Black Cat Weekly #147

By Sharon Roth, Ron Miller, John Glasby and 6 more

This issue, we have a pair of original mysteries (by Ron Miller and Shannon Taft, the latter two thanks to our Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), and our mystery novel is a Victorian-era sensation novel by Florence Warden. Of course, there’s a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles, too.

Our fantasy and science fiction section is heavier than usual on fantasy, with an Australian tale by Ernest Favenc, a dark fantasy by British master John Glasby, and a supernatural novel by E.F. Benson. Science fiction fans will enjoy classic pulp adventures by Edmond Hamilton and Arthur Leo Zagat. Fun stuff!

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Take the Money and Run,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The Penny Drops,” by Shannon Taft [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Velda’s First Case,” by Ron Miller [short story, Velda series]
The Mystery of the Inn by the Shore, by Florence Warden [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Not Without Sorcery,” by John Glasby [short story]
“Fey,” by Ernest Favenc [short story]
“The Comet-drivers,” by Edmond Hamilton [short story]
“No Escape from Destiny” by Arthur Leo Zagat [short novel]
Across the Stream, by E.F. Benson [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: Jun 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667604053

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE CAT’S MEOW

TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN, by Hal Charles

THE PENNY DROPS, by Shannon Taft

VELDA’S FIRST CASE, by Ron Miller

THE MYSTERY OF THE INN BY THE SHORE, by Florence Warden

INTRODUCTION

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

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

NOT WITHOUT SORCERY, by John Glasby

FEY, by Ernest Favenc

THE COMET-DRIVERS, by Edmond Hamilton

NO ESCAPE FROM DESTINY by Arthur Leo Zagat

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

ACROSS THE STREAM, by E.F. Benson

INTRODUCTION

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

Take the Money and Run is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Penny Drops is copyright © 2024 by Sharon Roth and appears here for the first time.

Velda’s First Case is copyright © 2024 by Ron Miller and appears here for the first time.

The Mystery of the Inn by the Shore, by Florence Warden, was originally published in 1895.

Fey,by Ernest Favenc, was originally published in the Evening News (Sydney, Australia), Oct. 17, 1896.

Not Without Sorcery, is copyright © 1961 by John Glasby. Originally published in Supernatural Stories #45 (1961). Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Philip Harbottle / Cosmos Literary Agency.

The Comet-drivers, by Edmond Hamilton, was originally published in Weird Tales, Feb. 1930.

No Escape from Destiny is copyright © 1948, renewed 1976 by Arthur Leo Zagat. Originally published in published in Startling Stories, May 1948. Reprinted by permission of the Arthur Leo Zagat estate.

Across the Stream, by E.F. Benson, was originally published in 1910.

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 a pair of original mysteries (by Ron Miller and Wil A. Emerson, the latter thanks to our Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), and our mystery novel is a Victorian-era sensation novel by Florence Warden. Of course, there’s a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles, too. We will have 2 tales selected by our Aquiring Editor Michael Bracken next week.

Our fantasy and science fiction section is heavier than usual on fantasy, with an Australian tale by Ernest Favenc, a dark fantasy by British master John Glasby, and a supernatural novel by E.F. Benson. Science fiction fans will enjoy classic pulp adventures by Edmond Hamilton and Arthur Leo Zagat. Fun stuff!

Here’s the complete lineup—

Cover Art: Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Take the Money and Run, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

The Penny Drops, by Shannon Taft [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Velda’s First Case, by Ron Miller [short story, Velda series]

The Mystery of the Inn by the Shore, by Florence Warden [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Not Without Sorcery, by John Glasby [short story]"

Fey, by Ernest Favenc [short story]

The Comet-drivers, by Edmond Hamilton [short story]

No Escape from Destiny by Arthur Leo Zagat [short novel]

Across the Stream, by E.F. Benson [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN,

by Hal Charles

So, said State Police Detective Kelly Stone’s brother-in-law, is it true women judge other women by their shoes?

That’s one of life mysteries, replied Kelly, lacing up her running shoes," just like how Krissy convinced me to join your running club today. To think I could have been home finishing my new book on Rustlers and Lawdogs of the Old West."

Well, it’s a good thing I did convince you, interrupted her sister, Krissy. Someone just stole the prize for today’s run, a pair of autographed sneakers actually worn by the NBA’s MVP.

Suddenly the tent housing the Great Falls Gazelles running club grew so quiet Kelly could actually hear the grunts and groans outside from the day’s competitors warming up.

I get all the running clubs from the tri-county area to come for the First Great Falls Invitational, lamented Krissy, and one of the six people in this tent undercuts me by stealing the trophy. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the local paper run that picture of me holding up the trophy Keds.

Now, Sis… said Kelly.

Seriously, why did I ever take the job as Events Coordinator with Parks & Rec, continued Krissy. Things around me always seem to get lost, misplaced, or even stolen.

I was the last to arrive at the tent this morning, said Kelly, but I’m certain at that moment the trophy sneaks were sitting on the table in the middle of the room. Everybody was so busy stretching in their earbud world I doubt anyone saw anything.

Well, I didn’t take them, Scott wouldn’t keep a found penny, and you are an officer of the law, said Krissy bluntly, so that leaves three suspects.

Maybe you could introduce me to them, suggested the detective.

No need to, said a lanky figure. My name is Steve Larrabee—he jumped up on a chair—and I’m proud to be wearing a shoe by a new manufacturer trying to make inroads into this area. He lifted his right leg to flash a new sneaker. Behold the new Skeds’ Soar, a shoe guaranteed to leave you all in the dust.

Wow, said Kelly, and to think I was going to stay home and read a book."

Sis, said Krissy, pulling a woman with a blond ponytail out of the group, this is Tess Trainor. When she grew up down the street, we knew her as Tessie Larson.

Or as Tessie the Toad, said the surprised woman. I was kinda plump and sorta ugly in those days.

