 
# A Stab In The Dark Anthology 2017

## Cons, Dames and G-Men

Copyright ©2017/2020 Stab In The Dark Crime Writers Circle

© Cons, Dames and G-Men is owned by Stab In The Dark Writers Circle and cannot be used without permission from the group.

Authors retain all rights to their individual stories.

Amazon Kindle Edition

Cover art done by Adam C Mitchell ©2016

Published with permission in the United Kingdom, Shropshire, Whitchurch

© 2016 100 Miles To Murder by Matthew L. Schoonover

© 2016 Cue Murder by Jane Risdon

© 2016 Dark At The Top Of The Stair by Elizabeth Horton-Newton

© 2016 Sorry Vivian by Neal Skye

© 2016 The Mickey by Neil Douglas Newton

© 2016 Well I Die Tomorrow by Adam C Mitchell

©2016 Deadly Steps by Stacy Margaret Allan

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental. All names locations and trademarks herein are the full ownership of the author unless otherwise stated.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means without the prior written permission of the author/authors, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any infringement on copyright law is theft and will be dealt with as is the laws of the country of issue.

### Table of Contents

Introduction

100 Miles To Murder

Cue Murder

Dark at the Top of the Stairs

Sorry Vivian

The Mickey

Well I Die Tomorrow

Deadly Steps

## Introduction

### Adam C Mitchell

There is something special about the Golden Age of Crime, that period of the 1930's and 1940's was an incredible time of change not just in the world but in Crime and Pulp Literature. With creations like Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade covering book stores and newspaper stands, with fast paced adventures. It was a time when men were men, and some ladies wore very little. A time when it was more shoot first question later, where a simple kiss from a pretty woman could make or break a man.

Good Times.

What you hold in your very hands is homage to that Golden Age. Six of today's best Indie Writers are taking us back to that time, so pull up your collar, light another smoke, pour yourself two fingers and sit back and enjoy.

Here's looking at you kid.

Adam C Mitchell

Creator of A Stab In The Dark Crime Writers Circle

## 100 Miles To Murder

### Matthew L. Schoonover

Det. Amado Diaz stood at the invisible shoulder of the dirt road. Beside him was an old, beat-up Packard sedan, its front door left open. Off the road a few yards, surrounded by mesquite and scrub brush, was the khaki-clad headless body of a hunter, his shotgun close to hand. He shivered. Not because of the cold but because this was his first dead body as a brand new detective on the Twofold police force. He steadied himself mentally, and continued to read from his notebook to his senior partner, Det. Paul Mason, who had just arrived. "The dead man's name is Dr. David Zimmerman. He came out here to shoot White Wing with his two colleagues, Dr. Alan Barton and Dr. Jack Carlisle. His shotgun has been fired."

Det. Mason looked over his shoulder at the two unarmed hunters (their shotguns had already been confiscated), sitting on the open tailgate of a two-year-old 1940 Ford pick-up. They were also dressed in khaki, but in addition wore red plaid jackets and red caps. The two hunters saw him looking at them and walked over.

Diaz continued: "Dr. Zimmerman was supposed to meet his colleagues at Dr. Barton's cabin in the woods –"

"Lodge," Dr. Barton said huffily. He was a tall, thin man with a large nose. "My lodge, east of here." He pointed east, as if no one living in a border town didn't know east from west, Texas from Mexico. "He never showed up. When Dr. Carlisle arrived, I left the missus, and we went looking for him.""And we found him," Dr. Carlisle, a short and stout fellow, said. He avoided looking at the body.

"Yes," Dr. Barton said. "We found him here, called you fellows, and waited."

"You called?" Det. Mason said. "From where?"

"My car phone."

"Your what?"

"In my truck. I have a mobile phone." He pronounced it mobile. "It's like a ship-to-shore radio, only instead of being in a boat, it's in my truck."

Intrigued, Mason walked with the two doctors back to the truck. When Diaz started to follow, he waved him back. The contraption was built into the wooden console and looked just like a wireless radio except for the receiver, which was nothing more than a basic black telephone receiver with built in mouth piece. He couldn't help wondering why they didn't have these mobile phones in their police cars... probably too expensive but still...

"David," Dr. Barton said, breaking into his thought, "that is, Dr. Zimmerman was supposed to be here almost two hours ago. He's an avid hunter, Detective, and it wasn't like him to miss a hunting trip – what is that man doing?"

Det. Diaz was climbing into the Packard.

"He's doing an inventory," Mason said. "To see what's there and to find out if anything is missing. It's routine."

"I don't care if it's routine," Barton protested. "He can't do that. You there! Get out of that car!"

Diaz ignored him, throwing the red plaid jacket and cap over into the front seat and rummaging through the camping equipment, supplies, and paraphernalia in the back.

Barton started forward, but Mason, tall and wide and mostly muscle, planted himself between the doctor and the vehicle. Softly, he said, "Dr. Barton, you're not planning on impeding a police investigation, are you?"

Barton turned to Carlisle. The smaller man shrugged. He turned back to Mason. "Obviously," he said, holding in his temper, "this is a hunting accident. Some fool with a shotgun accidentally shot our colleague. When he realized what he'd done, he took off. He'll probably never hunt these woods again and we'll never find out who killed poor David."

"Wait here," Mason said. He returned to the Packard and Diaz. "Got something?"

Smiling, Diaz opened the driver's side door and pointed. On the panel below the locking mechanism was a bright yellow sticker. Printed on it was a logo, PETE'S ESSO, and below that in marker, a handwritten number and date. "Oil changed yesterday," Diaz said. "And look at the mileage." Mason leaned in and noted the odometer. He nodded.

"Something else," Diaz said, walking to the body. "Look at his hand." Mason squatted, studied the hands. Both were dirty, probably from when he fell. There was a swath of cloth-backed cotton swaddling adhering to the inside of the palm of his right hand. Diaz asked, "What is it?"

Mason looked at his junior detective in disbelief. Then smiled. "Just fall off the turnip truck, kid?"

"Turnip truck?"

"Fresh from the Colonia... naïve... ignorant... get it?" Det. Diaz lowered his head. "It's okay, kid. You gotta learn sometime. It's called a Band-Aid. Some company makes them for the Army. I hear they send thousands of them overseas to our guys fighting the Nazis."

Diaz looked up, eyes bright. "Makes them? In a factory? As in... they come in a box?"

"Yeah, sure. Well, a tin can actually. Like my tobacco." He pulled a red tin from his coat pocket: VELVET PIPE & CIGARETTE TOBACCO. "Like this, only it's a white tin, not red. Why do you ask?"

"It's fresh," Diaz said, "and expertly applied." He pealed back the cloth cover to reveal two ragged gashes and soft skin, both free of dirt, both covered with brownish stains. "You can see where the dirt has been cleaned off the skin and out of the scratches, and iodine applied. The bandage, the iodine, it's all been done recently."

"And professionally, as befits a doctor."

"There's no iodine bottle or bandage box in the car. I even looked in the glove box."

"Not bad kid," Mason said. "Guess them turnips ain't as fresh as I thought."

They walked back to the two physicians, and Mason told them, "It appears that Dr. Zimmerman just had his car serviced at Pete's Esso. Do you know it?" Both doctors nodded. "How far is it from Pete's Esso to your lodge, Dr. Barton?"

Det. Diaz thought it a rhetorical question, but Dr. Barton answered immediately: "It's about a hundred miles from there to my lodge. What? I get my car serviced there, too, Detective."

"That makes sense," Diaz said to Mason. "He has a hundred miles on the odometer now." He looked sharply at the two doctors. "Exactly one hundred miles. No more, no less."

