh, she’ll be here in a minute, Sheila said.

It was odd all the same. It was half an hour past pick-up time and it was parental etiquette to be prompt on these occasions. She settled the children down in front of a DVD of Shaun the Sheep. Evan wasn’t making a fuss. He was a serious little boy, rather pale, with shadows under his eyes as if he didn’t get enough sleep.

Shall I ring her mobile? Frank asked.

She nodded. Thank goodness he had thought to take contact numbers.

She watched him tap in Jennifer’s mobile number. He listened and shook his head. No-one was answering.

Do you know where she lives? he said.

Somewhere out towards Ely? she hazarded. Jennifer and her husband had only recently moved into the area and she didn’t know her that well. She’s probably got muddled up about the time, that’s all. There’s sure to be a simple explanation.

Of course. Wires crossed somewhere. Bound to be.

But half-an-hour later Jennifer still hadn’t arrived and she still wasn’t answering her mobile. She hadn’t left a landline number. Sheila rang round the other mothers and managed to find out where she lived.

We’d better drive over, Frank decided.

Shall we take Evan? Sheila asked.

Better leave him here with Mum. Jennifer or her husband might arrive while we’re gone. If they do, Mum can ring us.

They looked up Jennifer’s address on Google maps. Sheila printed out the map on the other side of the sheet of paper with the phone numbers.

Frank got the car out and they set off.

They drove in silence on long, straight roads that cut across ploughed fields, ready for their winter crops. Pigeons pecked the dark, chocolatey earth.

Sheila pieced together what she knew about Jennifer. Not much: they’d only exchanged the odd hello at the nursery gate. Jennifer was always dauntingly well turned out, always carefully made-up in contrast to Sheila’s old jeans and barely brushed hair. And though Sheila knew she shouldn’t judge, she felt a bit sorry for Evan, who seemed be at the nursery all day every day.

Maybe Jennifer thought her husband was collecting Evan, Sheila said.

And he thought she was. Very likely, Frank agreed.

It wasn’t only dusk that was darkening the vast Fenland sky. Grey cumulus clouds were advancing, dragging curtains of rain.

Sheila shivered and leaned forward to switch on the car heater. She looked at her watch. Six o’clock and the party had finished at four.

Or maybe she’s had an accident. She could be lying injured somewhere. Maybe we should ring the police.

We’ll try the house first.

* * * *

It was a nineteenth century farmhouse, some way from the nearest village, and set back from the road behind a windbreak of trees. As Sheila got out of the car, a gust of wind lifted her hair. Dry leaves rattled on the trees and it was suddenly colder. Even before they reached the door, big drops of rain began to fall and they ran to shelter in the porch. Sheila was looking round for a bell, when she noticed that the door was ajar. Frank saw it at the same time and they exchanged glances.

Frank ran the bell and they waited in silence. When no-one came, he pushed open the door and called out: Hello?

There was still no answer.

Should we go in? Sheila asked.

Frank nodded.

Inside it was very quiet and darkness was gathering in the corners of the hall. When Sheila saw the blood stains on the wall she gasped and grabbed Frank’s arm. He reached for the light and switched it on. The stain wasn’t red, but brown, and there was a sweet, pungent smell. It triggered a memory, something elusive that slipped away before she could grasp it. It was something unpleasant that she’d rather not remember, she knew that.

Frank said, That’s cough medicine. Look, there are bits of glass on the floor.

They moved on further into the house, glancing into rooms as they passed. The place was immaculate, all chintz and pale, thick carpets. It was exactly the kind of place that Sheila would have expected Jennifer to live. But how did she manage to keep it like this with a four-year-old? At the end of the hall they found themselves in a kitchen that was all of a piece with the rest of the house: exposed beams and gleaming copper pans. Frank went across and pushed open a door that led into the conservatory. Sheila looked around. There wasn’t a thing out of place except—on the scrubbed oak table lay the body of a little tabby cat. Sheila exclaimed and moved towards it, placed a hand on the furry flank. It was cold. A dent on the side of the head suggested a fractured skull.

Sheila was startled when Jennifer appeared from the hall, pushing back wet hair with one hand. The rain drumming on the glass roof of the conservatory must have masked the sound of a car driving up.

Jennifer looked amazed to see Sheila.

What are you doing here? she asked.

You didn’t come to collect Evan, so—

Didn’t I say? Barry was coming for him. Realisation was dawning and with it, alarm. You mean—he didn’t?

Sheila hastened to reassure her. Evan’s fine. Frank’s mum—

Sheila. Frank’s voice was hoarse.

She turned to see him standing in the doorway of the conservatory. His face was white.

Better call the police. And an ambulance.

* * * *

It’s a strange experience, reading about yourself in the news, actually more like reading about someone else, Sheila thought, as she scanned the headlines on the BBC website.

Yesterday the body of banker Barry Brunswick—no wonder they could afford that house—was discovered by Sheila Cumming, 45—how on earth had they managed to get hold of her age?—and her husband Frank after Mr. Brunswick failed to collect his four-year-old son from a birthday party at their home. There was a photo of Jennifer, looking haggard under her make-up, carrying Evan who had his arms around her neck. The article reported that she had been out walking with a friend and had returned home to find her husband dead from a single stab wound to the heart.

