Black Cat Weekly #144

By Janice Law, Hal Charles, Gina Nelson and 7 more

This issue, we have original mysteries from Janice Law (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and our BCW’s very own Ron Miller (who moonlights as our Art Director), plus a modern masterpiece by Gina Nelson (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Add a rare Golden Age mystery novel by James Hay, Jr. and we have quite a winning mix.

But wait, there’s more! No issue is complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side, we have a great story by British master Philip E. High, as well as tales by Harlan Ellison, Henry Slesar, and Stephen Marlowe. Our novel is an early classic by Jack Williamson.

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Lasker Circle,” by Janice Law [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“One Common Denominator,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Maggie McGrady’s Murder Mystery Cruise,” by Gina Nelson [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“I, Golem,”by Ron Miller [short story]
No Clue! by James Hay, Jr. [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Infection,” by Philip E. High [short story]
“Beauty Contest?” by Henry Slesar [short story]
“The Passionate Pitchman,” by Stephen Marlowe [short story]
“Biddy and the Silver Man,” by Harlan Ellison [novelet]
The Alien Intelligence, by Jack Williamson [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667619767

Janice Law

Janice Law (b. 1941) is an acclaimed author of mystery fiction. The Watergate scandal inspired her to write her first novel, The Big Payoff, which introduced Anna Peters, a street-smart young woman who blackmails her boss, a corrupt oil executive. The novel was a success, winning an Edgar nomination, and Law went on to write eight more in the series, including Death Under Par and Cross-Check. Law has written historical mysteries, standalone suspense, and, most recently, the Francis Bacon Mysteries, which include The Prisoner of the Riviera, winner of the 2013 Lambda Literary Gay Mystery Award. She lives and writes in Connecticut. 

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE CAT’S MEOW

THE LASKER CIRCLE, by Janice Law

ONE COMMON DENOMINATOR, by Hal Charles

MAGGIE McGRADY’S MURDER MYSTERY CRUISE, by Gina Nelson

I, GOLEM, by Ron Miller

NO CLUE! by James Hay, Jr.

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

CHAPTER 21

INFECTION, by Philip E. High

BEAUTY CONTEST? by Henry Slesar

THE PASSIONATE PITCHMAN, by Stephen Marlowe

BIDDY AND THE SILVER MAN, by Harlan Ellison

THE ALIEN INTELLIGENCE, by Jack Williamson

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

The Lasker Circle is copyright © 2024 by Janice Law and appears here for the first time.

One Common Denominator is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Maggie McGrady’s Murder Mystery Cruise is copyright © 2022 by Gina Nelson. Originally published in: Malice In Dallas: Metroplex Mysteries Volume I. Reprinted by permission of the author.

I, Golem, is copyright © 2024 by Ron Miller and appears here for the first time.

No Clue! by James Hay, Jr. was originally published in 1920.

Infection is copyright © 1959 by Philip E. High; copyright © 2024 by the Estate of Philip E. High Originally published in Nebula Science Fiction #39, Feb. 1959. Reprinted by permission of the Cosmos Literary Agency.

Beauty Contest? by Henry Slesar was originally published in Fantastic, February 1957.

The Passionate Pitchman, by Stephen Marlowe, was originally published in Fantastic, October 1956, under the pseudonym Stephen Wilder.

Biddy and the Silver Man, by Harlan Ellison, was originally published in Fantastic, February 1957, under the pseudonym E.K. Jarvis.

The Alien Intelligence, by Jack Williamson, was originally published in Science Wonder Stories, July and August 1929.

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue, we have original mysteries from Janice Law (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and BCW’s very own Ron Miller (our Art Director), plus a modern masterpiece by Gina Nelson (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Add a rare Golden Age mystery novel by James Hay, Jr. and we have quite a winning mix.

But wait, there’s more! No issue is complete without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side, we have a great story by British master Philip E. High, as well as tales by Harlan Ellison, Henry Slesar, and Stephen Marlowe. Our novel is an early classic by Jack Williamson.

Here’s the complete lineup—

Cover Art: Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

The Lasker Circle, by Janice Law [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

One Common Denominator, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Maggie McGrady’s Murder Mystery Cruise, by Gina Nelson [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

I, Golem,by Ron Miller [short story]

No Clue! by James Hay, Jr. [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Infection, by Philip E. High [short story]

Beauty Contest? by Henry Slesar [short story]

The Passionate Pitchman, by Stephen Marlowe [short story]

Biddy and the Silver Man, by Harlan Ellison [novelet]

The Alien Intelligence, by Jack Williamson [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

THE LASKER CIRCLE,

by Janice Law

Someone’s coming, the Poet said. I expect him today. In daily life, the Poet was Bea Wilson, but her friend, Vivian, still thought of her as the Poet, just as she assumed—or maybe hoped—that Bea still thought of her as the Dancer.