Carlisle wasn't good at hiding things. His head whipped up and then turned from Mason to Barton, back and forth. "But," he finally blurted, "that can't be right. He didn't get to the Lodge." His head stopped on Barton. "Did he?"

"No," Barton said, looking angrily at his colleague, as if to say, "Shut up, you fool!"

It was not missed by either detective.

"How far is it from here to your lodge, Dr. Barton?"

"About thirty-six miles," Barton said, "But not from here; from the FM 23 cut-off. This is a branch road leading... nowhere. Why he came this way instead of heading straight to the lodge, I've no idea."

"Neither do we," Diaz mumbled.

***

Pete Folger, owner of Pete's Esso, an older man with a military moustache and bearing, sent the detectives to the garage to talk with his mechanic, Emilio Flores. Emilio wore the grey Esso uniform, minus his captain-style cap. When he saw their badges, he put down the carburettor he was working on and wiped his hands on a red rag.

They asked him about Dr. Zimmerman.

"Si," he said. "Dr. Z, he come in yesterday to change his oil, left his car overnight. His wife, she stop him off this morning and leave her car." He pointed to a shiny red Packard coupé in the bay. "The two of them, they go away together." He paused for a moment, then continued wiping his hands. "He is a good customer."

"Did you see a scratch on his hand," Mason asked.

"No. I see no scratches. He come into the garage in a hurry. Mucho gusto. He get grease on his hands, maybe, but scratches... (he shrugged)... no se." Again, there was a slight hesitation.

"Anything else," Mason asked.

"No, señor, nothing." He turned back to the carburettor.

Mason thanked him, walked outside, and stopped to roll a cigarette. Diaz excused himself and returned to the garage.

"Por favor," Diaz said. "What else?"

Emilio started to shake his head but Diaz stopped him. "What else," he repeated, sternly.

Emilio hesitated, then: "He pick up a – que dice? – hiker of the hitch –"

"Hitch-hiker."

"Si, the hitch-hiker. Es muy bonita!" He shook a hand for emphasis.

"With his wife in the car?"

"Oh no, no, no. The hitch-hiker, she was here, aqui. She was not a hitching the hike then, no. She get dropped off. She say she waiting por tu hermana, for her sister. Mr. Z, he leave with his wife. Then he come back by his alone."

"He took Mrs. Zimmerman home?"

"I dunno... she wasn't with him. I was here, in the garage, when he pull up outside. I see him call her over. They talk. She get in the car." He shrugged. "Bueno bye."

Diaz asked, but Emilio did not know the hitch-hiker's name.

***

Adelle Zimmerman was a beautiful woman with blonde hair, blue eyes and an incredible figure. Mason had read many a story in Black Mask about blonde bombshells, but he'd never actually met one until now. He thought himself old enough and wise enough and bachelor enough to be near-immune. He was wrong.

She led them through the rambling home and into her husband's study. The first thing the eyes centred on was the tremendous desk of shiny dark wood, with dozens of photos of the doctor standing over sundry a safari animal, presumably in Africa. A Hippo-foot ashtray took up a whole corner of the desktop, and next to the desk, an enormous elephant-legged waste-basket (which Diaz went through while Mason interviewed the widow).

There was a large Kodiak bear rug on the floor, a healthy stone hearth that could have burned more wood in one night than Mason had in his entire home, and a full size painting of the doctor over the mantelpiece, in full safari regalia, his rifle up on his right shoulder as if aiming at another kill. The walls were festooned with animal heads, almost two dozen. Mrs. Zimmerman leaned back casually against the fireplace in a pose that made Mason suspect her of having been a model before her marriage.

"I'm a trophy wife," she said.

"I believe it," Mason said.

"I'm not embarrassed by it, Detective. I'm not ashamed. I knew that coming in. But I loved him, really and truly." Her voice had the exact right amount of care and concern. Maybe too exact, he thought. "I'd hoped that he'd learn to love me, too, one day."

He revised modelling to acting. "But he didn't?"

"I don't know. He didn't demand love from me, only loyalty. Not from him, you understand, but to him. He could be a real SOB at times, but that was his nature. When he wanted something he went after it. That was his way. He... pushed. Maybe that was part of his appeal. He never asked, Detective, not when he didn't have to. And he was an outdoors man. Do you know what that means? He was obsessed with being the best, always trying to see how far he could go before hitting a wall. And not just as a hunter, but as a doctor, too. With people. And it probably served him well as a doctor. But as a human being..."

She performed a motion. That was the only way to describe it: a soft undulation of her shoulders that could have been a shrug... or a pantomime of promise, of something dropping from her shoulders... a suggestive preamble of other possibilities.

Mason didn't show it, but he felt uncomfortable.

"But I didn't kill him, Detective. If you suspect anyone it should be his partners, doctors Barton and Carlisle. They were always arguing about the business, mostly about money and how to spend."

"You mean for the clinic?"  
"I mean for themselves."

"What kind of clinic is it, Mrs. Zimmerman," Diaz asked.

"It's a children's clinic. David was a paediatrician, Detective. Carlisle is a GP, and Barton is a surgeon. They thought a clinic could be profitable."

"Was it?"

"As much as any clinic can be. Better than most. With children he could be a good man." She looked away, and when she next spoke, Mason couldn't tell if she was acting or if the real Adelle was showing through. She said, "With children..."

"Some people are lost to us, no matter what we do," Diaz said, sympathetically.

Mason and Adelle both stared at him. Mason cleared his throat, gave his partner a warning stare to be silent, and turned to Mrs. Zimmerman. "Did you notice any scratches on your husband's hand this morning?"

"Scratches? What kind of scratches? How were they caused?"

"Deep scratches. And we're not sure yet. Either he scratched it on something or..."

"Or," she said, "Someone scratched him." It was less a question and more of a statement.

Mason nodded.

"I can tell you my husband had no scratches on his hands when he kissed me good-bye and left for his hunting trip."

"How," Mason asked. "How can you be so sure?"

She walked up to him. "Every morning," she said, "just before he left, I'd take his hands and put them on my face..." She took Mason's hands in hers, raised them to her face, and cupped her face in them. "I'd look into his eyes..." She gazed deeply, soulfully into his eyes. She brought her face close to his. He could smell her perfume. Lilac. Certainly expensive. "And kiss him." She brought her lips close to his. He could feel her breath on his face. He smelled its sweetness in his nostrils...

She stepped back and Mason found himself leaning forward, off balance. Turning with a half-smile, she returned to the fireplace, extracted a cigarette from a box on the mantle, and turned back to pose as she lighted it. "Dear David wasn't crazy about it, but I've gotten him in the habit of doing it."

I bet you did, he thought.

"As a paediatrician," she said, "he was very meticulous about keeping his hands clean. If he'd scratched himself or been scratched, I might not have noticed any other time of day, but I certainly would have this morning. He had no scratches on either hand." She blew smoke from her nostrils. "And before you ask, if I'd done it, I'd have had a damn good story as to why I did it. I wouldn't deny it. I wouldn't have to. I can tell you this: he was anxious when he left here. Almost upset. Not at me, but at something."

"You have no idea what?"

"The only thing that upsets him like that is money problems. He did not trust his colleagues. Quite honestly, Detective, if he wasn't married to me, I'd say he was downright despondent. Maybe even... suicidal."

Mason ignored that last. "So you dropped off your car and picked his up. And he brought you straight home from Pete's Esso?"

"Yes. He brought me home, threw his stuff in his car, we kissed, and he drove off in a terrible hurry." When they mentioned the Band-Aid on his hand, she told them that there were some in the medicine cabinet. "We all have them," she explained. "I'm sure the other doctors take them home from the clinic, too, not just David. There's a war on and supplies are tight." She took them to the restroom.