Kelly gave her childhood friend a hug. You were also the best Wiffle ball hitter I ever saw. You look so different. What happened to you?

After we moved across town, puberty struck, and I became a real athlete.

I hate to interrupt this touching reunion, Detective. I’m Maisie Farange, I just moved here from Montreal, I don’t know any of you, but I like to run…and win.

Welcome to Great Falls, Maisie. Glad you could join us, said Kelly. Now if you all don’t mind, since nobody’s left this tent since I arrived, I’d like permission to search all your gym bags.

Go ahead, said Steve Larrabee. We’ve nothing to hide, do we?

Permission was unanimous. The runner’s bags were examined. Steve’s bag yielded a back-up pair of shoes, a tube of superglue, several pairs of socks, and a huge but empty water bottle. Tess had only a sack of oranges she was planning to give out at the finish line. Maisie’s bag contained some high-cuts, some low-cuts, a new package of socks, and some high-energy drinks.

Just then, an air-horn sounded the fifteen minutes to race time signal.

Darn, said Krissy. What are you going to do now? Once everybody leaves this tent, you’ll have no chance to find the thief, but you will have time for that stupid new book of yours.

Thanks, Sis, said Kelly. You’ve just solved this mystery for us.

SOLUTION

In her book on the Old West, Kelly had learned how rustler’s often used so-called running irons to change one brand to another. In a similar vein, Steve Larrabee, having seen a picture of the trophy shoes in the local paper, simply superglued an S on said shoes, changing Keds to Skeds" and hopefully wearing them out the door.

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.

THE PENNY DROPS,

by Shannon Taft

Nadia, I did not kill your brother. I undercut the firmness of my statement by nervously nibbling on a fingernail. When my sister-in-law had paid my bail and picked me up from the jail, I’d thought it meant she believed my story about a burglar shooting Archer. But instead of driving me home, as I’d expected, Nadia Bendis was taking us into the woods on an unpaved lane—one unsuited for the excessive speed of her Porsche 911.

She didn’t even bother to look at me when she replied, with a hint of amusement in her tone, I’m positive you didn’t kill him, Lily. That’s why I’m driving you to the perfect spot to murder you and dump your body.

I remembered Archer telling me that his emotionally detached sister would make a flawless serial killer given her extreme attention to detail. He’d even claimed that she used to date a homicide detective because she was seeking tips on how the police worked, all for the day when she would need to know how to evade them. I’d assumed it was a bad joke, but what if his words had been truer than he’d known? Had she shot her own brother?

My voice was more tentative than I intended as I said, You’re kidding about where we’re going, right?

Nadia tucked a lock of her long raven-black hair behind one ear and slowed the car to give me a quick glance with her penetrating gray eyes. I said it would be the perfect place for killing you and hiding the body, not that I planned to do it.

Then why are—?

"You’re clinging to the side of the door like you think you might need to flee. If we’re going to figure out who killed Archer, I need you to trust me. Once I’ve taken you to a place where I could kill you, and I don’t do it, then you’ll know you have nothing to fear, and we can get started on proving your innocence."

Oh. I supposed that made a certain bizarre sense. Plus, Nadia was wearing a tailored white pantsuit with red stiletto heels—not a good outfit for burying a corpse in the woods. I released my grip on the door’s armrest and eased back into the bucket seat.

Nadia darted another look at me before returning her attention to the pitted road. I only took us down this path—in both senses of the words—because of how you were acting. By the way, why did you suddenly become afraid? You got in my car willingly enough.

Relieved that she hadn’t sounded offended, merely curious, I replied, You were peering so closely at all the other drivers back on Main Street, even the pedestrians at the red lights. Like you wanted to know who might be able to testify that they’d seen me in your car. And when you went past the turn for going to my house… I trailed off in embarrassment.

Ah. Nadia seemed pleased that I’d picked up on potential clues, even if I’d assembled them badly. I like to look around and notice things. One might even call it my hobby. And I didn’t turn onto Oak Street for a very good reason—we weren’t going to your house in the first place. She gently applied the brakes until the car came to a halt in the middle of what could scarcely be called a road. Shall we continue to the excellent body-dumping location to prove my restraint, or can I trust that you won’t suspect me of planning to harm you every time I act in a manner you find unusual?

I was lucky to have her as an ally and decided that putting up with a little oddness was a small price to pay in exchange. We’re good. You can turn around here.

Nadia laughed. It was more musical than I would have expected, and it made me realize I’d never heard her laugh before.

"I don’t know if I can turn around here, she said dryly, gesturing to the close greenery with a wave of her hand. But I suppose it’s worth a try." Nadia turned the wheel and proceeded to ease the car back and forth on the narrow lane, moving the vehicle only a few inches each time. What would normally be a three-point turn was more like twelve before we were facing the way we’d come.

As we zoomed back to civilization, I asked, If we’re not going to my house, where are you taking me?

Archer’s lover’s house. Or, rather, one of his lovers. He had several, you know.

That’s what the police said when they were interrogating me, I told her bitterly. As if having my husband murdered and being accused of doing it wasn’t bad enough, I’d learned from hostile strangers that my marriage had been a bed of lies.

Nadia lowered her chin, making her look abashed, something I’d never seen from her. Usually, she appeared confident, intrigued, or bored. I wanted to tell you ages ago about his cheating, she said softly, her voice barely audible. It seemed like the sort of thing you had a right to know. But my parents said not to.

I blinked at her. Your parents knew too?

Oh, Lily. Nadia’s voice was stronger, but full of pity, and her next words made me feel even more stupid. It was rather obvious. You didn’t notice the scent of other women’s perfumes from time to time?

My gaze dropped to my wedding ring. I did say something to him about it once, when I realized he smelled like cinnamon and lavender. He said it was from the air freshener in a store where he’d just bought me a present. Then he reached into his briefcase and handed me a box with tiny dreamcatcher earrings. I felt like such an idiot that I never questioned him about anything similar again.