Sheila was supposed to be teaching today, but Frank had persuaded her to call in sick. She had scarcely slept the previous night. She couldn’t stop thinking of Cluedo: Colonel Mustard and a dagger in the conservatory. It was one of those awful inappropriate mental tics. She must be suffering from shock.

The phone rang yet again, another journalist probably. Sheila waited for Frank to pick up the phone on the extension. He was screening their calls.

A few moments later he put his head round the door. Elaine.

Sheila picked up the phone. Elaine was one of her oldest and best friends. They’d been at school together. It was one of those friendships that survives against the odds. Sheila was quiet and reflective. Elaine, who had become a leading theatrical designer, was not. But that was what Sheila liked about her. There was no pussy-footing around. With Elaine what you saw was what you got.

"Sweetie! I’ve just seen the news, you poor darling. How are you? Tell me all about it."

Sheila told her.

Now, you won’t believe this, Elaine said, but I know Jennifer! She used to live a few doors down.

No, really?

Well, that might be pitching it a bit high. They kept themselves to themselves. I didn’t like her at first, thought she was a stuck-up bitch, then I realised that she was just terribly shy.

Sheila couldn’t help smiling. She could just imagine. Conversations with Elaine tend to be overwhelming until you learned just to sit back and let it wash over you.

Elaine went on. She was such a mouse of a woman. You know, brown hair, brown clothes... But judging from this photo that I’m looking at on the screen, she must have bucked up her ideas a bit. I wonder...

Yes?

"He was so good-looking. You know, one of those men who’s almost too good-looking? I took against him after I saw him in a restaurant looking into another woman’s eyes. I’m sure he was having an affair. I wondered, when they moved to the country—maybe a new start and all that? Oh Lord, is that the time? I’ve got to be at the theatre. See you very soon, my sweet. Kiss kiss. Big hug."

And she was gone. Sheila always felt better for a phone call from Elaine: perhaps it was the sheer energy she exuded. But she was perceptive too. She might be right and Jennifer’s aloofness was really shyness, her reliance on make-up and smart clothes, a sign of insecurity.

Are you alright, love? She looked up to see Frank hovering anxiously.

I just can’t help thinking about that poor woman. And they’d just moved in, too, she hardly knows anybody.

The doorbell rang.

That’ll be them, now, the police, Frank said.

* * * *

The police inspector was overweight, his belly straining the buttons on his shirt, and his tie was slightly crooked. For all that Sheila got a sense of a keen intelligence as he took them through the events that had led up to the discovery of the body. Just when she thought he’d finished and was about to leave, he flipped back through the pages of his notebook.

If we could just go back to when Mrs. Brunswick arrived to drop off her little boy. Three o’clock, you said? Pretty hard to be certain about the exact time when you were busy getting ready for a party. Could it have been somewhat after three? Or even before?

Do you have children, Inspector?

Well, yes, as it happens, a boy and a girl.

Then you’ll know that a children’s party isn’t like a cocktail party. People don’t arrive fashionably late. They arrive on the dot. I looked at my watch at ten to three, wondering when the first one was going to arrive. And by five past they were all there, including Evan. I remember thinking we’d better get going on the first game. I’d got it all organised more or less down to the minute.

So how did that go, exactly? Mrs. Brunswick drove up...

A whole load of them arrived at once, and she was one of them. The kids ran in together, and Frank’s mother took them off to join the others. The parents handed over birthday presents, we took their mobile numbers, including hers, and off they went.

So she definitely dropped off her son between ten to three and five minutes past?

That’s right.

How did she seem? Did she say or do anything out of the ordinary?

Sheila tried to picture the scene. I’m not sure that she said anything at all. I wasn’t really noticing. All the same something was tugging at her memory. She appealed to Frank. Can you remember, love?

He shook his head. It’s all a bit of blur to be honest.

The inspector nodded and shut up his notebook.

After he’d gone, Frank said, I suppose he was eliminating her from their enquiries. The husband or wife’s always the first to be suspected.

As if it wasn’t bad enough for her to have lost her husband!

Frank put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. She leaned into him. Darling Frank. With the almost-telepathy of a happy marriage, she knew that he was thinking about her first husband and his death in a climbing accident.

Well, Frank went on, let’s hope we’ve supplied her with an alibi.

That poor, poor woman. I’ll give her a ring. At the very least I can offer to take Evan off her hands for a few hours.

* * * *

I still can’t believe it, Jennifer said. It just seems... unreal.

It was two days later and Sheila had finally managed to get through to her.

Sheila had stopped thinking about Cluedo, but now her thoughts were returning obsessively to the broken bottle of cough mixture and the dead cat. There was something so strange—almost surreal—about finding them in that house where nothing else was out of place. Of course she couldn’t ask.

Instead she said, Have the police let you go back to the house?

Just to collect clothes and things. My friend, Annie, the one I was out walking with, we’re staying with her. I can’t ever live there again. And we’d been looking forward so much to moving to the country, thought it would be safer than the city, a good place for Evan to grow up.

Perhaps Sheila had misjudged Jennifer. After all, she was just another mother, wanting to do the best for her child. The old freemasonry of motherhood was kicking in.

How is Evan? Sheila asked.

He thinks Barry’s away for work and keeps asking when he’s coming back. I know I’ll have to tell him soon. But he’s already so upset about Tabitha.