They found an opened tin of Johnson & Johnson Band-Aids. Diaz noted the batch number on the tin and the number of pre-packaged strips. Then he scrounged the waste-basket as he had in the Study. As they were leaving, Mason asked, "Which is the best way to your husband's clinic?" She gave them directions and handed Mason her husband's keys. "Take these so you can get in. Everything is closed for the weekend hunting trip." She cooed – actually cooed – "You can bring them back later." She eyed Diaz. "When you're off duty." Outside, Diaz made Mason wait while he went over to the metal trash can, removed the lid, and rummaged through the trash.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for trash," Diaz said. "Particularly for a Band-Aid wrapper and some kind of cotton wadding with iodine on it. If Dr. Zimmerman fixed up his own hand, there would be evidence of it somewhere."  
"He could have done it at the murder location, couldn't he? And the murderer could have taken it away with him... or her."

"Why take it away? Why not leave it? It would be incriminating, wouldn't it?"

"Good points."

"In addition to the car and glove box, I also looked all around in the woods. I didn't find anything." He straightened, replaced the lid on the trash can. He shook his head, sighed, and said, "You think she's lying about the doctor's hand?"

In answer, Mason stepped up to Det. Diaz, and grabbed his hands in the same manner as Adelle had taken his, and raised them. "Notice where my thumbs are? If he'd had a Band-Aid on that hand or exposed scratches, she'd have known it. Her thumb would have been over the one or the other."

"So she's telling the truth?"

"Or lying through her pretty teeth."

The doctors' clinic was on the opposite side of town from the Valley Baptist Hospital but in a straight line and on a parallel street from Pete's Esso to the FM 23 cut-off. As they pulled into the parking lot, they spotted Dr. Carlisle getting out of his car. He saw them and waited by the building, next to the phone booth.

The little man explained, "The hunting trip was called off. I was driving home from the lodge and got to thinking about those Band-Aids... thought, as long as I was in my car, I'd check the clinic."

"You live near here," Mason asked.

"Oh no, I live in Cameron – next town over." Cameron was a good thirty-five miles or better from the clinic, in the opposite direction from where the body had been found.

Dr. Carlisle and Mason both produced keys. Carlisle looked at the detective. "Your keys or mine?"

"I'll use this one," Mason said, and unlocked the front doors.

Det. Diaz waited outside as the two men entered. Carlisle led Mason to the dispensary. Mason asked, "So what's your story?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're a GP. Why join a children's clinic?"

Carlisle looked embarrassed. "I could say I needed the money, but truth be told, I don't do well with adults. Kids are easier. Parents tend to trust what you say and help control their kids."

"Is there a lot of money in a clinic like this?"

"The potential is here, yes."

"So how'd you guys meet? Go to doctor school together or what?" Carlisle chuckled. "Actually, we met in Reno."

"Divorced?"

"Zimmerman, not me – now there was a man with appetites!" He looked genuinely embarrassed by his obvious admiration for the dead man's personality. "Oh, sorry. No, I've never been married, Detective. I was there for the gambling. Anyway, we met at the roulette wheel in Ivan's Czar Casino. We'd all three picked the same number – thirty-two. And it won. Afterwards, we got to talking, found we had a lot in common, and when this opportunity came up, I moved from Reno to here."

Diaz quietly stepped up behind Carlisle while he spoke and made commiserate noises when he'd finished. "Oh," Carlisle said, "it's not that bad. Weather's not that much different and I never was much of a gambler." He seemed completely unaware that Diaz hadn't been with them the whole time. The two detectives looked at each other. Diaz shook his head. Mason didn't have to ask; he knew that his partner had been going through Dr. Carlisle's car for Band-Aids. And none had been found.

There was a good supply of Band-Aids in the dispensary, and the batch number matched the one Det. Diaz had noted at Dr. Zimmerman's home. Dr. Carlisle nodded. "He probably took them home, too."

"You have some at your house," Mason asked.

"Oh no. That would be unethical."

"So if we checked your home...?"

Dr. Carlisle smiled shyly. "You wouldn't find any."

"And Dr. Barton?"

"Gee, I really don't know." He looked embarrassed. "Off hand, I'd say no. He's very... moral."

Diaz coughed. He was standing over the waste basket in the Dispensary. Mason and the doctor took a look. At the bottom of the otherwise empty waste basket was some cotton wadding with dried blood and reddish-brown iodine stains on it, an empty bottle of iodine and a wax paper wrapper, opened, with a red thread dangling from the open end.

"That's a Band-Aid wrapper," Carlisle volunteered.

"I think," Diaz said, "we found where Dr. Zimmerman cleaned his wound."

Diaz gathered up the items in the waste basket and they went back to headquarters. Mason spent the next hour on the phone.

When he hung up he stared in disgust at nothing. "They may be good doctors," he said, "But they're also lousy financiers. Just talked to Old Man Tuttle at the bank. Dr. Zimmerman especially so. I suspect Adelle was getting the lion's share of the income for her "loyalty". The good doctor's death has provided for all of them, though. He had both business and personal life insurance, so even the wife inherits."

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand for the wife and twenty-five thousand for each of the partners."

Diaz whistled. "That's a lot of money," he said.

"You're telling me. They also have a malpractice suit pending, something with a well-known family across the border. You don't suppose he was killed by an avenging Mexican?"

"Doubt it," Diaz said, preoccupied. "Not if the lawsuit is still pending."

"It is. What are you doing?"

"Counting miles," Diaz said. He had sheets from a Big Chief notebook in front of him, covered with doodles and badly drawn maps. "I figure four miles from Pete's Esso to the doctor's home, to drop off his wife, another four back to Pete's where he picked up the hitch hiker. We don't know where he dropped her off, but it's sixty-four miles to the FM 23 cut-off, and another sixteen on the branch road to where we found his body – we measured that ourselves driving out of there and back. That's eighty-eight miles. We're missing twelve miles."

"So if he actually made it to the lodge, then any number under a hundred miles won't work. Which means –"

"Which means he didn't make it to the lodge."

The phone rang. Mason answered it. Diaz used this as an excuse to get coffee. He went into the back room where the empty coffee urn stared at him. When he'd worked here as a janitor and odd-jobs man, before being hired as a policeman, one of his duties was to make sure the pot was never empty. He now felt the empty urn was mocking him. With a sigh, he dismantled it and prepared a fresh pot. While the pot was brewing, he made a call from his desk.

He returned with two mugs as Mason was hanging up. Mason smiled from ear to ear and took the proffered mug. "Guess who I just talked to?"

"From the look on your face I'd say the hitch hiker?"

"Dammit! Yes. She heard about the doctor's death on the radio and called us. She agreed to come in. I sent a patrol car to pick her up. She's at the Texaco, about two miles south of the FM 23 cut-off."

"Did she scratch him?"

"She says yes. So who'd you call?"

"Dr. Carlisle lives in the Maryland Apartments in Cameron. I got his address off his license at the murder scene. I called the manager. Turns out she saw him leaving this morning. She was working about the parking lot all morning, sweeping, watering off the side walk, that kind of thing."

"Why would that matter?"

"I thought maybe he went back for his keys after he left."

"But he didn't?"

"Manager says no. Says he left and never came back."

Mason went to a shelf overflowing with various binders, reference books, phone directories, reverse phone books, odd State maps of the kind you find at filling stations, and an atlas. He attacked the atlas first, rifled through it but was unsatisfied. He went through the phone directory, but its map only showed area codes for the county. Even the State maps showed Twofold as not much more than a dot. "Not enough detail," he said.