Vivian shrugged. Others have come.

This one’s a writer, a journalist. He is hinting at new information.

We’ve heard that before, too.

Undeniably.

Thirty years, Vivian said. Some days it seems like yesterday. Other days a century.

He spoke of the anniversary, Bea said.

"Unleashed Human Creativity! I bought it in paperback in college. Little did I know then." A glance at Bea.

"The disappearance is his interest. That anniversary comes up next year, and Archie Cooper thinks his article can solve the case."

Ah, said Vivian, shifting her shoulders and stretching one of her long, strong legs. You discouraged him, of course.

He claims to have a fragment of a diary or memoir. Almost certainly fake, right?

Davidson would never have put anything in writing. The thought suggested betrayals on so many levels that Vivian was momentarily silent. Though he was a writer, she admitted. We’d never have heard of him otherwise. Would we?

I thought it best to see what information this Cooper person has. We must be prepared, Vivian. He is eager to question us specifically about what he calls ‘The Lasker Circle.’

I hate him already, Vivian joked.

Bea laughed. Hold that thought—it may come in handy.

But really! We’re hardly the only ones left. Hector’s around and Judy. Eileen’s out west, of course, but Peter…

I don’t think we can rely on Peter.

No, he’s the worst off. Hector’s pretty much back to baseline and Judy…

Work’s still remarkable, though. She’s intact as far as the work goes.

True of us all, more or less?

Though she knew Vivian wanted reassurance, Bea said, Less rather than more, her expressive voice sour. Suppose, she added after a moment, suppose Davidson had written the formula somewhere. Just suppose.

Vivian flexed the fingers of her afflicted right hand. Shoulders next? Hips? Legs? Were legs next? Chemists have worked on that. You know they have. Peter would be fine today if he hadn’t spent the last thirty years testing one formula after another.

You never really credited the drug, did you, Vivian?

She shook her head. Davidson was the key. His charisma and the psychic energy of the group.

Bea raised an eyebrow. The energy of ‘The Lasker Circle’ was certainly strong in the right circumstances.

Some never again to be repeated, Vivian said quickly.

I don’t know about that. She looked down at her monstrously swollen legs. What worked once…

Not to be thought of!

I think nothing. I await events. With this pronouncement, Bea looked at her watch. You should go. He’s coming at eleven, and a single contact will be best initially. Until we know what he’s got and what he wants.

Vivian agreed although she felt uneasy. To a genuine poetic gift, Bea had somehow added the lion’s share of Davidson’s charisma and authority. Would she—and the others—have been the same, with the same talents and the same bizarre illnesses, if Davidson had set up shop in another town? That was a question Vivian often pondered.

* * * *

Archie Cooper, journalist and researcher, parked on the shady main street, grabbed his seersucker blazer, and stepped out before a white two-story house with tall, arched windows on the ground floor, dormers set in a steep roof, and peeling dark green shutters. A flagstone walkway led past overgrown lilacs and yews standing in deep pools of shadow. Once a wealthy farmer’s house, Archie guessed, for Mabbetston was a rural village gone upscale with a mix of city commuters and genuine old money. A post war influx of cash was probably what had enabled Davidson Lasker to emerge in the first place, and, in the ordinary way of things, that charismatic promoter should have had a year or so of fame before retiring to late night chat shows and cranky newsletters. His still unsolved disappearance changed the equation, and public fascination with the mystery had raised Archie’s hopes of an important article or even a book.

With his newly uncovered material, Archie planned to interview the remaining members of the Lasker Circle. If they proved helpful, as he hoped and expected that they would, even a solution to Lasker’s disappearance might be in the cards. Archie already had a number of ideas for his piece, right down to a working title, Loss of a Con Man, a notion that failed to survive his visit to the village’s Memorial Garden.

There was a melancholy grove of trees, one for each lost soldier, and a conventional marble monument at the head of a ceremonial walkway. To the right side of the grove was what Archie had come to see, the Vietnam Memorial. Fabricated by a local blacksmith out of scrap agricultural metal, the memorial was a jagged heap of misery and aggression with an unsettling emotional charge. Hector Ainscough, shoer of horses and repairer of machines, had never done anything remotely like the memorial pre-Lasker. And didn’t that suggest some genuine inspiration?