Tabitha?

Our poor little cat. She got hit by a car. We were going to bury her that afternoon. We got her for Evan when we moved in.

So that explained that, now there was only the cough medicine. Sheila reproved herself for her flippancy.

Jennifer was saying, I can’t help thinking—a friend rang the house around three o’clock and spoke to Barry so he was still alive then. If I’d gone straight home instead of going walking with Annie—everything might have been different.

Yes, Sheila thought, you might be dead too, but she didn’t say that, just murmured a sympathetic response.

Jennifer said, The police think it was someone wanting money for drugs. That’s all they took. Just money and some of my jewelry. Our bedroom had been ransacked. Sheila could tell she was on the verge of tears.

Anything I can do to help, Sheila said. If you’d like me to have Evan...

You’re so kind. Oh, I almost forgot to ask. I can’t find Evan’s coat anywhere. I know he had it when I dropped him off for the party. I was wondering...

I don’t think it’s here, but let me just check.

Sheila put down the phone and went to look in the hall, but the coat wasn’t there.

She returned to the phone. I’m sorry, no.

Jennifer said, The worst of it is, it had a little teddy bear in the pocket. Evan won’t go to bed with it. I’ll just have to try to get a new one from somewhere.

* * * *

Sheila was at a party and it was for grown-ups, but they were playing What’s the time, Mr. Wolf? She didn’t know who was playing Mr. Wolf, and she was afraid to find out. Yet she was compelled to move stealthily forward. She was only two steps away, when someone called out What’s the time, Mr. Wolf? and the figure began to turn. She knew that what she would see was a real wolf’s head. She wrenched herself out of the dream, and woke up, shuddering.

She lay quietly in the dark, letting her breathing settle. Two weeks had passed since they had discovered Barry’s body, but she hadn’t recovered from the shock of it. It had shaken things loose, had brought to the surface memories that she usually managed to suppress. Was the figure Kevin? Her first marriage hadn’t been happy, and no-one knew—not even Frank—quite how bad it had been.

But that was all over. She was safe now. And how lucky she was, how amazingly lucky, to have gentle Frank asleep beside her and dear little Harry in the next room.

She wondered how Jennifer and Evan were getting on. Jennifer had taken Evan out of the nursery and she hadn’t been in touch. Perhaps Sheila should ring her again.

It was later that morning as she was getting ready to go out with Harry that she discovered Evan’s coat in the hall closet. Frank must have thought it was Harry’s and put it away. The little teddy was still in the pocket. She was intending to go to Ely anyway. It wouldn’t be much of a detour to go past Jennifer’s house.

As she drove up, she saw that a for sale sign was already up. A car was parked outside. She tucked her own car in behind it.

Mummy, Harry said. I want a wee.

She reached over and undid his seatbelt. Come on then. We’ll see if anyone’s there.

She stepped into the porch and rang the doorbell. She was beginning to think the house was empty, when she heard footsteps, the door opened and there was Jennifer. Sheila held up Evan’s coat. I found this just today, I’m so sorry—

Harry interrupted her. Mummy, mummy. He was clutching his crotch and squirming.

Harry’s desperate for the loo, Sheila explained.

Oh, come in, come in, Jennifer said, ushering them through the door. There’s one just here.

Harry darted in.

Sheila’s eyes strayed to the brown stain on the wall. It looked almost as though the bottle had been thrown against the wall. Washing wouldn’t be enough. That would have to be painted over. Jennifer caught her looking and Sheila looked away, embarrassed. There was an awkward silence. It was broken by Evan appearing at the sitting-room door.

Is Harry here? he asked. Can we play?

He looked different, more animated, and there was some color in his cheeks. Jennifer put a hand on his shoulder and drew him close. Have you got time, Sheila? Can you stay for a cup of tea?

Harry emerged from the loo. Without a word, the two little boys disappeared into the sitting room.

The two women smiled at each other.

Thanks, I’d love one, Sheila said.

* * * *

The kitchen seemed different, not untidy exactly, but more things left out on the counter, more homely. Sheila watched Jennifer fill the kettle. She was as immaculate as ever. Her honey-colored hair was cut in a long smooth bob and not a hair was out of place. The eye liner had surely been copied from the Duchess of Cambridge and she must have used a lip-brush to get that outline. Was that what had delayed her coming to the door?

Jennifer said, It was lucky you caught me. I’ve just come to start packing things up.

As she talked, she was getting out mugs, looking for milk in the fridge.

Sheila felt uneasy. Of course it wasn’t surprising, given what had happened the last time she was here, but it was more than that. Something wasn’t right—

There were footsteps in the hall and a woman’s voice called, Jenny!

Jennifer said, In here! I’ve got a visitor. It sounded almost like a warning.

A woman appeared in the doorway. She was slim, dressed in jeans and a sweater, with smooth hair tied back in a short pony-tail.

I wasn’t expecting you so soon, Jennifer said. This is Sheila. Sheila, this is my friend, Annie.

Sheila stood up and offered her hand. Annie shook it. Her grip was firm and she had a pleasant smile. Yet Sheila’s sense of discomfort was increasing. She wondered if she could make an excuse and leave without seeming rude.

On the kitchen table Jennifer’s mobile began to buzz and vibrate.