He made a call to a friend in City Planning. A few minutes later the man brought over an aerial photograph-map of the county with a clear view of all the locations associated with the case, including a hand-drawn overlay of borders, markers, train and bus depots, the names of buildings and roadways, etc. He cleared his desktop of everything but the map, a protractor, a magnifying glass and his notepad. In quick order, he marked in red the locations of Dr. Zimmerman's home, Pete's Exxon, the clinic, the FM 23 cut-off, the branch road where the body had been found, and Dr. Barton's lodge. It was almost a direct route.

When the patrol man brought Alicia Hinojosa into the station, Mason told Diaz, "You talk to her." He still hadn't gotten over Mrs. Zimmerman.

She was darkly Mexican and darkly beautiful, with a natural grace of movement that flowed as she glided across the room in high-heel shoes, wearing nylons that accentuated the line of ankle and calf below the knee-length skirt. Mason, along with every other male, stopped what he was doing to watch her glide across the room. He knew sex appeal when he saw it, but he also knew the look of a woman "working her wares." Alicia did not have that look. To her it was as natural as breathing and sleeping. While Adelle Zimmerman was the type of woman that stirred a man's blood, Alicia Hinojosa was the kind of woman who moved his heart. Men might want her, but not just for a night or a weekend.

As she entered the interview room, she looked nervously from stodgy old Emma, the stenographer, to the youthful Det. Diaz. He spoke pleasantries, thanked her for her time and offered her a chair. He asked her to tell her story. She started in Spanish, but Diaz asked her to speak English so that Emma could record everything.

"I am a good girl," she said. "I want you to know that. I didn't do nothing on purpose. I would never get into a car if I knew what he was going to do."

"And what did he do?"

She'd been waiting at Pete's Esso for her sister to get off work. They both worked at the Davis Packing plant, where her sister worked on the assembly line, packing oranges and grapefruit in wooden crates and decorative boxes to be shipped up north for the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. "I work for Mr. Davis, as a secretary. I'm a good girl, sir, and learn to keep track of time cards. I get off before mi hermana, my sister. Mr. Davis doesn't like for us to loiter on the premises, so I go to Pete's to wait." She added: "I still have not been home. After I leave the doctor, I get a ride to the Texaco. It is there I hear of Dr. Zimmerman's death. I call from payphone, to let you know. Because I am a good girl, I do what is right."

She knew Dr. Zimmerman from the time she worked for Mrs. Barton. "He was there several times when I worked as a maid. Even talked to me. He seemed nice." So she didn't think anything of it when he offered to give her a ride. She thought it would be safe.

Then he got frisky.

She was rubbing her nylon covered foot while she spoke, her shoe in her free hand. At this point she banged her high heal on the desk abruptly and violently and exclaimed, "Why he do that? He knows I am a good girl!"

"As do we all," Diaz, startled, assured her. "What happened then?"

He pulled over and attacked her. That was the way she put it: attacked her. She scratched at his face. For emphasis, she showed Diaz her fingernails, long and sharp and polished to a high shine. "He raised his hand to protect his face but I got him a good one on the hand." She indicated the spot where they'd found the scratches. "I cut him deep." At this point she was very animated with eyebrows and hands. "I get out of the car." He called her some horrible names. She reciprocated. He drove off. She walked back to the main road, where a farmer picked her up and took her to the Texaco.

"When Dr. Zimmerman pulled over, before he attacked you, do you know where that was?"

She thought for a moment. "Asi, asi," she said, "maybe yes, maybe no."

"Let's go see," he offered.

At Mason's desk, she bent over the map. "He said he would take me home." She placed a sharp-nailed fingertip on a Colonia off FM 23. "Aqui," she said, "here." The map showed nothing. "What's out there," Mason asked.

"It is El Balboa Ranch," she said. Her head was up. She was proud of the fact that she lived in an unincorporated area, not because it had little or no paved roads, sewage or trash collection to speak of, but because it was a piece of property – real land that her family owned. Half an acre of mesquite and scrub brush they called their little ranch. "Mi papa's Ranchito," she said. "It is where I live."

Mason looked at Diaz, who nodded. He asked Alicia, "And where did he drop you off?"

Again she studied the map. She placed her fingernail on a spot. "Mas o minos, aqui," she said. "More or less, here." It was east of the main road, just off FM 23. If the doctor had kept going and turned north, he would have been going to El Balboa, but if he'd gone further up from that point and turned south, then he would have been heading toward the lodge. His body had been found on a branch road that went to neither. Mason put a red X on the spot.

Diaz thanked Alicia and escorted her out. When he returned Mason was measuring the map with the protractor.

"This spot," he said, "is two miles as the crow flies from the clinic, but a deep ravine shows on the map, which means Dr. Zimmerman had to drive back to the main road, and then back on that to get to the Clinic... that's six miles back to the clinic... and six miles back to that spot... since it's on the same route as the trip to the lodge... that's our twelve missing miles."

Diaz nodded. "It fits," he said. "Even the time element fits, meaning he could have been killed anytime within an hour of being found."

"If she's telling the truth. Think she's telling the truth, kid?"

"I don't know. But I checked her file."

"She has one?"

"Yes. She's had several arrests for violent behaviour. Apparently, Miss Hinojosa has quite a temper."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she could easily have killed him in a fit of anger."

"With a shotgun?"

"Why not? We only have her word for what happened. Suppose Dr. Z took her to the murder site, accosted her, and during a struggle both in and out of the car, she ends up shooting him?"

Mason considered. "It's not impossible," he conceded.

"Even for a good girl."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. So what now?"

"Now we talk to Mrs. Barton."

Mrs. Barton was a plain, practical woman. If anything, she could have been called handsome, but only with the most judicious of references. She was also Catholic.

"Yes," she said bluntly, after a brief conversation. "Everything my husband told you was correct. We arrived here yesterday to make ready for the weekend and were here up until the time Dr. Carlisle arrived."

"Does Dr. Barton carry his clinic keys with him?"

"No," she said. "He left them at home. He never mixes work with pleasure. I won't allow it."

"Would anyone know where he kept them?"

"Anyone who's been in the house, yes. We made no secret of such things."

They asked her about Alicia Hinojosa. She sighed. "I hired her," she said. "She was a good worker. I was sorry I had to fire her."

"Why," Mason asked.

"You've seen her?"

"Yes."

"Then you know why."

"No, ma'am, I don't."

"Alicia Hinojosa belongs to a race of women who naturally appeal to the baser wants of men. What's the expression? Hot-blooded? Yes, she is a hot-blooded, Latin woman. Except for an occasional flare up of temper, though, she certainly wasn't conscious of it and never tried to take advantage of it. Above everything else, she's a good Catholic girl. But there you are."

"I'm still not sure I understand."

"She was a temptation."

"To your husband?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, no. You may not know this, Detective, but my husband's had his prostate removed." Mason looked blankly at her. "He can't have sex," she said. "It's a physical impossibility. No, I'm talking about Dr. Zimmerman. I'd seen the way he looked at her. And since I couldn't keep him from coming over, I did the next best thing." She picked up her Rosary. "I gave her a decent severance and got her a good job working as a secretary for Bud Davis at his fruit packing plant. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my afternoon prayer."

"One last question," Mason interposed. "Do you have any Band-Aids in the house – I mean the lodge?"

"No," she said. "Those are for the clinic. That would be theft, sir, and my Alan would never consider such a sin."

Mason turned to go but Diaz stood frozen, looking intently at the Rosary in Mrs. Barton's right hand. Suddenly, he smiled. "Thank you," he said.

Outside the lodge Mason looked at Diaz. "Is that possible," he asked. "Not being able to have sex?"

The newly married junior detective said, "God, I hope not!"

"Still," he shrugged. "I don't know what to make of it."

"I do." Diaz smiled. "Talking to Mrs. Barton tells us one thing."

"What?"

"It tells us who the killer is. That, and her Rosary."

WAS IT A SUICIDE, HUNTING ACCIDENT OR MURDER?