Men count on things like that, Nadia said. Women not wanting to be thought foolish. You have a PhD in French Literature, but he was still able to convince you to doubt your own judgment. I bet he was carrying that box around just waiting for the day he’d need it to excuse one thing or another. That’s why they were small earrings—to not take up much space. Was it a sturdy box or made of flimsy cardboard?

I turned my hands palms up and tried to picture myself holding the box. I think it was the kind that is metal, covered in green felt.

He used a stronger box so it couldn’t get dented or beat up being carted around, Nadia said unequivocally. Makes sense.

My eyes narrowed at the memory. In hindsight, it did seem like an odd box for the kind of store that would use scented oils for air freshener. And there’d been no gift wrap. Was that because a paper casing would get messed up if it was held in a briefcase for an extended period? I wished that realization had occurred to me sooner. I was sure Nadia would have figured it out on the spot if she’d been in my shoes.

I was jolted out of my reverie by the car going thump as its wheels went from hard-packed dirt to pavement. Fifty feet later, Nadia brought us to a halt at a stop sign and peered at the traffic rushing by. Her lips curved in a slight smile before she turned to tell me, Archer may have been a jerk, but he was my brother. And you happen to be a very nice person—far too nice for him. I object to nice people getting framed for murder.

I appreciate your support, but I don’t think I was framed as much as unlucky. The burglar couldn’t have known I had a motive or even that I was in the house.

Tell me about that night, Nadia said. I want to hear it from your point of view.

I wasn’t eager to relive it, but I felt that Archer’s sister had a right to know, especially if she was going to help me. There’d been burglaries in the neighborhood, and when Archer heard a noise downstairs, he took his pistol from the bedside drawer and went to go look. I said we should call the police, but he said not to, in case no one was there. The next thing I knew, there were two quick bangs, like a gun being fired. When I finally got up the nerve to go and see…

My eyes stung at the memory. I paused to swallow, then rushed out the words, Archer was dead at the bottom of the steps, his pistol still in his hand. He’d been shot twice, and there was an extra gun on the floor—about halfway to the front door. It wasn’t until later that I realized the antique silver candlesticks your parents gave us were gone.

Nadia’s face showed no reaction to the description of her brother’s death, but she didn’t speak again until after she’d pulled the Porsche into a gap in the traffic and raced the engine up to speed. According to Detective Barrow, the police were arresting the actual neighborhood burglars—two brothers—at the same time that you claim the gun went off. The brothers were caught in the act, and most of the other stolen items were found in their garage, so it’s not like there’s a question whether they were the ones doing the other crimes.

That’s what the police told me too. Since all the burglaries were solved—except mine—they refuse to believe there was a burglar in my house at all. They said that Archer’s pistol showed he never got off a shot that night, while the gun that was fired was untraceable with no fingerprints. So, they think it must’ve been me.

My sister-in-law took a right at the corner after the Episcopal church, and I turned my head to gaze blindly out the window. It finally occurred to me that Nadia had gotten a surprising amount of information from Barrow given their history. I faced her once more. Your ex-boyfriend discussed the other burglars with you?

Nadia lifted her chin and issued a dismissive sniff. Not exactly. After the police arrested you, I went to a bar where the cops like to hang out. Barrow took me there enough times that I knew the layout. Where he’d sit and the best table to listen in with my back to him. And I dressed differently for the occasion. You know, a wig, three sweaters under my coat to alter my body shape—it was all miserably hot! But it was worth it to get the intel.

My stomach knotted at the news that the cops were so sure they were finished with the case that they felt free to discuss it in a public bar. How does Barrow know so much about it? Surely, it would be a conflict of interest for him to work on your brother’s murder?

The light ahead turned yellow, and Nadia coasted to a stop. Barrow isn’t assigned to the case. But I was certain that he’d be curious about the goings-on, and I was right. He was chatting up the detectives who’d questioned you, buying them a round of beers. Between what he said about the burglaries, and what the other cops said about the murder, I picked up quite a lot. That’s why we’re driving to Brooke Thwaites’s house.

Brooke? But I thought you said we were going to see a woman who Archer had been… I trailed off as I realized that I was apparently even more clueless than I’d thought. I hadn’t considered Brooke a close friend, but I’d had lunch with her at the club the week before and sensed nothing to indicate she’d been having an affair with my husband.

Nadia interrupted my self-pity, saying, Brooke wasn’t on the list of women the cops were discussing as Archer’s bedmates. If she was better at hiding the affair than the other married women, that might speak to her need for secrecy—and thereby her motives to silence Archer forever. So, we’ll start with her.

I wondered how long the list of Archer’s women might be, but I had too much pride to ask. Instead, I said, If Brooke hid the affair so well, how do you know about it?

The light turned green, and Nadia took a left. The smell. She is the only woman I know who thinks lavender oil and cinnamon make a good scent combination. Her house reeks of it, and I smelled the fragrance in my car after Archer borrowed it. And, now that you’ve said you smelled it directly on him, I’m more certain than ever. She flicked a glance at me. Is it possible that the same scent was near the body when you found Archer?

I tried to remember. I was so shocked to see him lying there, his eyes vacant… I think I may have gotten a whiff of gunpowder or something, like the smell from firecrackers. But at this point, my mind could just be playing tricks on me.

Well, I may want you to pretend otherwise, that you did smell Brooke—or at least someone from her home—on the scene. So, if I bring it up, please don’t look surprised or correct me. Nadia broke off as she briefly obeyed a stop sign, but she resumed talking once we were moving. Sometimes, if people think you can prove their guilt, they’ll stop pretending to be innocent and admit to details you didn’t even know about.