Archie still considering that proposition as he walked up the mossy flagstone path to ring Bea Wilson’s bell. The inner door stood open, but the heavy screen outer door was securely hooked. A moment passed and then another before he heard heavy, uneven footsteps, and a tall woman with a cane appeared in the dim hallway. Mr. Cooper.

Ms. Wilson.

She opened the door and Archie stepped into a foyer with wide oak boards that smelled vaguely of herbs and mildew. Bea Wilson had short dark hair, vivid blue eyes, and wide, rather bony shoulders. Indeed, her face and her whole upper body were rawboned, a startling contrast to her massively swollen legs.

I stopped as you suggested at the memorial, Archie said. Impressive.

Hector’s masterpiece. Come in. She nodded toward a double doorway. I don’t move as fast as I once did. This would have been the parlor at one time. For ladies taking tea and a place to lay out the dead.

A combination, Archie thought, that conveyed the flavor of her poetry. He thanked her for agreeing to meet him.

You will want to see Edith’s mural in the library, she said. Visual material is more immediately striking than poetry.

"Though your collection, Knife in the Flesh, was much praised."

Rather a long time ago now. Her face changed subtly.

"Ars longa," Archie said.

"Not always longa enough. You mentioned a diary, she said abruptly, but you did not say that it had been authenticated."

The reason for my visit. I’m contacting people who knew Lasker well and who would have seen his handwriting. He opened his briefcase for photocopies of the first two pages.

Bea examined them carefully, then laid the pages in her lap and ran a finger gently over the lines of Davidson’s large and difficult script.

A long time, she said, a hoarse note in her voice, since I saw Davidson’s writing. And what is it? Basically, a shopping list.

He apparently started the notebook when he was planning to move to Mabbetston. He recorded his purchases before setting up here.

He planned big right from the start. Her voice was thoughtful.

He brought guests. At first.

That’s right. Artsy folk from the city. Intellectuals and creative movers and shakers. Some of us were quite dazzled. When she tipped her head and smiled, Archie caught a glimpse of the girl of thirty years ago, young and slim, and athirst for art. That girl was now trapped in layers of what looked to be diseased flesh.

Did you know him well?

Had we known him well, would his disappearance have remained such a mystery?

Archie shrugged. He thought that both true and debatable.

But you perhaps have the answer? A certain sharpness in her voice.

I have hopes, he said, warned by her tone and her keen glance. But Davidson Lasker began as a science fiction novelist. While this appears to be a diary, he wrote his novels in notebooks just like it.

He used to say that the typewriter was the touch of death for poetry. I can’t think how he would have reacted to the computer. For a dedicated utopian, he was old fashioned in a number of ways. She gave Archie a keen look. So, Martians and space aliens in the later pages? Or gossip about our town?

Archie was reluctant to share the whole manuscript. No green monsters but a lot of anxiety.

From the guru of creative potential! Davidson was unbelievably charismatic and confident.

Yet on one page he confesses to being frightened, Archie said. Why would that have been?

Bea thought this over. Thirty years. Do you know that after that time we have been completely remade at the cellular level? It’s a wonder we remember anything. I look back… She shrugged. Maybe he didn’t like the way things had developed. Maybe he saw his wonder drug being degraded to entertainment. Maybe he knew something the rest of us didn’t. Maybe he already felt the effects.

Side effects, you mean?

There are many, as you will discover. But the rest of the diary?

I’m keeping that for my article, Archie said. Or book. At this point I am really just trying to authenticate the writing.

Bea heaved herself upright with the help of her cane. We’ll talk further when I can see the rest, she said and although Archie exerted all his charm, she showed him straight to the door.

Although the rest of the Circle were less preemptory, their conclusions echoed Bea’s.

Lasker was the ringmaster, said Judy Levitt. She looked older than the others, her hair already gray and thinning over the crown. She was stooped and Archie found her more than a little vague, although her tapestries, woven in violets, greens, golds, and reds, were stunning, big energetic abstracts with bold shapes and emphatic lines. She worked at her loom while they talked, rarely making eye contact—and not always making sense—while her hands, seemingly with a life and control of their own, shuttled across the warp of the work, thread by thread creating patterns.

My mother was a good knitter. Fancy patterns, Fair Isle, that sort of thing. I knitted, too.

Pre- Lasker, Archie hinted.