IF IT WAS MURDER, WHO DID IT?

DR. AND MRS. BARTON

DR. CARLISLE

ADELLE ZIMMERMAN

ALICIA HINOJOSA

***

Mason asked, "How does that tell us who did it?"

"Actually, their stories, the mileage and the Rosary tell us who didn't do it."

"How so?"

"We assumed Dr. Zimmerman cleaned his own scratches at the clinic."

Mason nodded. "The trash in the waste basket tells us that."

"But he couldn't have. He was right-handed. That's what the Rosary reminded me of. Mrs. Barton was holding it in her right hand. Those photos on Dr. Zimmerman's desk and over the mantle showed him as right-handed. You saw the bandage. It was expertly applied."

"Okay?"

"So he had to have had help."

"Maybe, but Carlisle could have done it at the murder site and moved the trash to the clinic before we got there. When we saw him at the clinic he was in his car, but he could have been leaving instead of arriving, saw us, and got out of the car as if just arriving."

"Why?"

"To plant the evidence."

"Where'd he get the Band-Aid? He was confident we wouldn't find any at his house. Since he hasn't been home since before the murder, I doubt he has any there. And I checked his car at the clinic when you two went inside. He didn't have any in there either."

"Okay, to remove the evidence."

"Again, why? If anything, he'd want it found in the clinic. And since we now have all the mileage, we know that Dr. Z must have cleaned his hand there or the mileage wouldn't fit."

Mason snapped his fingers. "Mrs. Zimmerman! She had her husband's keys!"

Diaz shook his head. "She didn't have a car. Remember, she left hers at Pete's Esso when they picked up her husband's Packard. And Dr. Zimmerman knew this. We also know that Dr. Barton was at the lodge with his wife, just as we know that Dr. Carlisle left home with his keys. We know this because he had his keys with him when he showed up at the clinic before going home again, but after the hunting trip was called off."

"How do we know Mrs. Barton didn't lie for her husband?"

"You think a woman as blunt with the truth as Mrs. Barton was with her husband's... inadequacies... would lie about something as sinful as murder? I don't think the good Catholic woman who fired Alicia for fear she might unknowingly seduce Dr. Zimmerman would cover up as grave a sin as murder."

"What about Alicia?"

"Same argument as Dr. Carlisle and the clinic; the mileage wouldn't fit unless he went back to fix his hand, and that wouldn't fit unless he attacked her where she said. The trash at the clinic proves that he was alive after she got out of the car. And did you see her shoes? High heels. Can you imagine a woman in high heels walking sixteen miles on a branch road and then all the way back to the FM 23 cut-off? Just to get a ride to the next filling station? She could have walked home from there quicker. Also, even allowing she could walk that distance, I saw her nylon-covered feet and take it from a man who buys his wife nylons, they could not have survived such a walk, not in the condition I saw them in."

"So we're back to Dr. Barton?"

"He was with his wife until Carlisle arrived."

"Suicide? He had money problems."

Det. Diaz shook his head.

"Here's what I think happened. After being scratched by Alicia, Dr. Zimmerman drove to the clinic, realized he didn't have his keys and called Dr. Carlisle. We saw the phone booth outside the clinic, remember? He could have called from there –"

"You said Dr. Carlisle didn't go back home."

"The call must have come in before he left his apartment. Carlisle shows up, helps him fix his hand – his right hand – and in the process, they have an argument."

"Probably over money. When he told us he wasn't much of a gambler, I thought he meant that in terms of frequency, but maybe he meant it in terms of ability."

"Okay, or maybe he was just tired of being picked on by his two partners."

"He's the type." Mason agreed.

"Whatever the case, he decides he's done with Zimmerman and the whole clinic thing. Maybe decides it's time to cash out."

"Could it have been an accident?"

"I doubt it. More than likely, Carlisle realized the business insurance was a financial way out. I'm guessing he told Dr. Zimmerman about a new spot to hunt White Wing and drove out on the branch road, then stopped. Dr. Z got out of his car without his jacket or cap, so he probably didn't even have his shotgun with him."

"But his shotgun was beside the body – and fired, too."

"He probably fired off Dr. Z's shotgun after he was dead in the hope we'd think it was just a shooting accident with another hunter. But he forgot to put the jacket and cap on the body."

"Or realized that the blood spatter would have shown up under the jacket."

"Whatever the case, Dr. Z wasn't hunting when he got out of his car or he would have had his cap and jacket on. Anyway, Carlisle gets him out here... pulls over to the shoulder, gets out of his car... Dr. Z stops behind him, gets out of his car... Carlisle walks back to Dr. Z, absently holding his shotgun, and points to a possible blind in the woods... Dr. Z takes a few steps from the car, maybe realizes it's not a good sight at all, or perhaps hears the shotgun being closed, and turns back to look at his colleague... and then..." he did a motion with his hands, pantomiming the firing of the shotgun.

"Bueno bye," he said.

The End

Schoonover writes, "I am a Texan, born and bred, with the requisite sense of humour... warped. I wrote my first story when I was 13 and sold my first novel when I was 41, so don't tell me persistence doesn't pay off. I love mysteries, logic puzzles and the old Perry Mason TV series." He has two outstanding series, which can be found on Amazon: The Arbiter supernatural suspense series - WARPING THE MIND, TORTURED SOULS, SHAPE OF FEAR, HIERARCHY OF TERROR and the Tornado Man impossible mystery series - A SENSE OF ENDLESS WOES, IF THOUGHTS COULD KILL – as well as several stand-alone novels.

## Cue Murder

### Jane Risdon
Prologue

It started like any other day. The morning studio call came far too early, as it always did, and as Maxwell Murphy walked across the lot to Stage 58 in the cool crisp Hollywood air, the heat of the sun still to reach his skin, he silently rehearsed the lines he'd learned the night before. He wasn't the first to arrive, the grips had been there for an hour already and so had many others who worked on the technical side of movie making. Sleepy actors – those needed for the first takes, the effects of their various narcotics—barbiturates or booze \- still clouding their eyes and their brains, wandered in and made straight for the coffee and smokes.

But it wasn't like any other day. Maxwell knew there would never be a day like any other day ever again, as he recalled what changed an ordinary days filming into an unforgettable day; a day when part of him died.

Chapter One

Make-up artist to the stars, Charles of Hollywood, waited impatiently for the female star of the production to grace him with her presence. 'Five minutes, she said, and that must've been an hour ago.' He shouted across the set at the director, Franco Bergen, whose tolerance levels were at their lowest after a series of interruptions from leading lady, Allis Blondell, who'd also been taking it out verbally on Charles all morning, for no particular reason; it was just Charles' turn. Things were tense and everyone knew who was to blame.

'Said she wanted to use 'the facilities' in her bungalow.' Charles had had enough of Allis. First, her stylist called her away for something or other to do with wardrobe, then the lighting guy started moaning about the star's hat, which she insisted pulling down over her eyes casting shadows on her bottom lip, and there'd been a major re-arrangement of equipment with Allis's stand-in doing the hard graft, whilst cameras and lights were moved round. To top it all, Allis who'd decided she wanted her lips darker and fuller, complained that Charles was trying to make her look like a clown so that the younger, prettier co-star, Jennifer Jacques, would look more beautiful. After a few heated words between them Allis stormed off, shouting over her shoulder as she flounced past the director and crew. 'I'm going to my bungalow to use the facilities.' Which everyone took to mean she was going to have a tipple; the start of another long wait.