She slowed the Porsche and pulled into the driveway of a white McMansion. It occurred to me that I’d never been to Brooke’s place before. I pondered whether that put us in the acquaintances rather than friends category, then realized that I was seeking excuses for my own gullibility.

I looked over at Nadia in time to see her doing something to her smartwatch. When she lifted her head, she must’ve caught the direction of my gaze, because she said, It’s the recorder app. Virginia only requires one-party’s consent to record, and we want proof of whatever Brooke says in case she later tries to backpedal. No matter how exceptional my memory may be, the cops, lawyers, judge, and jury will all want to hear the truth from the source—not my retelling of it.

It sounded like she was speaking from experience. Have you questioned people in other crimes?

Her lip curled, and her voice went caustic and sour, like vinegar. That’s why Barrow dumped me. He said I was interfering with his cases. As if it was my fault that he didn’t solve the crimes before I was able to get the answers!

Maybe he didn’t want it to be a race? I suggested gently.

If so, he was dating the wrong woman. With that, Nadia climbed from the car.

I didn’t know what to do other than follow her across the driveway and along the red brick path to the front entrance. The door had a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Nadia used it to create three sharp raps before easing it back into place.

I pictured Brooke opening the door and me having to converse with a woman who’d been sleeping with my husband. Are you sure it’s a good idea, Nadia, us coming here?

Do you want to be convicted of murder?

No.

Then it’s a good idea.

The door opened with the faintest of clicks. Brooke stood there, tall and thin, her brown hair artfully streaked with blond. Her hazel eyes widened at the sight of Nadia and me.

We need to talk, Nadia said.

We do? Brooke did not sound eager for the experience.

Yes, Nadia replied firmly.

We all stood there, waiting, the only sound coming from an oriole merrily chirping in a nearby redbud tree.

Perhaps driven by curiosity, Brooke finally yielded and stepped back to let us inside. I could smell the cinnamon and lavender. The foyer had a marble floor, and Nadia’s stiletto heels rang out like bullets on it. Brooke wordlessly led us to the right, into a powder-blue parlor with a gray carpet.

There were three leather sofas forming an open square, with a large coffee table in the middle. The far wall had a gas-powered fireplace with fake logs, and above it was a huge photo of Brooke and her husband, David. The wall to the right had a set of windows with the afternoon light streaming through. There were lots of paintings on the other walls, but I saw nothing special about them other than the sheer number. Several end tables were cluttered with knickknacks, and I thought the room would be more impressive if it had only half as many decorative items.

Brooke sat on the sofa that faced the door before gesturing to the one on the far side of the coffee table, as if suggesting we should sit, just not near her. Nadia’s gaze took in the room as I selected a seat midway down the designated sofa. A few seconds later, she lowered herself to the spot on the outer end.

There were a few seconds of silence, then Brooke spoke for the first time since we’d entered her house. What do you want?

Ah, straight to the point, Nadia noted, sounding pleased. Very well. You had a display of rare pennies the last time I was here. They were in a glass case, mounted on black felt. She pointed to the empty mantlepiece. Right there. And that seems to now be the only vacant spot in the room, which means you didn’t move the penny display to make room for something else. So, where are the pennies?

Brooke’s brow furrowed. That’s why you’re here? Because someone broke in and stole my pennies?

Nadia leaned against the back of the sofa. Her voice was nearly a purr as she said, Stolen.

Yes, Brooke replied, sounding more relaxed too. It made me wonder if she’d been expecting a question about Archer’s murder. She added, It seems we were careless about locking one of the windows in this room. I came home from my tennis lesson to find it wide open and the pennies gone.

Nadia gestured to the cluttered room. All this left behind, and only the pennies taken?

Brooke shrugged. The thief probably assumed the coins were the most valuable items in the room because we had them in a custom-made case. Everything else here, well, the combined value would equal less than my pennies.

Your intruder took the time—and had the skills—to perform that assessment? Nadia must’ve meant it as a rhetorical question, because she didn’t give Brooke much of an opportunity to reply before asking her, When were the pennies stolen?

Brooke eyed the ceiling for a few seconds before saying, Um, two weeks ago. Must’ve been a Monday, since that’s my lesson day. But I don’t think the theft had anything to do with the other burglaries in town. I heard all those happened within a few blocks of each other, and we’re two miles away.

I completely agree, Nadia said blandly. It’s not the same criminal. So, is it you or your husband who has the perfect alibi for the night of Archer’s murder?

Brooke and I asked in unison, What?

The alibi, Nadia repeated, her eyes still on Brooke. Either you or David will have unimpeachable witnesses for the time of the shooting. My question is: which of you has the better alibi?

Brooke cocked her head, a wrinkle forming between her perfectly plucked eyebrows. We have the same alibi. We were together at a function inside the Carnaby Art Museum. There must be fifty people who can vouch for us, not to mention the security cameras.

Nadia’s chin lowered a smidgen. Ah. Too bad. The one with the best alibi is the killer. Were you both in on it?

Brooke’s voice took on a bit of a screech as she straightened her neck and demanded, How does having an alibi make me the killer? She pointed a finger toward me. "Lily’s the one who everyone says was home with Archer. She has the opposite of an alibi. She was there."

Precisely, Nadia said. Someone paid the killer to commit the murder, and as you note, Lily was in the house. If she’d been responsible for the shooting, she’d have been smart enough to have witnesses that she was miles away—as you and your husband do.

Disturbed by Nadia’s lack of emotion about the worst night of my life, not to mention the loss of her own brother, I forgot that I was supposed to play along with whatever she said. Why would you say that someone hired a killer?

The antique candlesticks that were stolen from your house, Lily. Unlike Brooke’s coins with their framed display, the candlesticks were just sitting around, as any ordinary ones might be. A common burglar wouldn’t have realized they were solid silver or crafted by Paul Revere, and you had electronics that would be much easier to sell for cash. But the killer had a taste for antiques, which made Brooke’s pennies the ideal way to pay the fee for Archer’s murder.