That’ll the estate agent, she said. Can you pour the tea, Annie, when it’s brewed?

I’ll just check on Harry, Sheila murmured.

She went into the hall and put her head round the sitting room door. When she said, five minutes, Harry, he didn’t even look up. He and Evan had their heads together and Lego was scattered all over the floor.

Back in the kitchen, Jennifer was sitting at the table with her organiser open. So tomorrow at three o’clock then, she was saying.

She wrote down the appointment.

That was when Sheila knew what was wrong. Jennifer had her pen in her right hand. But when she’d dropped Evan off at the party, she’d written down her phone number with her left hand. Sheila was left-handed herself and she’d been trained to notice it in the children she taught. In her mind’s eye she could see Jennifer curling her hand round in that awkward way that some left-handers have.

She looked at Annie, who was pouring out the tea. With her left hand. And she was wearing her watch on her right hand, just like Sheila did. That must have been what had bothered Sheila earlier. Annie glanced round and saw Sheila standing transfixed. Sheila saw her look back at the hand on the teapot and realise her mistake.

Sheila felt giddy. She reached for a chair and lowered herself into it. She closed her eyes. Absurdly, she found herself thinking, What’s the time, Mr. Wolf? Three o’clock! But it wasn’t so absurd after all, because timing was the key to it all.

When she opened her eyes, Annie had moved to stand between her and the door. Both women were staring at her. Her thoughts flew to Harry. No-one knew they were here. She got to her feet. Her mouth was dry.

The silence was electric. It was broken by brmm-brmm noises. Out in the hall Harry and Evan were playing with cars on the tiled floor.

Jennifer got up and closed the door. She came back and sat down at the table. It’s all right, she said. You’re quite safe, you and Harry.

Why did you... ? Sheila asked.

Annie took a seat next to Jennifer. Barry was a monster, she said. A sadistic brute and a bully. Show her, Jenny.

Jennifer grimaced. She pulled up her jumper to show a midriff dotted with small, round scars.

Cigarette burns, Annie said. I’d been working abroad, I’d wondered why I hadn’t heard from Jenny, and when I got back, I saw why. Jenny didn’t have friends any more. Barry didn’t like it. He didn’t want people getting too close in case they guessed what was going on. I told her that she had to get out. I could see what it was doing to Evan.

Jennifer said, Barry told me he’d kill me if I tried to leave. And Evan, too.

Sheila didn’t say, why didn’t you go to the police? She’d tried that with Kevin and it hadn’t worked. The police couldn’t lock someone away forever or protect you for the rest of your life. She remembered the relief that had flooded through her when the police broke the news that Kevin—ever the risk-taker—had died on a climbing holiday in the French Alps. It had been all she could do not to dance round the room.

But then Barry decided that we were going to move to the country, and that was when... Jennifer hesitated, glanced sideways at Annie.

Yes, Annie said. She put her hand over Jennifer’s. It was my idea to pass myself off as Jenny. We used to swap clothes all the time when we were students. People thought we were sisters. But it had to happen before people got to know her, when all they really saw was the distinctive make-up and the expensive clothes and the haircut.

Sheila thought of what Elaine had said about Jennifer’s mousy appearance: so that had been the reason for the make-over.

I didn’t think it would work and I really didn’t think I’d be able to, well, you know, I didn’t think I could do it, Jennifer said. The day of the party—that was supposed to be an experiment. I pretended that Harry’s party was an hour earlier than it really was. I dropped Evan off at Annie’s and came home. And when I got back— She put her head in her hands.

Tell her what that bastard did to the cat, Annie said grimly.

So she wasn’t run over, Sheila said.

Jennifer shook her head. He lost his temper when she got under his feet and tripped him up. He picked her up by the back legs and swung her against the wall. That was what did it, I didn’t see red or anything like that, it was more as if I was somehow standing outside myself. I saw myself going into the kitchen and getting the knife... Her voice trailed off.

Annie squeezed her arm.

Jennifer cleared her voice and went on, her voice stronger.

By the time Annie rang after she’d dropped Evan off, Barry was dead. Annie told me she thought she’d pulled it off and that you hadn’t realized.

I wasn’t really looking for Jennifer as a separate person, I just saw Evan’s mum, Sheila admitted.

I don’t suppose we could leave it like that? Annie said. That it was Evan’s mum you saw?

Sheila said slowly, I suppose there isn’t any real evidence. At least nothing a half-way decent barrister couldn’t demolish. I was so distracted by the children and the party and everyone arriving at once. And eyewitness testimony’s notoriously unreliable. Although— she was struck by a thought. Was this the coat she had been wearing? Yes... She fumbled in the pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper with the contact numbers from the party on one side and the directions to Jennifer’s house on the other. Would a hand-writing expert be able to tell that it was Annie who had written the phone number? Better not risk it.

She handed the piece of paper to Jennifer.

Here, have this, she said. I should burn it if I were you.

* * * *

They lingered in the garden, reluctant to say goodbye.

Where will you go? Sheila asked.

The States, I think, Jennifer said. Annie’s been offered a job in Denver. We’ll go with her at least for a while.

That’ll be best, Sheila agreed. Send me a postcard. Let me know how Evan’s getting on.

I will.

Sheila strapped Harry into his child seat and got behind the wheel.