'Haul her ass back here now.' Franco shouted at the young continuity girl, Ruby, who was recording everything furiously now that the set had been moved around. 'You get her back here now.' He stuck another cigar in his mouth and several hands offered a light which he waved away, preferring his own cigarette lighter. 'Damn dame, she's costing me a fortune. If we go any further over budget I'll kill someone.' He hissed through cigar-clenched teeth. 'Who the hell's got my lighter?' he yelled searching his pockets and shooting accusing looks around the crew. 'You,' he grabbed the nearest camera-man's arm, 'light it.'

The crew slinked into the shadows, resigned, waiting for Allis to reappear and the fireworks to begin. There were always fireworks following Allis's trips to 'the facilities.' Her most recent 'trip' lasted most of the afternoon. Even her leading man, Maxwell Murphy, whose movie this was supposed to be – after all he'd made several as the handsome PI who solved the most dastardly crimes in Hollywood, with the aid of a series of beautiful co-stars—was showing signs of annoyance. It was a well-known secret on set that he and Allis were having 'chemistry' issues following the break-up after their 'bit of a thing.' Though the studio denied it of course. Allis was, as far as the studio was concerned, the epitome of the girl next door, and any relationship – no matter with whom – was absolutely off limits, unless they'd concocted it for publicity purposes, and so far they hadn't sanctioned any relationships off screen.

Maxwell was the studio's answer to Tyrone Power, although their handsome star bore only a passing resemblance to the Matinee Idol. The studio wheeled him to every glittering event, with every star and rising starlet available, as they built his sexy heart-throb image. Any thoughts of a genuine relationship was out of the question for him. Like Allis and all the other studio stars, their contracts forbade it. Any rumours were always most welcome, especially just as the movie was being released, but that was some months off, so for now any hint of a relationship between both stars was not encouraged.

There wasn't a response when Ruby knocked on the bungalow door, or to her many calls for Miss Blondell to return to the set. Ruby turned the handle to the front door and ventured into the bungalow, calling out again. Still there wasn't any reply, and after looking around the sitting room and kitchenette area, Ruby ventured towards the bedroom door.

Chapter Two

People congregated, all anxious to get a glimpse. Cowboys, Roman soldiers, fairies and pirates all jostled for a clear view inside. Security arrived quickly. A passing guard, seeing Ruby racing from the bungalow managed to get past her as she gave her lungs an airing, her arms flapping wildly. Pity she'd not auditioned for the latest horror movie being filmed on Stage 43, he thought, as he barged past her into the bungalow, that scream could be career changing.

Cleaners, commissary staff, secretaries and almost everyone working at Stage 53 on the production of 'Barnaby Rogers PI: The Case of the Singing Canary,' had legged it over to see what all the fuss was about, once the alarm had been raised by Ruby's histrionics. The noise levels were painful as they shouted and speculated to each other.

'An axeman's gone berserk inside the bedroom.' A fairy repeated to the swimming star behind her, having heard it from the spaceman nearest the bedroom. Heads bobbed and necks craned and the crowd moved closer inside.

'What's going on?' shouted the TV cop, truncheon in hand, still in character ready to investigate.

'Seems Allis Blondell's dead,' yelled Sitting Bull who couldn't see a thing from where he was, and had to resort to standing on a coffee table just to see the top of the bedroom door. 'According to one of the elves from stage 20.'

The security guard yelled at the top of his voice for everyone to shut up and move outside. He'd called the cops from Allis's bedside phone. They ordered the building cleared before they arrived with the meat wagon. Slowly the spectators filed outside.

The Beverley Hills police detectives searched the bungalow, questioned anyone who was unlucky enough to be involved with the beautiful, but very dead star, all under the watchful eye of the studio publicity department anxious to keep a lid on anything getting out before they'd had chance to 'prepare a story' for the public. Photos were taken of the scene and the studio doctor went through the usual checks on the lifeless, but perfectly posed body of Allis Blondell, former croupier and latterly the biggest female star under contract to Mount Olympus Pictures. The doctor had seen it all before, sadly, and as he gave his initial thoughts on cause of death to the detective in charge, he noticed that all the booze and pill bottles he knew Allis had by her bed—having visited her on previous occasions she'd been 'under the weather,' had been removed. The publicity department doing their job, he mused as he wrote up his notes.

'Overdose Doc, with booze, right?' The detective nodded as the doctor gave his initial findings. He didn't question the lack of pills or alcohol present. He knew the studio regime. Besides, his chief had made his wishes clear; keep a lid on it. He knew he dare not buck up against him or his masters.

'Yes, that's my guess. I've regularly prescribed barbiturates for her, probably taken with too much sour mash this time. She stinks of it.' He closed his medical bag and watched the private ambulance back up to the white picket fence, waiting for the body to leave the bungalow for the last time. They'd seen it all before too.

'Accidental, no signs of foul play that I can see,' the doctor added as he covered Allis's face. 'Let you know after the autopsy.'

The detective had seen more than his share of suicides in Hollywood. Shame, he thought, Allis was a looker. His wife liked to watch her movies, but they left him cold. This latest movie, about as phoney as you could get in his opinion, about a PI who always managed to out-smart the cops, just got his goat—gave people the wrong impression about cops and investigations. His wife lapped them up and kept on at him to retire from the force and go private. Yeah, he thought, just like Barnaby 'gum-shoe' Rogers. No thanks.

'Well, get me results pronto. Don't want this turning into another circus. I had to deal with that broad, Thelma Todd a few years back, who did herself in. Just nuts.' He lit his Lucky Strike and took off towards Stage 58.

Chapter Three

Maxwell Murphy read the papers and looked at the photos of Allis Blondell and sighed. 'What a waste,' he told his agent and friend, Bob Sidewell, taking a drag on his cigarette. 'But I don't believe what they're saying, not one bit.'

They were in Maxwell's bungalow relaxing after meetings with the studio head, Salvo Gambino, discussing how they'd have to re-shoot all the Barnaby PI footage replacing Allis with the new starlet, Marlene Meyer, chosen for the part of the gum-shoe's latest companion and partner in sleuthing, Constance Marks, even though the director objected vehemently, for reasons he kept to himself.

'Powers that be want Marlene, so we get Marlene.' Franco Bergen's expression spoke volumes.

'I dunno what to think Max, you were close to her. If the cops say there's nothing off, then you gotta believe them. Don't beat yourself up.' Bob lit another smoke.

'I don't buy it Bob, sure she drank too much recently, who doesn't, she was depressed for some reason, but pills? I don't get it—news to me.' Max was shocked at how hard Allis's death had hit him. They'd got close, real close. Yeah, they'd had a few tiffs; nothing serious. Then Allis wanted it to end, out of the blue. Afraid the scandal mags sniffing around would suspect something, she said. If the studio got wind they'd both be on suspension, having been warned once already. For him the break-up cut deep. He hadn't realised how deep until now.

'Yeah, well, let it go Max, nothing you can do. It happens.'

Max pursed his lips, he wasn't so sure. Bob shoved Marlene's publicity shot at him. Max picked it up and glanced at it. 'Not my type.' He threw it back on the desk. 'She better pick it up quick, I'm not in the mood for hand-holding.'

'Looks good Max, and she can pull the punters in. Her last movie, 'Cue Murder,' did really well.' He downed his whiskey. 'What's not to like?' Bob wasn't sure if Max had heard rumours about Marlene's Family ties, which the actress had been anxious to cover-up on her way up the greasy pole. But Bob had contacts, it was his job to keep himself informed.

She's not Allis, that's what, thought Max taking a deep drag on his cigarette, coming to a decision.

Chapter Four

Allis Blondell's funeral was a big deal. Hollywood was out in full force. There was publicity to be got just being associated with the event and studio bosses made sure their interests were well represented. The street outside Forest Lawn Cemetery resembled a parking lot, fender to fender with the flashiest autos money and power could buy. Crowds lined the street, anxious to get a glimpse of their silver screen idols dressed in their French designer mourning black, bent on out-doing one another.