Lasker had the magic. He put me on the right track. The warp and weft of the world is replicated on the loom. Our lives are woven by the gods or by DNA or chance. So long as you can work the shuttle, you can create worlds.

Right, thought Archie. But Lasker, was he a happy man?

What does happiness have to do with weaving the world?

He left, though, didn’t he? Disappeared? Abandoned all of you?

She nodded. He’s never been found. He disappeared into us. She gave a slight smile. What did you say your name was again?

Archie Cooper. She had asked that twice. I’m doing an article on Davidson Lasker. As he’d already made clear.

Judy paused for a moment. You won’t find him here. He’s been gone thirty years. With that, she resumed throwing the shuttle, her hands racing across the tapestry, filling in the rows with now red, now purple, now a pale lavender. Archie saw himself out.

After Judy, Hector Ainscough was an easier interview, if not necessarily more informative. He was a big fellow, heavily tanned, still with a head of jet hair, a matching mustache, and impressive tattoos on his massive arms. He had just finished shoeing a fine bay horse, and Archie waited until Hector led it out to the horse box and a tall redhead put the animal inside. While they discussed some detail of the new shoes, Archie looked around the forge, a quaint, almost antiquarian bit of local color except for a dusty row of moderately scaled sculptures.

There was nothing as overwhelming as the Vietnam Memorial, but the jagged and twisted forms, rusted with age and studded with what looked to be lethal projections, had an undeniable, and very modern, power. Plus an aggressive energy that Archie thought was not unlike Bea Wilson’s poetry and Judy Levitt’s lush tapestries. Was that supercharged force Lasker’s gift? Or was there something in town that had spoken to Lasker and that he, in turn, had drawn out?

Davidson Lasker! the smith said when Archie introduced himself and described his project. Twenty-nine, thirty years? A blast from the past. A muscle twitched in his face and Archie noticed that he had a definite squint in one eye.

Was he a big influence on your work?

Didn’t know squat about shoeing horses. Nor welding, either.

I meant the sculptures. I’ve seen your amazing war memorial.

Another blast from the past. I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.

It’s fantastically imaginative.

"You wouldn’t say that if you’d been in Nam. Then it’s realistic. Just the way things were. Don’t know if I’d have cared to remember quite that much, but that was Davidson’s unlimited potential for you. I was into that for a while but no more. Steer clear of it."

Did he came to that conclusion too? With his disappearance?

Who knows? I never understood him. I came back stateside with a strong need for an alternative reality, if you know what I mean, and Davidson was offering free. Seemed like a deal at the time. He wiped his hands on his thick leather apron and moved to his forge. Got to get back to work, he said, and beyond confirming that the handwriting could well be Davidson Lasker’s, Archie got no more out of him.

Next on the list was Peter DiNatale, former pharmacist and amateur chemist. He lived in a tiny broken-down cottage with a saddle-shaped roof coated in moss. The gray clapboards were nearly devoid of paint and the steps up to the front door were settling into the uncut grass. Archie had called before he drove out to the house, but when DiNatale opened the door, he gave no sign of recognition.

Archie explained his visit, mentioned his previous phone call, and attempted to conjure up the chemist’s memories with Davidson Lasker’s name. He got a blank look and the two of them stood for what became an awkward silence, before DiNatale said, Big secret. Two big secrets. Know one, never figured the second. The key, you know, the key to the universe: That’s what Lasker had. For a while. The thing is, you don’t get to keep the key. Single use like the razor blades. Single use. But expensive.

You mentioned a second secret? Archie was hopeful.

Peter shook his head. Worth my life. Both of them. I have seen the interior of the sun, he said and closed the door.

Archie’s last interview was with Vivian Forrest, the town librarian, a person, working an ordinary job, interacting with ordinary people, whom he expected would be amenable. She pulled some bound volumes of the town weekly, The Crier, for him and talked about the quite extraordinary mural that decorated the back wall of the new wing. Hills and trees, farms, the town’s churches and public buildings were represented in a gorgeously stylized manner that raised the surrealism and psychedelic colors of the sixties and seventies to a whole other level. Archie was blown away by it.

Oh yes, Edith Swartzkof was a talent, Vivian agreed.

I’ve got to interview her! Have you a contact address or phone number?

Vivian shook her head and raised her expressive hands. Archie had read that she’d had a considerable career as a dancer, and all her movements were graceful, although her hands were knobbed and swollen with arthritis. Edith is more or less a recluse now, I understand. She was out in the Bay Area for some years. I don’t think she has come back East, and I don’t think she paints anymore.

A great loss!