She had pulled away and waved goodbye when she remembered something. She braked, told Harry she’d only be a moment, and got out of the car.

Jennifer came part of the way to meet her.

There’s just one thing I have to know, Sheila said.

Yes?

The cough medicine. How did it get on the wall?

I found it like that when I got home. Barry had smashed it on purpose so that he could order me to clear it up.

Sheila nodded, satisfied. I thought that was it.

With Kevin it had been a bottle of maple syrup.

Even after all these years the smell of it still made her gag.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christine Poulson’s short stories have been published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Crime Writers’ Association anthologies, and elsewhere. They’ve been short-listed for the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s Derringer Award, the Margery Allingham Prize, and the CWA Short Story Dagger. What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf? was first published in Guilty Parties, A Crime Writers’ Association Anthology edited by Martin Edwards (Severn House, 2014). She blogs at http://www.christinepoulson.co.uk/a-reading-life. Or, you can learn more at christinepoulson.co.uk.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?,

by Hal Charles

As Detective Joyce Cavenaugh stepped into the neighborhood diner where she often stopped for a coffee before starting her shift, she immediately spotted Maggie Turner, the owner. Instead of the usual cheerful greeting, Maggie blurted out, Detective Cavenaugh, I’ve been robbed!

Hurrying toward the diminutive woman behind the counter, Joyce said, What was taken?

This week’s receipts. I had them ready to take to the bank later this morning just like I do every Friday. I took the money out of the safe and put it in my desk drawer until I could sort and count it. When I opened the drawer just now, the cash box was empty.

Could someone have come in through the back door while you were out here? said Joyce.

That was my first thought, said Maggie, but I keep the back door locked, and I have the only key.

Joyce scanned the diner, noticing three people huddled around a booth to the right. Were those three the only people here when the robbery took place?

You can’t think that one of them is responsible, said Maggie. They were out here the entire morning, and, besides, none of them has left the diner.

Did they know where you put the cash box after taking it from the safe?

Well, I suppose so, said Maggie, but—

Are you sure nobody else was here?

Maggie’s face blanched. We did have a soda delivery this morning. But how could the deliveryman have known that I had the money in my desk?

Joyce didn’t like the thought, but pretty clearly one of Maggie’s employees must have told the thief where to find the cash. I think I’d better talk with those three to try to figure out what’s going on.

Maggie identified the first person to approach the booth where Joyce had stationed herself for the interviews as Billy Williams, her stock boy.

Assuming her official voice, Joyce said, Mr. Williams, what can you tell me about this morning?

The lanky redhead gulped and said, What do you mean?

The robbery?

You don’t think I had anything to do with it, said the teenager, seemingly growing weak in the knees. I came in early and have been planted in that booth over there all morning studying for an English test tonight. I can’t afford to screw up.

Did you see the soda delivery earlier?

Yeah, just like every Friday morning, the guy slips in and out. Hardly noticed.

Do you know the deliveryman?

All I know is he’s a little older than me and has SIMMONS printed on his uniform.

As Billy Williams returned to his booth, a stocky blonde Joyce recognized as Stella Beckum, Maggie’s longtime night manager, walked toward her.

Stella, said Joyce, did you see anything suspicious this morning?

Detective, you know I would do anything to help Maggie, but other than seeing the deliveryman come and go, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Can you tell me anything about the guy?

Nothing much other than he’s been making deliveries for the last couple of months.

Thanks, Stella, Joyce said as she motioned for the young woman who Maggie had identified as Amber Kenton, a waitress who had been working at the diner since that Monday.

I don’t want any trouble, the young brunette said before she sat down at the booth. I started here this week, and I need the job.

Just calm down, Ms. Kenton, Joyce said. I have a couple of questions, and you can get back to work.

The woman pursed her lips. O.K., I guess.

What can you tell me about this morning?

I was folding napkins and sorting silverware like always when Jerry came in with the sodas. He left, and a few minutes later Ms. Turner started yelling about being robbed.

Joyce smiled. Ms. Kenton, I believe you’ll be sorting utensils at another establishment in the near future.

Solution

As soon as Amber called the deliveryman by his first name, Joyce knew she was the robber’s accomplice. Having worked at the diner for less than a week, Amber must have known Jerry Simmons before since his uniform provided only a last name. Confronted, Amber confessed that her boyfriend had convinced her to take the job so that she could tell him where Maggie kept the money before taking it to the bank every Friday. Jerry Simmons was later arrested and the money recovered.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS,

by Frank Zafiro

Why can’t you come home for Christmas?

It seemed to Detective Katie MacLeod that her mother injected as much guilt-inspiring tone into her voice as possible through the telephone line.

And through the booze, she thought.

She sighed. Mom—

Don’t sigh at me.

Katie sighed again but then apologized. Look, Mom, someone has to work it.

Why? It’s Christmas!

Police work is a twenty-four seven business. Crime doesn’t take a holiday.

That’s ridiculous.

We have to have a detective on duty. And if no one with seniority takes it, then it ends up being the low guy.

You can’t still be the newest detective after so many years, her mother said.

It’s only been three years, Mom. I got promoted in 2004. And besides, Katie admitted, I volunteered because they all have families.

And you don’t! What about Jeff?