Wait! Brooke said, holding up one hand like she was trying to stop traffic that was about to mow her down. "My coins were stolen. Why would you say they were used to pay for a murder—or that anyone paid for a murder at all?"

Oh, the killer admitted he was paid to do it, Nadia said blandly. He’s in custody now.

Brooke said slowly, as if still processing it, You’re telling me that the person who stole the pennies is probably the one who hired the killer?

Except your pennies were never reported as stolen, Nadia said.

They were! Brooke now sat so straight I feared for the condition of her spine. David told me that he reported it to the police. He said… She paused and I saw her throat move as she swallowed. Then her shoulders slumped, and her voice went ragged as she told us, David said that I didn’t have to call the insurance company because he’d already taken care of it.

You have a police report—and the insurance claim number? Nadia asked.

Brooke’s lips parted, and seconds passed before she sputtered, I… He…

Without warning, Nadia leapt to her feet and hastened over to the window.

Rather than look relieved that she was no longer expected to form a coherent sentence, Brooke’s eyes went wide—and stayed that way as she stared at Nadia’s back.

I couldn’t tell what my sister-in-law was doing. Just as I was about to break down and inquire, Nadia turned around and announced, David’s home. Her gaze went to our hostess, and her tone grew urgent as she asked, Brooke, is your husband violent? Is that why you worked so hard to hide your affair with Archer?

Brooke started to tremble. Several seconds later, she gave a small nod and whispered, Yes.

The word had scarcely passed her lips when I heard a man’s voice call from the foyer, Brooke, why is there a Porsche in our driveway?

I shifted on the sofa to look behind me as David entered the room. I’d only met him a few times, but I was suddenly struck by how much he looked like Archer. My husband had also been about six feet tall, dark-haired, and blue-eyed—perhaps that was Brooke’s type.

David said in a cool voice, Hello, Nadia. Lily. I noted that he didn’t greet his wife, who was sitting in full view on the sofa that faced him.

Hello, David, Nadia said. Your wife was just explaining how you—not she—was the one to give her missing pennies to Archer’s killer.

I was a bit startled by the way Nadia had jumped right in with a half lie, but that was nothing compared to David’s reaction. Eyes protruding, he boomed, What?! A second later, with clearly forced calm, he added, The pennies? What do they have to do with anything?

Nadia gave him a slight smile. Brooke told us that she called the insurance company to get the claim number so that she could track its progress online, but they had no idea what she was talking about. You never called the company—likely because they’d need a copy of the police report, and you wouldn’t have that. A person who hires a killer and pays in rare coins wouldn’t want the police on the lookout for those same coins.

I thought I saw what Nadia was doing. If David could prove there was a police report, then she’d know he hadn’t hired a killer with those coins, meaning her theory was off. But if there was no police report, it meant that either he had lied to his wife about reporting the theft or Brooke had lied to us about him saying that he’d taken care of it.

Brooke was oddly silent, and I noted her trembling was getting worse. I decided that I ought to encourage her to come with me and Nadia when we left. Whatever I thought of Brooke for sleeping with Archer, I wasn’t prepared to abandon her to David’s not-so-tender mercies.

Unless, of course, Brooke really was the killer.

David strolled farther into the room, stopping next to one of the cluttered end tables. You’re not making any sense, Nadia. I had nothing to do with Archer’s death.

Don’t bother pretending, she said. Your wife already told us everything we need to know to prove your guilt. As soon as I pass it on to the police—

David leaned to the side and whipped open the table drawer, the rough movement causing a few knickknacks to fall over. His hand came out of the drawer clutching a gun.

I wanted to rant at Nadia for her stupidity in telling a man who she suspected of murder that she could prove his guilt. And—even worse—saying that we hadn’t given the facts to the police yet.

Nadia mimicked his move with an empty hand, using her thumb and forefinger as a mock gun aimed at him. Is that a Smith and Wesson?

It’s a Springfield-Armory XD, he replied, his brow furrowing.

I assumed he was confused by her bizarre question and lack of evident fear, as I certainly was.

Nadia slowly lowered her hand. I suppose now you’re going to threaten to kill us if we tell a soul?

No, Nadia, he said wryly. I’m not dumb enough to think you’d keep that promise. I have no choice other than to kill you.

Just me or all three of us? she inquired, her bland tone at complete odds with the situation. I couldn’t tell if she was a good actress or positively insane.

David replied in a snide tone, Since now all three of you know that I hired a man to kill Archer, it will have to be the whole lot.

My eyes went to Nadia’s wrist and the watch that was recording everything, including his admission about the precise type of gun he was about to use for his massacre, which was doubtless why she’d pretended not to know the maker. It was cold comfort, but at least I could trust that if he killed us, he would definitely get convicted for it.

Nadia kept her gaze on the weapon. You don’t want to shoot us.

Oh, but I do, he assured her smoothly. I really, really do. Especially my slut of a wife. I couldn’t divorce her because she’s much richer than me and we have a prenup. And I couldn’t kill her, because I’d be too obvious a suspect. But now, it seems I have no choice but to shoot her, dump the body, and take my chances convincing the police that I have no idea how or why she disappeared.

Brooke whimpered, but I think I was the only one to pay it any mind. Nadia and David had eyes only for each other.

Your problem, Nadia said, isn’t that she’s richer than you. It’s that the police are outside, and when you were on the porch, I gave them the signal to storm the place if I didn’t send them the all clear within ten minutes. If you fire that gun, they’ll hear it, and the only thing you’ll have achieved is being caught with three corpses and the murder weapon in your hand. However, if you put away the gun right now, it’s just our word against yours that you hired Archer’s killer.