Since the news of Allis's death had broken, despite the studio's attempts to control the situation, speculation had been rife with endless stories in the press and, according to the gossip-mongers in Hollywood - who helped spread their fanciful words like a dose of something unpleasant - she'd been murdered by underworld hoods she owed money to, she'd been carrying a secret love-child and the studio had her bumped off to prevent it being born...celebrity gossip queens speculated about romantic ties to the Governor of the State who had sent his hench-men to bump her off before she ruined his Presidential aspirations. And so it went on. The Police issued statement after statement reiterating that Allis Blundell died of an accidental overdose of barbiturates whilst intoxicated: no murder, no suicide; no big cover-up. No-one was buying it, and Max certainly wasn't.

The cops hadn't applied any pressure questioning Max at the station. And the rest of the players and crew had the same experience; the cops were pussy-footing around going through the motions of an investigation. What a joke. Max was sure the studio's hand in putting a lid on the case, sweeping the whole thing under the carpet, was all over the investigation. It wouldn't be the first time the cops got a pay-off. There wasn't any visible motive to bump her off, they all said. As long as you forgot the Mob in Vegas who'd helped her get a leg up with her career, Max thought, recalling a sleepy chat he'd had with his former lover one night which hadn't made sense at the time, but now he wondered, or the Governor who'd been dipping his wick whilst portraying the God-fearing family man—no-one was buying \- but that was a while back and anyway the politician had a new broad on his arm these days. Max couldn't see what the Mob would gain bumping Allis off, they had a good ten percent of her already, if he believed what she said. Surely Allis was history as far as the Governor was concerned.

Max watched the mourners performing for the camera's which flashed constantly throughout the service and burial. He had a lump in his throat the size of a golf ball as Allis's casket was lowered into her final resting place. His feelings of overwhelming loss intensified daily; finally, having fought the very idea with every argument he could muster, he'd realised he'd been – still was - in love with Allis. It hit him like the Santé Fe rolling through Burbank as he finally left her graveside.

Chapter Five

The screen idol crept into Allis's studio lot bungalow aware if he got caught snooping before her things were removed, he'd have some explaining to do and he knew he didn't have a believable excuse to be sniffing around at 4am, a time when most of his co-stars would be trying to rouse themselves from the latest parties they'd been revolving between, getting stoned, or laid by whoever could push them up the ladder to fame a little further. Max scratched his head; he didn't know what he expected to find after the studio and the cops had been all over the place. He'd head over to Doheny later to take a shifty at her house: luckily he'd kept his key.

He could smell her perfume as he searched her clothes closet and it hit him like a sledgehammer right in the chest, Allis was never coming back. Max cleared his throat and blinked away tears which suddenly trickled down his cheeks, emotion overwhelming him without warning. Bob said it happens; grief just kicks you in the guts when you least expect it.

Max rummaged through chests of drawers, checked under the bed, pulled up cushions on the chairs and couches in every room, shifting furniture, pulling some loose carpet aside to see if there could be a clue, anything, to confirm his gut feeling; Allis had been murdered. He just didn't know why or by whom. He just knew she didn't willingly take the overdose that day. Sure, she'd been fractious on set. She'd lacked confidence suddenly, and was in fear of younger, more beautiful actresses grabbing what was hers, he knew. He'd listened to her many a night as she'd poured her heart out to him. But never, not once, had she ever given cause to think she'd bump herself off. She was ambitious and dedicated but of late, since their break-up, she'd been distant, secretive even, and operated on a short fuse playing the big star, finding fault with everybody, giving everyone reason to be pissed at her. Not like herself at all. Talk was she'd got into some serious trouble. Max didn't know what. He'd asked her several times.

'I can't sleep, I'm tired and I'm just anxious about the movie, that's all,' she'd told him. 'Hell, who isn't?

Max pondered everything. What was going on in Allis's life since they'd broken up? He hadn't found the silver bullet yet, or the answers he sought. Strangely Allis's personal papers including her diary and address book, were not in the bungalow, and neither was her purse. He'd last seen her with her purse on the day she died, going into the bungalow upon arrival on set. She'd waved to him, purse in her hand. Perhaps the coppers took them. After an hour he let himself out of the bungalow, frustrated.

The security guard snoozed happily in his little box as Max crept past him, leaving the premises. He ran across the street, making his way to his beloved Alder Limo, parked out of sight of the studio.

Chapter Six

Built in the Spanish style early in 1938, Allis's house on the corner of North Doheny and Oriel Drive was an ideal hide-away for those seeking privacy. Tall white walls surrounded the property in front of huge jacaranda and palm trees, whilst enormous decorative wrought iron gates guarded the entrance. The floor to ceiling picture windows on the ground floor opened on to wide brick terraces and neatly trimmed sweeping lawns and well-kept gardens. Sheltered balconies hugged the upper floors with huge picture windows, allowing light to flood into the art deco styled rooms.

Allis rented it from self-styled architect and impresario Henry Flowers, who'd purchased the land in the early 1930s, getting a foot on the property ladder in the early days of Hollywood. He developed his land into several lots which he sold off or rented to the increasingly wealthy and famous stars of the motion picture business. Allis was happy in her new home where she'd lived since going under contract to the studio. She'd a ten year rental agreement – the term of her contract with Mount Olympus Pictures. One day she planned to buy it.

Max was reminded of all this as he unlocked the wrought iron side gate into the property, well hidden behind deep red and pink Bougainvillea bushes. Stepping into the beautiful grounds, his heart felt heavy thinking of Allis who would never again enjoy her beloved home.

Keeping to the shadows he crossed the front lawn. About to put his key in the lock he hesitated. A small sound from the other side of the door, a shadow crossing behind the glass caused him to duck down and creep behind the huge ceramic garden urn on the front step. He waited, his breath leaving him in thin white wisps in the early morning chill. There was someone inside. Someone who daren't risk putting the lights on. And it wasn't the live-in staff. They wouldn't be needed again until the removal men came to pack up Allis's life and take it away, having moved out following their employer's death. Max strained to hear what was going on inside the house, but all was silent again. He wondered if he should risk moving to one of the picture windows to take a look, but dismissed the idea. His eyes were drawn to the front door glass as the beam of a torch slithered past. Max moved further into the shadows behind the urn, his knees screaming in protest, and waited.

Chapter Seven

The door opened cautiously. Max held his breath. He carefully manoeuvred himself to afford a view of the two men leaving Allis's home. They each wore a homburg pulled down low and had their coat collars turned up hiding the lower half of their faces. He couldn't make them out, they weren't familiar to him. As an actor he'd studied people—the way they walked, talked, behaved and carried themselves - he didn't recognise anything about them as they moved quickly and quietly across the lawns, leaving by the very gate Max had used to enter. Interesting, he thought, someone else had a key.

Max waited a few minutes just to be sure they'd gone before letting himself in. He wasn't sure what he'd find. The house had been thoroughly turned over by the two mysterious men who'd been in the house for god knew how long. Did they find what they were looking for? The leading man decided to begin upstairs anyway.

Memories flooded back as he entered Allis's bedroom suite, the last time he'd been there still vivid. Now she was dead; murdered. But by whom and why? He'd never see her again, to be able to go back and make things the way they were. Max felt anger and a deep searing loss surge through his body as he went through Allis's things.

Max hadn't seen such a mess since the aftermath of the 1933 earthquake. Drawers had been upturned, closets emptied, their contents shredded, strewn across the floor. Couches and chairs had been ripped apart. Her bed had been upturned and the mattress ravaged. Allis's life reduced to a pile of possessions carelessly discarded across her bedroom; the way she'd been discarded in her bungalow, although posed to make it seem as if she'd wanted to be found looking her best – he didn't buy it; Allis had been discarded, no longer wanted.