Katie thought of her on-again, off-again relationship with the corrections officer. She resisted the urge to sigh again. We’re taking a break, she said. Maybe for good.

When did that happen?

Before Thanksgiving.

Oh. I didn’t know. Her mother took another loud sip of her drink. Well, then what do you call me? I’m family.

I meant families with spouses and kids, Mom. You know, kids? Little ones who wouldn’t understand why Mommy or Daddy has to work on Christmas?

Her mother snorted. Well, that’s just... well...

It is what it is, Katie said. Look, I drew the first twelve hours. Six in the morning to six at night. As long as nothing happens, I can be over there by midnight.

That’s not even Christmas anymore, her mother huffed. Besides, you can’t drive. The passes are shut down except for four-wheel drives with chains. You’d have to fly to get here.

So I’ll catch a flight on the twenty-sixth. It’ll be easy. No one else will be traveling that day.

That’s because all normal people are with their families.

Mom—

Just do what’s important to you, her mother snapped and hung up.

Katie stared at the handset for a long moment. Then she lowered it onto the cradle, shaking her head.

’Tis the season, she thought.

* * * *

She showed up at ten till six with a hazelnut latte and the newspaper. The lights flickered and hummed when she hit the switch, casting wavering light down on the empty desks in the bullpen.

Katie hung her coat, dropped the paper onto her desk, and switched on the computer. After booting up, she checked email. All that was new were a couple of generic administrative messages. She deleted them.

The rustle of the newspaper seemed loud in the empty room. She read and sipped her latte.

She’d worked her way through everything but the sports page and the classifieds when her phone rang. She snatched the receiver, grateful at the prospect of human contact.

Detective MacLeod.

Merry Christmas, girl. Detective John Tower’s voice boomed in the earpiece.

Katie pulled the phone away from her ear momentarily. Sheesh, Tower. Blow out my eardrums, why don’t you?

Tower lowered his voice. Sorry.

It’s all right.

Tower paused, then cleared his throat. Anyway, I just thought I’d give you a call. You know, to say merry Christmas.

Katie imagined Tower with his feet propped up while his nephew Ben shook his presents in anticipation. She envied the two of them. Thanks, was all she said.

So, uh, merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Tower.

Is it busy?

Two robberies and a serious assault already this morning, she said.

What? You serious?

Absolutely. I only just came back to the station get some more crime-scene tape.

Oh, man. You need some help? I can call Browning or maybe Finch and Elias. We could—

Relax, Tower, Katie said. I’m just kidding. It’s quiet. No calls.

Tower didn’t reply. Finally, he said, Really?

Really. I’m about to do the crossword.

Well, eight across is probably ‘gullible.’ Tower chuckled. You got me, girl.

Katie smiled.

Anyway, Tower said. Have a good shift. And if it gets too busy, you can call me. Ben will have these presents torn apart before ten. After that, I’m available.

Thanks.

Seriously, I’ll run code to get there if you need anything.

Katie’s mental image of Tower went from him reclining on a chair with his feet up to him running lights and siren to help her with a crossword puzzle.

I think I’ll be fine, she said. But I appreciate the offer.

You bet. Tower hung up.

Katie read the sports page and scanned the classifieds. Then she broke out a pen and began work on the crossword. When she realized eight across was infatuated, she allowed herself a long chuckle.

By noon, she’d played too many games of computer solitaire and was officially bored.

At one-thirty, the phone rang again.

Detective MacLeod.

Merry Christmas, came a woman’s bright voice. This is Janice in Dispatch. Are you interested in helping patrol out with a call?

Definitely!

Janice gave her the details. She scrawled them into her notebook and hung up with a thank-you and a merry Christmas. Coat in hand, she strode out of the police station. Five minutes later, she was parking in front of an ATM across the street from her destination. A marked patrol car sat directly in front of the business.

Officer Jack Willow waited for her at the glass-door entrance to the small business suite. He briefed her without preamble. The owner came down to pick up some presents for his wife that he had hidden in his office. Found the door unlocked and the safe empty.

Katie examined the door and saw no damage. Is this the only way in?

Willow nodded. Yeah. And there’s no forced entry.

Did he forget to lock up?

No. Willow shook his head. In fact, he is adamant about that.

Willow led her through the door and into the small office. Katie glanced around and saw no signs of ransacking.

Aside from the main office area, there was only one private office. That was where Willow took her. Inside, a middle-aged man sat at the opulent desk, his head in his hands.

Mr. Burnwell? Willow said.

The man looked up. His eyes were red and bleary and his hair askew from sleep. The jeans and T-shirt looked out of character on him, almost as if he were wearing a costume.

This is the detective, Willow told him.

Oh, thank heavens, Burnwell said, rising to stand.

Katie held out her hand, and Burnwell shook it. His palms were damp but his grip sure.

Are you going to find my money? he asked.

I’m going to try, Katie told him. Can you tell me what happened?

Burnwell’s eyes flicked to Willow and back to her. I already told him. I’d hate to think we’re wasting time here.

Katie gave him a warm smile. It’s not a waste. I just need to know the facts before I can begin my investigation.

Burnwell sighed. Well, of course. That makes sense, I suppose. He sighed again and sat back down heavily into his overstuffed chair. With his hand, he motioned toward the wall. I’ve been cleaned out.