Vivian gave him a sad smile. "Unlimited Potential didn’t mean unlimited as to time. That’s really all you need to know."

Along with what happened to Lasker.

He disappeared, said Vivian. Some of us have had trouble adjusting to that reality.

Peter DiNatale, Archie suggested.

Peter has had a hard time. But Lasker changed us all. It was like a marriage: for better or worse or, in our case, both. There was a certain fatality about him for everyone he touched. I wonder if that might be true for biographers, as well.

Though her expression was bland, Archie sensed a warning, and irritated, he handed her one of the key pages. I’d like you to look at a page of what might be his diary.

She brought her glasses down from the top of her fair hair and took the photocopy. This is just a photocopy.

I have the originals for safekeeping.

She raised her eyebrows, then scanned the paragraphs conveying such deep unease with the demands and attitudes of the group that the writer planned to return to the city for good. I’m no expert, but I would say this was his handwriting. He signed a couple of books for the library when he first came. I can show them to you if you like.

I am satisfied now that it is his, Archie said. When she made no further comment, he asked, What about the content? Diary, fragment of a novel, something else?

She shook her head. The whole Lasker thing is like a dream, unreal. I can’t say now what was in his mind—or ours. She looked at Archie very directly. But I think it is dangerous to make people dependent. To make people think you have secret powers, influences. My guess is that Davidson was spooked when he realized that.

He was famous. His face was instantly recognizable. There was a nationwide search, yet he was never found.

He was a clever man. Or maybe he did have secret powers, she said with a shrug and handed back the photocopy. What did the others think of this?

I showed the others his plans for outfitting the house here.

Good. Any suggestion that his disappearance was somehow our fault would only have upset them. He didn’t want to be found—that’s what I think. Maybe the diary entries will make a good article, but his disappearance remains inexplicable. No one here will tell you different.

Vivian appeared to be right about that, and after several days in Mabbetston, Archie was of two minds. He was convinced that there was something he was missing, something dimly sensed in the vivid, if curiously uninformative, reminiscences of the Circle. But nothing, not his interviews, not the back issues of the gossipy The Crier, not previous research, not even a tedious hike through the abandoned meadows that surrounded the belle époque mansion where Davidson Lasker had set up his drug lab and commune, had produced the slightest scrap of new evidence.

The guru of unlimited potential had seemingly dematerialized like one of his unfortunate fictional astronauts, so when Bea Wilson called Archie quite late one evening, he was definitely interested. She said that she’d spoken to Vivian, who had misinterpreted the passage Archie’d shown her. With the complete text, Bea knew that she could give him more accurate information. He agreed to come right over.

Back to the parlor with its shades of genteel teas and corpses in repose. Bea had switched on a pair of good Tiffany lights with floral stained-glass shades, and those and her collection of large and boldly leaved plants—how had he not noticed those by daylight?—gave the parlor an exotic air, as if a little bit of jungle had insinuated itself.

Time to bring them in from the backyard, she remarked with a gesture toward the rampant foliage. The nights are drawing in.

Archie sat on one of the maroon horsehair sofas, as elegant and uncomfortable as he remembered from their first interview, and Bea poured him a little glass of pale wine. When she said, my own, he was reluctant, expecting vinegar or soda pop, but the wine was subtle and delicious, and he had a second glass before he opened his briefcase for the photocopies. Bea studied each page carefully and then read the whole thing again, shopping list included. When she finished, she smiled. I would like to know how you found this.

Archie shook his head. It was sent to me. Quite mysteriously. Is it enlightening?

Davidson was planning to leave, no doubt about it, planning to dissolve the group and ruin everything. At the time, I suspected, though I’m not sure anyone else did. This confirms. She tapped the pages.

Any idea how he managed to disappear so completely?

Bea paused for a moment. You’d have to get a sense of the group to understand that, she said. I can arrange, if you are serious.

Archie assured her that he was.

We must meet altogether, all those who remain. If you really want to know.

Archie was already over budget on the trip, and he could not imagine that the somewhat disconnected and damaged members of the Circle could be quickly marshaled. But when he voiced this reservation, Bea shook her head. At a moment’s notice, she said and got painfully to her feet. Try some of the biscuits, while I phone around.

Tonight? he asked surprised.

Davidson disappeared at night. So, night’s the time if you really want to get the full picture. If you do.

Her enigmatic look gave him a qualm, but he felt that he’d gone too far to go back now. The full picture, definitely, he said, and he sampled a biscuit. Tasty. The wine was really excellent and might have been poured in bigger glasses. From the other room, he heard her voice, a time and place mentioned and various phrases, vitally important, Archie’s name, and the last chance for a solution. A solution might give them closure, he thought, that good contemporary thing.