David’s gaze flickered between Nadia and the window several times. Then it settled on her, and he took a few steps back until he was nearly at the parlor door, a bad angle for anyone shooting at him through the windows. My word against all three of you? I don’t care for those odds.

The burden of proof will be on the state, Nadia promised. And I was lying about having any evidence of what you did—other than your confession a moment ago.

Lying? David growled, his face flushing. You—

Nadia waved her hand, as if flicking away a bug. We don’t have time for your tantrum, David. You need to consider your position. Thus far, you’re responsible for only one death—the man who was sleeping with your wife. Those circumstances make you at least a little sympathetic, and while hiring a killer is bad, being a person who kills for profit is worse. You might get offered a very good plea bargain in exchange for telling the police everything you know about the shooter. But if you murder three women with your own finger on the trigger? That’s the end of the line for you.

A bead of sweat was trickling from David’s forehead toward his left eye. He used his free hand to swipe it away. How do I know the cops are really out there? You already admitted to lying about everything else, and things looked normal when I pulled up.

Nadia gave him a seemingly unconcerned shrug before moving a few steps away from the window. They were in the blue sedan across the street.

David inhaled so sharply that I could hear it. He gave his head a small shake. Maybe I saw a sedan—but it could belong to anyone.

You’ll know for sure in a few minutes, when the cops shoot you to rescue the three women you’re holding at gunpoint. You want to wait it out?

I want proof, he retorted. Open the window and tell them to identify themselves. If I hear people out there saying they’re the police, I’ll lower the gun.

Nadia winced. There’s a problem with that plan.

David laughed. There are no cops. He sounded almost admiring as he added, Good bluff, Nadia.

A deep baritone voice said from the direction of the foyer, The problem is that the police are already inside the house. Put the gun on the ground, sir. Now!

David froze for an instant, and I thought about how Nadia had made the shape of a gun with her hand while at the window. She’d been telling the police that there was an armed threat! And maybe she really had signaled them when David was on the porch, asking them to rescue us in ten minutes if she failed to indicate that all was fine. I had no doubt that her knowledge of the police would include the necessary hand gestures. But how could she know the cops were out there, watching, to see any of it?

Gun on the floor, now, sir, said the same cop as before, his voice an impatient growl.

David slowly bent his knees and lowered the weapon to the carpet. Then he rose and put his hands behind his head without anyone even requesting it.

Barrow and a man I didn’t recognize entered the room. Barrow secured the gun while the stranger handcuffed David and read him his rights.

Right on cue. Nadia beamed at her ex-boyfriend as she came to stand at his side.

He inclined his head in a bow, like an actor accepting his due applause.

But how did you know the police were here? I asked Nadia.

She misunderstood my question and said, I signaled to Barrow that I wanted a rescue in five minutes, not ten. But he would have still been out there when I made the shape of the gun at the window. I assumed he’d know what it meant and act accordingly.

She’d put an awful lot of trust in a man she wasn’t even dating anymore. But rather than embarrass her by pointing that out in front of Barrow, I said, I meant how did you know he was outside the house to see any of your signals? For that matter, how did he know to be in this neighborhood at all?

Ah, that’s simple. Remember how you noticed that after we left the jail, I was looking around at all the cars and pedestrians? I was checking to see if we were being followed. We were.

Not on the dirt lane, Barrow interjected.

She gave him a glance that looked positively approving before telling me, Barrow took me hiking there once, so he knows it has a dead end and we’d have to come back eventually. Rather than risk being spotted on an otherwise empty road, he was waiting on the side of the main thoroughfare for us to return.

I vaguely recalled Nadia smiling when our car was leaving the wooded lane, after she’d looked around at the traffic. And while Nadia had raced her Porsche on the road that was poorly made for it, she’d obeyed the traffic signs on the rest of the drive. She’d even slowed for the yellow light instead of running it. In hindsight, I could see it was because she didn’t want to lose our tail, in case we needed help later.

My musings were interrupted when Barrow said to Nadia, Please tell me you made a recording of whatever the hell happened in this room.

She paused for effect, but Barrow didn’t look worried. All he did was cock an eyebrow.

Nadia broke first. Yes, I have the recording, Detective. Complete with David’s confession to murdering Archer. I’ll email it to you now. She did something on her watch for a few seconds, then took out her phone and started tapping. There. Sent.

The drama over, I heaved a relieved sigh and turned my attention to Brooke. She was utterly silent, still in the same place on the sofa, watching her husband being taken from the room by Barrow’s partner.

I couldn’t understand her behavior through the whole ordeal, and now that we were safe, the curiosity was too much for me to bear. Brooke, the second Nadia told David a lie about what you’d said, you could have called her out on it. Instead, you just sat there. Said nothing, did nothing. Not even once the gun came out.

Brooke gave me a hard stare. I learned a long time ago that David is easily provoked. If Nadia was stupid enough to be the target for his anger, I wasn’t getting in the way of that.

And you never called me a liar because you wanted answers, Nadia deduced, tucking her phone back in her pocket.

Yes, Brooke agreed. You’d told me that the person who shot Archer had been caught— Her tone turned bitter as she added, I suppose now that was just another of your lies.

It was, Nadia said mildly.

Well, I thought you were telling the truth about the killer admitting to being hired. And you made a good case for him being paid with my pennies, as well as for the coins having been removed by someone who knew the value of everything in this room. If David was responsible for Archer’s death, I wanted—needed—to know.

You thought it would be safer for you if I was the one asking all the questions, Nadia said. So you let me spin my tale to him uninterrupted.

Brooke nodded. But David deciding that he should shoot all three of us… That I didn’t foresee. He’d never threatened my life before, and he only ever hit me in private.

Barrow took a step away, like he planned to leave the room, but he stopped when I said, Wait, Detective. Please. There’s still one thing I don’t know. Were you following our car because of me or because of Nadia?