Katie followed his motion to the empty, open safe on the wall. And you discovered the money missing this morning?

About an hour ago, he said.

How much?

All of it.

Do you have actual figures? Katie asked.

Burnwell shrugged. Eventually, after the season, we’ll figure it all out. But I’m guessing a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty.

Thousand?

Burnwell nodded.

Why was that much in your safe?

The vendors brought it in last night.

Vendors?

Burnwell nodded again. Yes. Detective, do you even know what business I’m in?

No, Katie admitted, feeling foolish even though she had no reason to. Why don’t you fill me in?

Burnwell drew himself up in his seat. Are you familiar with those kiosks in the mall? The seasonal ones?

I think so. They sell Christmas stuff?

Not just Christmas items. Remote-control cars, sunglasses, jewelry, you name it. I have seven carts between the two malls. We do eighty percent of our yearly business in the month of December. Much of it is in cash.

And the vendors brought in the cash on Christmas Eve?

Yes. The last week’s worth, anyway. I put it in the safe.

Why not the bank?

The banks were all closed by the time they closed up shop at nine o’clock. I planned on depositing the money the day after Christmas, when the banks open back up.

Katie nodded in understanding. Who else has access to the office?

Just my two employees.

None of the vendors?

No.

Katie flipped open her notebook. What are the names of your employees?

Carla Stehr is the accountant, Burnwell said. And Jeri Nives is the receptionist. But I don’t think they—

Did they both have access to the safe as well? Katie asked him.

Well... yes.

Katie snapped the notebook shut. Then I’ll need to talk to them. She glanced around the room. Did you get what you came for this morning?

Huh?

Your wife’s presents?

Oh. Burnwell nodded. Yeah, they’re in the car.

Katie excused herself and returned to her police car. She considered calling out Forensics to photograph and print the scene, but dismissed the idea. The photos would be simple ones that she could take with her digital camera. And prints really didn’t matter. Both suspects’ fingerprints would be all over the office, including the safe. It wouldn’t prove anything.

She returned to Burnwell’s office and snapped a dozen shots, though she realized it was probably overkill. When she finished, she asked Burnwell, Where will you be the remainder of the day?

I’m going back home to be with my wife, he said. Will you call me if you find out anything?

I will.

* * * *

Jeri Nives lived in a large apartment complex. Katie eventually found the building with the right letter on it, but it took another five minutes until she stood in front of the right apartment number.

No one answered her repeated knocks. She graduated from polite taps to loud pounds, but no one came to the door. She gave it one last try with the butt end of her flashlight before giving up.

The door across from Jeri’s opened up. What’s the racket?

Katie turned to the man. He looked to be in his forties, wore glasses, and had a drooping mustache. She held up her badge. You know Jeri Nives?

Sure. She in trouble?

I just need to talk to her. Do you know where she is?

Went to her mom’s house, I think.

Did she tell you that?

Yeah. I ran into her when I got the paper. I invited her over for eggnog, but she said she couldn’t because she was going to her mother’s house.

Do you know where that is?

He shook his head. Sorry, I don’t.

All right. She handed him a business card. Thanks. Sorry for disturbing you.

No worries... He glanced down at the card. Katie. You want to come in for some eggnog?

She smiled. Sorry, can’t. Working.

Okay, then. Well, merry Christmas.

* * * *

She had better luck at Carla Stehr’s house. Through the glass windows in the front door, she saw a woman in her late fifties watching television. Her dark-gray hair was drawn back into a severe bun. Katie knocked.

Carla answered the door. Yes?

Katie showed her badge. Can I come in and talk with you for a minute?

Of course. Carla opened the door wide and let her in.

Five minutes later, Katie was seated at the small dining room table waiting for the tea that Carla insisted on making. She glanced around at the orderly, humble furnishings of the house. Like many in River City, it had seen better days.

Carla brought out a pair of steaming cups and put one in front of Katie. Katie thanked her and opened her notebook while the older woman sat down. Quickly, she took down Carla’s basic biographical information. Then she said, Do you have any idea why I’m here, Mrs. Stehr?

Carla shook her head.

Your office was broken into. Some money was stolen. Katie watched her reaction carefully.

Carla’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. Was anyone hurt?

No. No one was there when it happened.

What was taken?

Money from the safe.

Carla’s eyes widened further. "The money from the safe?"

Yes. Do you know how much that would be?

Not exactly, no. Mr. Burnwell collected it from the vendors all day long. I knew he wasn’t going to make it to the bank before it closed. She shook her head in amazement. There must have been over a hundred thousand dollars in that safe.

You’re the accountant, right?

Yes.

Do you count the money before it goes to the bank?

No. I usually deal with the bank receipts when I balance the books.

Do you have any idea who could have done this?

She considered. Well, obviously, it would have to be someone with access to the safe.

Who has that access?

Mr. Burnwell, Jeri, and myself.

No one else?

Not that I know of. Maybe Mrs. Burnwell, but I doubt it.

Why?

She’s... a little bit... Carla stopped.

A little bit what?

Carla paused. I don’t want to be mean. Let’s just say that if it isn’t socializing or shopping, she’s not too interested.

She’s a trophy wife?

Oh, that’s such a horrible description, Carla answered. But yes, I suppose so.

So between Jeri and Mr. Burnwell, who do you think could have taken the money?