All set? he asked when she made her ponderous way back to the parlor.

We have time for a little more wine, she said. How do you like those biscuits?

Archie allowed they were delicious and helped himself to another glass, too.

Davidson’s recipe, she said after a minute. He made exquisite wine. Mine is good but his was outstanding.

A new insight at last: Davidson Lasker made good wine. Archie was considering whether this information was helpful when the doorbell rang, and he heard footsteps on the porch. Several people had arrived, summoned, as it were, out of thin air. The same thin air that shrouded Davidson Lasker? At this whimsical thought, Archie decided Bea Wilson’s wine must pack more kick than he’d expected. He stood up, a little shakily, to greet Vivian and Judy. The boys are in the truck, Vivian said. I think we can all go in my car.

Bea patted her arm and gestured for Archie to precede her. I’m so slow at the moment, she said. Vivian gave her a look that Archie couldn’t read.

They piled into the car and drove down the dark village street, then took the state road for about a mile to the abandoned Lasker estate gatehouse. Archie’d had his tour of the manse courtesy of the town historian, who’d made a deal about privileged access, but the historian, bless his heart, was not the only one with a key, because the blacksmith swung the massive gates open for Vivian’s sedan and followed with his truck.

The fields were dark, the conifer plantation inky against a sky where the moon alternately lit up scudding clouds and disappeared behind them. Autumn’s coming, said Vivian, arousing thoughts of Halloween and witches and broomsticks. Memo to self, Archie thought, Avoid homemade wine.

They passed the monstrous shell of the mansion house and the decaying greenhouses, the overgrown walled gardens, the stables, and carriage house, until they reached a grove of hemlocks surrounding a small cut stone cottage, roofless, and, by its simplicity, much older than the Gilded Age constructions. Vivian pulled into the weeds and shut off the motor. We met here, she said as they exited the vehicles, for important matters.

For when we told him, Bea said, what was happening.

To our health, added Hector, who looked even more massive in the faint moonlight than he had at his forge.

Told him the need, said Peter. The desperate need.

Which he ignored, said Judy. She moved through the high grass and entered the open doorway. She was carrying a large square flashlight which she set on the floor. Instantly, light and shadows ran along the dark web of beams above. Charred? They looked charred to Archie as though there had been a bad fire at one time.

He made us serious, said Vivian, "but he, himself, was not serious. He thought he could go back to popular fiction and making money. That’s what he thought."

Money, being, said Bea, very much a root of evil.

He left us with talents bought at great cost and maintained dangerously, Hector said.

Planning to preserve the last of the supply for himself. As he spoke, Peter moved behind Archie. He was rather too close for comfort, as they all were, all the members of the Circle, crowding around him, their faces lit from below, thickly shadowed, suddenly unfamiliar.

They’d moved without signal or command, Archie thought, as if they’ve done this before, making such a circle as they might have formed around Davidson Lasker the night of some long-ago confrontation. How would Lasker have reacted? A man of wealth and privilege, the creator of what seemed like an increasingly sinister coven, a man hailed as a genius, a man both famous and famously drugged up? Archie had read enough by and about him to make a pretty good guess. He’d have pulled rank, reminded them of his gifts and their obligations. The drug was his creation, his alone, to be dispensed to his acolytes at his pleasure.

Did he say something like that? Archie thought so, and the faces around him, not hostile, exactly, but coldly indifferent, confirmed his thought that Lasker’s attitude had proved disastrous. Though by no means wildly imaginative, Archie envisioned darkness and hysteria and the descent of one of the blacksmith’s lethal hammers and realized that he had the solution to Lasker’s disappearance and the kernel of a sensational book. Here? he asked hoarsely, It was here, wasn’t it? Whatever happened, happened here.

He hadn’t meant to speak out loud and his heart jumped, because he felt a visceral sense of danger, though these were the ordinary middle-aged people that he’d interviewed, people that he felt he knew, yet he had spoken and they were pressing around him, uncomfortably close. Archie was suddenly desperately eager to believe any story that returned Davidson Lasker’s vanishing act to the ordinary parameters instead of ending here in fire and violence. He looked from one to the other, hoping for an explanation.

He was our salvation, said Bea. For a while. The pieces of him, that is. He was shared out, as I fear that you must be, Mr. Cooper, for I see by your face that you have guessed.