He looked at Nadia and grinned before telling me, As soon as I saw Nadia in the bar last night, I knew what she was up to. If she wouldn’t leave police investigations alone when the victims were strangers, nothing was going to get her to back off from her brother’s murder. So, I bought the detectives on Archer’s case a round of beers to get them talking and give Nadia some answers. I figured she knew you and her brother better than we ever could. Given enough info, she’d take me to the killer.

Nadia crossed her arms, and her eyes narrowed as she assessed her ex-boyfriend. She sounded positively petulant as she said, I was disguised in the bar. I even used a different shampoo and bought some cheap perfume so that you couldn’t pick up on any familiar smells. How could you possibly know it was me?

He leaned closer to her until his lips were only inches from her ear. He kept his voice low, a baritone rumble, but I still heard him say, I know when you’re near me, Nadia Bendis. I’ll always know.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shannon Taft is an attorney from Washington, DC, with more than a dozen published short stories, including a Derringer Award finalist and a story appearing in Best American Mystery and Suspense 2024. Her works have been selected for multiple anthologies as well as several magazines, such as Black Cat Weekly and On Spec. When she is not working, writing, or reading, she enjoys hiking and chocolate—preferably together, as she chooses to believe that chocolate has no calories when you eat it on the trail.

VELDA’S FIRST CASE,

by Ron Miller

It all began (I know, I know, but there’s really no other way to start this), with a visit from Maxim Slotnik, of all people. I hadn’t seen him in two or three months, not since I left Slotnik’s Follies. Not that I didn’t like the Follies, which I didn’t, or didn’t like Slotnik, which I didn’t just on principle, I just needed to do something a little more useful with my life than shedding feathers four times a night, not counting weekends, with matinees, when I shed them six times.

God knows I needed a change, and what could possibly have been a greater change for a stripper than to become a private eye?

Although it really didn’t have anything to do with my decision (I’ll explain what inspired that in just a bit) my dad had been a cop—one of the squarest and straightest-shooting on the force—until he got himself killed. How that happened still isn’t very clear—and made no clearer by the DA’s office, which to my mind went out of its way to muddy the waters and blacken Dad’s name. I won’t go into the whole sordid thing here. Just let it go that Dad’s benefits were withheld from me, leaving me flat broke. Mom’d died in a freak accident with a donut machine when I was a kid, so I was not only penniless, I was alone. I had to quit business school classes and find any job I could. Any job turned out to be at Saperstein’s Talent Agency and Music Publishing Company, where I doubled as receptionist, secretary and general girl Friday.

I wasn’t such a hot typist—I mean, I’d only had one semester in school when Dad died—but I was tall and had legs that went up at least six inches further than most other girls. Maxim Slotnik was a client of Saperstein’s. After a few visits, I realized he was coming in mainly to look at my legs. Finally, he offered me a spot in the chorus of Slotnik’s Famous Follies.

While I’m not exactly voluptuous—built more along the lines of Suzy Parker than Jayne Mansfield, thank God—Max said I had that Something Extra men go for. Personality, I guess. One thing led to another and I eventually graduated to being a headliner. I hated it like anything, and Dad would’ve killed me if he’d still been around, but it beat fifteen dollars a week from Saperstein’s. What else could I have done?

It was near the end of my fifth year at Slotnik’s that I noticed the ad for the Hawkshaw Guaranteed Be A Detective Correspondence Course on the inside of a matchbook cover. I sent in my money, got a book in the mail every month, studied like hell, and a year later I got my ticket.

At the time I lived and hopefully worked out of a fifth-floor cold water flat over a Chinese laundry. The card thumbtacked over my mailbox downstairs reads: Superior Detective Agency—V. Bellinghausen, prop. And that’s where Maxim Slotnik, of all people, showed up. Just my luck getting him for my first client.

I looked at the fat little butterball standing outside my door for a good fifteen seconds—not so surprised to see him as surprised he’d made it up five floors. He was red as a beet and puffing like a steam engine, so I invited him in before he died there in the hallway.

Jesus, Max, you want some water? You better sit down or something, you don’t look so hot.

Thanks, Velda. My God, did you have to find a place so far above the street?

Do you good, Maxim, God knows you need the exercise.

Exercise, schmexercise. Why don’t you come on back to the show, Velda? The girls miss you. The boys miss you. I miss you.

Gee, I’m sure sorry I’m breaking your heart, Maxim, I said, handing him his water. You want a Kleenex?

I mean, Jesus, Velda, look at this place.

What’s wrong with it? I asked, hoping he wouldn’t start listing its faults, but he did. When he finished I said, Look, Maxim, I’m sure I appreciate your deep concern for me, but I can’t believe you came all the way up here just to say ‛howya doin’ Velda.’ Forgive me if I’m misjudging you.

Aww, look, Velda, there’s no need to talk like that. Haven’t I always been square with you?

Yeah, sure, sure you have. I got no complaints about you Maxim. So what’re you doing here, if you don’t mind getting right to the point.

He started wringing his hands, which I knew meant he was going to talk about something he really wanted to avoid, like turning on the heat in the dressing rooms before Thanksgiving or giving someone a ten-cent raise.

You remember a girl named Monica? Started a month, maybe two, before you left?

Monica? Sure, I think. Cute blonde, eyes like bottle caps?

He nodded and swallowed.

Well, what about her? Don’t tell me she’s your new girlfriend. Jesus, Maxim, she’s right off the farm.

No, Velda. She’s dead.

Dead?

Dead.

Dead how?

"Murdered, Velda. Someone killed her. The janitor, McWhorter, found her yesterday afternoon in the dressing room. Jesus. Someone’d stabbed her, stabbed her in the heart."

Good God, why would someone do that?

That’s why I came to see you, Velda?

Pardon?

Well, you’re a detective aren’t you?