Carla raised her hand to her mouth. Oh, I couldn’t say. I mean, to accuse somebody—

I’m not asking for an accusation, Mrs. Stehr. Just your thoughts.

Carla looked down at her teacup. I don’t know about taking money, she said carefully. But I’m pretty sure the two of them were carrying on, if you know what I mean.

An affair?

Something like that. Carla looked up. I don’t have any proof, mind you. Just my impression, based on how they behave around each other.

Did this affair start or stop recently?

Oh, no, Carla said. It’s been going on for most of the year, I’d guess.

Do you know where Jeri’s mother lives?

I do. I dropped her off once.

Do you remember the address?

No, but I wrote it down in my address book. She rummaged in her purse and drew out a small green notebook. She flipped through the pages and gave Katie the address.

Katie jotted it down on her own notepad. One last thing, she said. Did you take the money, Carla?

Carla brought her hands to her chest. Heavens, no!

Would you be willing to take a polygraph exam?

A lie detector?

Katie nodded.

Carla pressed her lips together. Her hands shook slightly. Well, I suppose. If it were necessary.

Katie rose from her seat. Thank you, Mrs. Stehr. And thanks for the tea.

* * * *

Jeri wasn’t at her mother’s house. And her mother, Pauline, wasn’t happy about it.

You’d think a daughter would want to spend Christmas with the woman who brought her into the world, she groused.

Katie tried to ignore the editorial comment, but a pang of guilt stabbed at her stomach, followed by a short flare of anger. She wondered if Pauline was as much a drunk as her own mother.

Do you know where Jeri is? Katie asked.

I have no idea. If I did, I’d be giving her an earful, believe me you!

Katie handed her a business card. If she comes back, would you have her give me a call?

Pauline took the card but didn’t look at it. I wouldn’t get your hopes up, missy. She won’t even call her own mother.

Katie didn’t reply.

At least I do that, she thought. No matter how painful.

She turned and walked back to her car without a word.

* * * *

Katie drove back to the station and sat at her desk. She thought things over for a bit, absently chewing on her nails as she tossed the case over in her mind. A picture was starting to form. The problem was that she didn’t know enough to know if it was the right picture or not.

She reached for the telephone and called Burnwell’s house. On the fourth ring, a woman answered.

Mrs. Burnwell?

Yes. Who’s this?

Detective MacLeod. I’m investigating the burglary at your husband’s business.

Oh. Is that finished yet? Because I was hoping to go out for dinner tonight.

Katie paused. Mr. Burnwell isn’t back yet?

No. He said the police needed him for a while yet. Are you almost finished?

Almost, Katie said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. I do have a couple of questions for you, though.

Me?

Yes. Does your husband have a cell phone?

Of course.

Can you give me the number?

Mrs. Burnwell recited it from memory. What was your other question?

Did you enjoy the gifts your husband bought for you this year?

What kind of question is that?

I’m just curious. When did you open them?

This morning, before he left to go to the office. But what does that—

Thank you, Mrs. Burnwell.

Katie hung up and dialed the cell number. It rang six times and went to voicemail. She left a message asking Burnwell to call her.

The picture seemed clearer, but she wasn’t sure yet. She let the ideas simmer in her head while she ran all three of the principals through the computer. None of them had any entries worth noting.

Katie looked up at the ceiling. So the husband and the secretary took the stash and lit out for Mexico or something? she asked the square tiles above.

Could be. But the problem was that it really wasn’t that much money. Enough to steal, sure, but hardly enough to run away on—unless he’d emptied his bank accounts too.

But why would he call it in if he was planning to run? That effectively nullified any head start he would otherwise have.

It didn’t make sense.

Her phone rang. She grabbed the receiver. Detective MacLeod.

Uh, hey, this is Joe.

Joe?

From earlier? The apartment building?

Oh, right. The eggnog.

Exactly!

What can I do for you, Joe?

I was just wondering... You’re sure Jeri isn’t in any kind of trouble?

I just need to talk to her.

Okay, then. Well, she’s home now. His voice dropped a few decibels. Her and some older guy.

* * * *

Katie didn’t exactly run code to get to Jeri’s apartment, but she definitely broke a few traffic laws. She parked her car and took the stairs two at a time. At Jeri’s door, she paused a moment to catch her breath, then knocked.

No answer came for several moments. Then a female voice asked through the door, Who is it?

Katie held her badge up to the peephole. River City Police, Jeri. I need to talk to you.

There was a pause, then the rattling of a chain as Jeri opened the door. A woman in her midtwenties with a flowing mane of blond hair stood in the doorway. Katie took in her perfect curves with a twinge of envy.

What’s this about? Jeri demanded. She pushed a piece of gum around in her mouth while she watched Katie.

You mind if I come in?

Jeri hesitated, then opened the door wider. Katie stepped inside. Her gaze swept the living room. It was decorated with crystal figurines and New Age paintings. A bright white loveseat dominated the room.

Where is he? Katie asked.

Who?

Katie turned to her and gave her a tight smile. Let’s not play games, Jeri. Where’s your boss?

At home, I imagine. She crossed her arms and affected a haughty demeanor. "It is Christmas."

No, he’s here, Katie said. Now why don’t you go get him, and let’s work things out.

Jeri paused,