Archie spun around and lunged for the door, fists swinging wildly, but Peter, damaged as he was, dodged away. Bea gave a nod and the smith’s blow descended.

The operation took them half the night. They weren’t as young as they had been when Davidson Lasker died, and there were fewer of them to do the work. But the group, Archie Cooper’s ‘Circle,’ had formed and acted and that gave them hope, and hope gave them strength. When Archie was dismembered and packaged, they made their way home for quiet garden burials or, in Hector’s case, to fire up the forge and begin disassembling Archie’s car.

As he worked, Hector considered beginning another sculpture with the parts, although he hadn’t made anything of note in nearly thirty years. But maybe Vivian was right. It wasn’t Lasker’s odd drugs that had transformed them. It was the group, acting as one, bold and complicit, that made the difference. He’d certainly felt that tonight. The twitch was gone from his face; his vision was steady. And hadn’t Bea walked back to the car without a hitch? He must get a look at Vivian’s hands, too. And Peter, Peter had conducted a normal conversation with him for the first time in a decade.

They had worried themselves about the journalist coming with his questions and documents. Wrong focus entirely. They should worry in case no one else comes, Hector thought. That should be their real worry from now on.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Janice Law (janicelaw.com) is the Edgar nominated novelist of the Anna Peters and Francis Bacon mysteries. She regularly publishes short fiction in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Sherlock Holmes, as well as Black Cat Weekly.

ONE COMMON DENOMINATOR,

by Hal Charles

For as long as she could remember, Detective Kelly Stone had an aunt problem. A few years ago, her mother’s three older sisters made the problem worse. They bought a house together for them to all live in. Unfortunately, whenever something went wrong, their first reflex was to call Kelly.

Like the muffin man, the three aunts lived on Drury Lane. Every time she showed up, which was getting to be quite often, Kelly found herself singing the old nursery rhyme, today louder than usual, to cover her growling stomach. This noontime urgency had halted the detective’s lunch hour before it started.

When Kelly arrived, Aunt Polly was straightening the pillows on the three front porch chairs. Toilet clogged? Aunt Molly’s cat missing again? Forgot your wi-fi password? questioned the detective.

For things so menial I would not deign to pick up the telephone, said Polly, arranging the chairs in a perfect semi-circle. But, I didn’t call you.

I did, and now I feel so bad about it, said Aunt Folly, coming out the front screen door and carrying a platter with a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses. Could you give us the room, Polly?

What does that mean? said Aunt Polly, picking up her duster.

Not sure, said Aunt Folly, but they say it all the time on TV when the detective wants to be alone with the victim.

As Polly and her duster and broom disappeared inside, Aunt Folly poured Kelly a glass of lemonade and sat down in a recently re-arranged chair. There are only three people who could have done it, she said, so your job is quite easy.

Done what? said Kelly, taking a sip.

"Last night after supper I was sitting in my favorite easy chair, eating a piece of Aunt Molly’s delicious pecan pie, sipping my cambric tea, and trying to finish The Return of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m afraid I nodded off."

Multitasking will do that to you. Wait a minute. Didn’t I give you a three-volume Arthur Conan Doyle set for your birthday last month?

I’m afraid with these eyes, dear, I am only up to volume II, confessed Aunt Folly.

And by ‘done’…? Kelly repeated.

I thought that was obvious, said Aunt Folly. Volume II was missing when I awoke this morning. I searched all around my chair, but couldn’t find it.

Just then the screen door opened again, and Aunt Molly appeared with a plate. As usual, honey, you look like you never stop to eat. She thrust the plate forward. Just this morning I made some chicken salad, so I spread it on some crackers for you. As she handed Kelly the plate, some cracker crumbs fell off.

How nice of you, Aunt Molly. Hungry, Kelly took a huge bite. Delicious. By the way, Aunt Folly is missing a book of Sherlock Holmes stories.

Haven’t seen it, but of course the only things I read nowadays are cookbooks. That’s where I found the recipe for the chicken salad. The secret ingredient, she said in a conspiratorial whisper, is grapes.

Kelly smiled at her.

There would have been a slice of pecan pie to go with those hors d’oeuvres, said Aunt Molly, but someone we both know and love ate the final piece last night.

I…I guess I did, said Aunt Folly. I can be so forgetful some times.

No matter, said Aunt Molly. If you inhale deeply, over the scent of furniture polish you’ll detect the apple pie I just baked.