I, well, yeah, but—

Look, Velda, this detective thing, you know what I think about it. A private eye? You’re a great showgirl, Velda, a star. What do you want to be a detective for? It’s crazy. But there you are, you got a license and everything and, well, we’re friends, ain’t we, Velda?

Yeah, Maxim, we’re pals, I lied.

Well, you see, Velda, this thing could ruin me. The DA, Noorvik, he ran on that big morals platform, clean up the burlesques he promised, run the strip joints out of town he promised—he’s been trying to close us down for months. This’s all he needs. Murder for God’s sake. Can you imagine what he’s gonna do with the headlines: ‘Naked Teenage Stripper Murdered at Slotnik’s?’ I gotta find out what happened quick, Velda. He’s gonna shut us down any day.

Calm down. You’re going to give yourself an embolism.

You gotta help me. You know your way around. You know the girls. And, and, well I can trust you, Velda, You’ll keep things quiet.

But what do you want me to do?

I don’t know…but you gotta clear me of this, Velda. There’s gotta be something.

Yeah. What’d he expect me to do? But it was my first case, such as it was, and it didn’t seem right to turn it down. Besides, I did owe Maxim. No matter how much I hated to admit it, he was really all right even if he was a slimeball. And I certainly owed the girls something. I had a lot of friends in the show and it’d be awful tough on them if Slotnik’s closed. So I told him sure. I’d get my fingerprint kit and magnifying glass and bloodhound and follow him over to the theater. What the hell, if nothing else I’d be able to pay the rent that month.

* * * *

It was strange, being back in the theater, knowing I was there as an outsider, no longer part of the show. I’d spent the last five years there, seven days a week, had been gone only a couple of months and everything still felt new, like I’d left only the day before. The girls all waved and said, ‛Hi, Velda, how’s tricks?’ but something’d been broken and I wasn’t so sure but that I regretted it more than I thought I would.

Maxim took me down to the dressing room, one of two, which had been off limits since the murder. There was a cop at the door and when he saw us coming he raised his hand to stop us.

You can’t go in, he said. Say! Hi, Velda! I thought you quit this dump.

Hi, Buzz. Yeah, I quit all right.

Sure gonna miss you. You were the only thing gave this place any class.

I want Velda to see the room, officer, said Maxim.

Well, I can’t rightly let you do that.

It’s in my rights. She’s investigating the mur—the girl’s death. I gotta right to have someone do that.

Investigate? What the hell’re you talking about?

She’s a detective, a private detective. She’s gotta right to see the room if I want her to.

Is this some sort of gag? What’s the deal, Velda?

It’s no joke, Buzz, I got my ticket. I fished my wallet out of my bag and showed him. Why don’t you let me take a look? What harm could it do?

The body was taken out yesterday. Nothin’ in there but a big bloodstain.

I won’t touch a thing. Promise. No one’ll be the wiser…and I’ll send you that autographed picture you’ve always wanted.

The one where…?

That one.

Well, all right. Just don’t be too long.

He unlatched the door and I went in, Maxim right on my heels. The room was dark and I flipped the switch, turning on the couple of tin-shaded bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling. There wasn’t anything in here I hadn’t seen a hundred times. A row of makeup tables—just cheap vanities with big mirrors, rimmed with a couple dozen light bulbs, half of which didn’t work. Wooden chairs, a couple wardrobes, clothes racks with costumes hanging from them. Nothing I hadn’t seen. The end table was—had been—Monica’s. The first thing I saw was that it had no mirror and most of its bulbs were broken. All of her makeup and things were gone, too. I guessed the police had taken it all for evidence. I glanced down at the floor in front of the table and saw the huge dark red stain, as big as a rug. Jesus Christ, someone had died right there and spilled all that blood.

What happened, Max?

McWhorter found her right there. She was already dead. He took one look and called the cops.

Where’s McWhorter now?

Where he usually is, I guess, down in the furnace room.

All right, Max, you go and take some aspirins and try to relax. I tried to sound as confident as I could, which must have been convincing enough since Max seemed to calm down a little.

You all done in there? Buzz asked from the doorway.

Yeah, I guess so.

The show’s not been the same since you left, Velda.

Lots of things haven’t been the same since I left, Buzz.

McWhorter had a kind of nest behind the furnace in the sub-basement. I’d never had much to do with him, even though he’d been working in the theater long before Max took it over and Max’d been there for a couple decades. None of the girls ever had anything to do with him, for that matter, mainly because he was more than a little creepy.

For most of us he was just this greasy ball of rags that hovered around in the background making sure the toilets worked and the light bulbs got changed, neither of which happened very often. I tracked him down by following the sniffling sound of his perpetually running nose, which led me to a cozy little den consisting of a table with a hotplate, a chair, a cot and McWhorter, who was sitting on the cot, snuffling and hacking. He had some sort of chronic nasal thing.

Mr. McWhorter?

Yeah?

I’m Velda, Velda Bellinghausen.

I know who you are. You the doll what used to be the headliner. Too skinny I always thought. Don’t know what the shows’re comin’ to, girls got no meat on ’em no more.

Well, ah, thanks. Look, Mr. McWhorter, if I’m not interrupting anything, I’d like to ask you a few questions.

Like what?

Well, about the girl who got killed yesterday.

What about her?

Max—Mr. Slotnik told me you found her. The body?

So?

Well, I was wondering if you could tell me about that.

Why?

Max asked me to help him out. I, ah, I got a private investigator’s license, to look into things like this.

"A dick? You a dick? Har."

I wasn’t sure what that last sound meant. It might have been a snort of derision; it might have been just some phlegm coming loose from its moorings.

Is it okay if I ask you about the girl? About finding her?

Ain’t much to tell. She was layin’ there on the floor, dead as mackerel, that’s all.

How’d you know she was dead?

How about a hole in the middle of ’er, big enough to stick my hand into, leaking like a plugged toilet? She were dead all right.

"A hole?