This is really good, said Aunt Polly, entering the front porch with a slice of apple pie and a wedge of Gouda cheese. Now, don’t I get my turn to be interrogated, too? She dusted the crumbs off the table before sitting.

No need, said Kelly. I think one common denominator explains exactly what happened to your book, Aunt Folly.

SOLUTION

By substituting observation for irritation, Kelly correctly deduced that the missing volume was back on the bookshelf beside the other two Holmes books. She also figured out the one common denominator. From watching Polly cleaning and arranging the front porch, Kelly realized Polly suffered from OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Finding the book beside her sleeping housemate, Polly had placed it back beside the other two volumes.

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, forBlack Cat Weekly.

MAGGIE McGRADY’S

MURDER MYSTERY CRUISE,

by Gina Nelson

As sparkling remnants of late-summer fireworks cascaded into the dark waters of Lake Ray Hubbard, the air aboard the paddle wheel Poirot was redolent with spicy Szechuan and double-chocolate chip cookies.

Rhett Cutler, where are you? Show yourself, you no-good, skirt-chasing scoundrel! Michelle Cassavetes, our raven-haired leading lady, stalked into the dining area.

Our wide-eyed audience hushed, cookies halfway to their mouths, souvenir glasses frozen in midair.

Sir, please forgive the intrusion. With just the right amount of melodrama, the skilled, if overblown, actress gripped the shoulder of a man at a nearby table. Did my dastardly husband dare to flirt with your wife this very evening? she asked in a stage whisper, loud enough for the entire McGrady’s Murder Mystery audience to hear.

You bet your sweet a—butt, he did, responded a brawny guy as he gave the stylish redhead at his side a squeeze.

Titters of excitement rippled through the audience.

Michelle questioned another couple across the room, which caused the young hipsters to laugh. It’s no laughing matter. She applied a lace hanky to her eyes. If only our marriage was as sweet as yours. With a choked sob, she crossed to the souvenir table. Covered with nautical trinkets and conveniently draped with an extra-long tablecloth, it was perfect for concealing the body of her dastardly husband, Rhett Cutler, otherwise known to his three real-life ex-wives as Kurt Russell Brown.

From my perch behind the bar, thanks to my recent firing of our bartender—owning a murder-mystery dinner cruise sounds so much more entertaining than it actually is—I watched with sweet anticipation as she nonchalantly placed a hand to her hair as if suddenly fatigued from her question.

Oh, no, she cried, grabbing her ear. I’ve lost one of my diamond earrings. Without missing a beat, she turned to the guests. Am I still wearing the other one? Yes, they all nodded in response. My husband, Rhett, gave me these earrings. Whatever will I do if I can’t find it?

She sank gracefully to the floor, a feat in stiletto heels and a tight slinky dress. Michelle lifted the tablecloth and dropped it as if the fabric had scorched her skin. Her eyes, wide as platters, found mine across the room.

Holy Titanic. From Michelle’s reaction, our show had sprung another leak. The evening had started with a few waves—no bartender, no pork for the pork dumplings, and a table of five insisted their soup was neither hot nor sour and totally uneatable. After the dessert was served late and the coffee early, I’d written the night off as a total fiasco. All that remained was for the historic paddle wheel to hit an iceberg and sink. I held my breath, nails digging into my palms.

She gathered herself. "Oh, where can he be?" Her tone, no longer full of sorrow, was bordering on anger. I had to give Michelle credit. Working with Kurt had sharpened her improvisational skills.

Rhett? She placed a hand to the side of her mouth. Where are you? she called, projecting her voice toward the door. I placed the Be Right Back sign on the bar and set off to find my missing actor. First, I would kill him. Second, I would decapitate him with a butter knife and use his fat head for an anchor.

* * * *

A dashing male figure entered the room, Don Brawn played with youthful ardor by Ethan Tremaine. I stepped quickly to the side, knowing I could make my exit once he crossed to Michelle.

"Come away with me, chérie. If Michelle was Scarlett, Ethan’s character was Pepé Le Pew. He lifted her hand to his lips. Forget that no-good husband of yours, and let me make mad, passionate love to you."

I ran to the dressing room. Empty. Scurried to the bathroom. Empty.

Woof, woof… woof, woof, woof! barked Dashiell Hammett from my onboard office, his home away from home.

Chef Vu stuck his head out the galley door. What’s wrong now?

Have you seen Kurt?

He glowered and raised his spatula. No. Good riddance.

I raced back to the dining room and prayed he was already onstage. I caught myself grinding my teeth…yet again. For a moment all I could hear was the cha-ching of my hard-earned money as