Max moved carefully amongst her possessions, his torch beam kept low as he examined each item. He wondered if her uninvited guests had found whatever it was they were looking for, but it didn't put him off searching. He ran downstairs, following the same routine in each room, even the kitchen, before sitting down on the piano stool in the garden room to think. What were they searching for? Evidence of her murder? Removing evidence? Hiding her secrets? What?

Regardless of what the cops and the medical punks were pedalling he was convinced her death was no more accidental than Abraham Lincoln's. Max hadn't played Barnaby PI for five years without learning a thing or two about murder. Someone had slipped Allis a mickey-fin; a fatal one, he was convinced. There couldn't have been any other method. She'd taken the concoction unknowingly.

He opened a new bottle of Bourbon from the small bar, in case all her booze had been doctored – he couldn't risk it. Why'd the cops fallen for the accidental overdose yarn? The evidence – her pills and booze – had been removed from the scene before the cops arrived; why didn't that stink to them? The investigation was too brief - hardly as thorough as it should've been.

Two slugs later, none the wiser, with his brain doing a rumba in his skull, he felt whacked and his stomach felt like his throat had been cut. Finding nothing worth getting excited about in Allis's ice box he decided to go home and get some shut-eye, grabbing a quick bite at Greenblatt's on the way; it was gone 7am, the deli would be open. He wasn't needed on set again until the end of the week, so once he'd got some shut-eye he'd be up to chasing some of theories forming in his head.

Max closed the front door quietly behind him. He didn't see it coming.

Chapter Eight

Greenblatt's would have to wait. Max came round slowly, his head thumped a Brazilian beat. Whatever hit him put him out cold. He was sprawled on Allis's front step. He hadn't seen or heard a thing; they'd really given him a good going over. His head thudded, his body screamed as if he'd been several rounds with Henry Armstrong.

Slowly he got to his feet, leaning against the building to steady himself. He'd been thoroughly searched so whoever it was, thought he had whatever it was they'd been looking for earlier. They'd been unsuccessful. He had to get home, grab a hot tub and get some shut-eye.

His place had been turned over whilst he'd been sniffing around his late co-star's home. Stuff was everywhere. Of course they'd left empty-handed, that's why they returned to Allis's place. Someone must've been keeping tabs on him, waiting until he'd got what they'd all been looking for; only he didn't have it either. Whatever it was, it would have to wait.

Max roused himself around noon. Moving stiffly, he made an omelette and coffee. He was one of the only stars he knew who didn't have live-in staff catering to his every need. Mexicans did the grounds, cleaned, and got provisions for him, but he didn't have a cook or a maid; he rarely ate in. Bob took care of the hiring and firing, Max didn't even know their names, he hardly ever saw them anyway. He preferred living alone. He valued privacy and the freedom to come and go without someone clocking his every move, ready to sell what they observed to the likes of Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons.

'Bob, get someone over here, my place's been trashed.' He rang as soon as he'd woken and bathed, explaining what he'd been up to. 'Seems like I hit a nerve. Nothing's missing.'

Bob cautioned his client and long-time buddy about poking his snout into matters he'd tried getting him to drop. 'You keep digging Max, you'll get yourself wasted. Take my advice, drop it.'

'I can't Bob, Allis didn't deserve this. I've got to get to the bottom of it. You understand.'

'Yeah, guess I do.' Bob hung up exasperated and worried.

Max drank his coffee pondering events. Killing Allis, what was the motive? Who had the opportunity to spike her booze or her pills? There wasn't any sign of a break-in at the bungalow or sign of Allis being forced to take the concoction which killed her. He wondered who stood to gain from her death; the Mob? Allis apparently owed them. Someone wanting her role in the movie? Bit drastic, he thought, yet someone who'd access to her bungalow had managed, unseen, to doctor her booze, of that he was convinced. Premeditated murder.

Max tried questioning Franco about his relationship with Allis at the funeral, but the director was adamant they'd hadn't had a 'personal' relationship, purely business only, and anyway the cops checked his alibi for the night before, and the time of Allis's death, and it panned out. Since he'd questioned Franco things had visibly cooled between him and the director, who'd started picking on Max every opportunity he could. 'Call yourself a goddam leading man, Cheetah could do a better job with his eyes shut.' He'd yelled at Max during the retakes with Marlene, who was getting on his nerves. She acted entitled and seemed far too much at home in her new role.

Detective Pacino lost his temper with Max when the actor questioned him about their investigation and tried to get him to admit he knew Allis had been killed. Pacino marched him out of the station, threatening him with a good hiding if he didn't butt out. Worse still, the copper hinted he'd inform studio head, Salvo Gambino, and Max knew that he'd be suspended, or worse, if he persisted with his mischievous insinuations. 'Yeah, all right, all right, message understood,' Max shouted as cops and crooks turned to stare at the commotion.

'Goddam, who the hell do these movie stars think they are?' The detective yelled at no-one in particular as he returned to his office. 'Better keep his nose clean, is all. Goddam, he really believes he's a goddam Shamus.'

Max mulled everything over whilst he got dressed. Allis's house held the answer he was sure.

Chapter Nine

They'd searched again, more thoroughly this time. Wooden wall panels had been smashed, the flooring ripped up and cupboards had been yanked away from the walls in very room. Max picked his way through his former lover's possessions strewn carelessly across each room he entered. Fixed items of furniture had been tipped over, there was smashed glass and ceramics everywhere; he felt sad to see what remained of her life treated so disrespectfully. What was it they wanted so desperately? They'd searched him, so it had to be portable. Max wondered where to start looking. Was there any point? Perhaps they'd found what they wanted this time. Should he call the cops? His mind spun as he looked at the destruction.

Deciding to search more thoroughly this time, Max worked his way from the ground floor to the bedrooms upstairs. Nothing was ignored or unworthy of closer inspection. He worked through the closets and cupboards, banging backs of the furniture looking for hidden compartments. Ripped clothes were strewn all over – he dismissed them. If there'd been anything concealed the previous searchers would've found it.

Max was about to leave the bedroom, almost tripping over one of Allis's shoes as he reached the door, steadying himself, cussing under his breath; Allis and her damned shoes. She'd a thing about shoes. Crazy dame spent a fortune on them; as soon as she'd been able to afford it she'd had them hand-made especially, he recalled, picking up the offending shoe. Ferragamo. Italian. Expensive. He looked closely at the shoe; dames, he muttered. It seemed familiar and then realised it was The Rainbow shoe, just like the one made for Garland after The Wizard of Oz was released. He'd admired them on Allis, well, actually he was admiring her legs but felt embarrassed getting caught staring, so he said he liked her shoes. Schmuck. She'd got them with her first big pay check. As success continued Ferragamo designed especially for her. About to place the platform styled shoe on the floor - it seemed pointless finding the other shoe in this mess - Max stopped short; a thought crashed into his mind - shoes. He hadn't looked at her shoes, well, not thoroughly. The other guys appeared to have ignored them too. Scrutinising the shoe Max found nothing unusual about it, yet he set about finding and making pairs of all the shoes. Clearing a space he lined them up on the bathroom floor, inspecting each shoe carefully, looking for something; he'd no idea what. However, his gut told him he was on the right track. After a few minutes – thinking Allis had enough shoes to fill a store of her own – he found it.

Chapter Ten

The safety deposit box at The Bank of America on 7th and Olive, came with a set of instructions and a key to open it, hidden in the false bottom of one of Allis's shoes. Upon checking its partner Max found a tightly folder letter addressed to him in the event of her sudden and or violent death, giving him sole access to the box. He shuddered. Allis had feared for her life. Whatever was in the box got her killed. She'd trusted only him but she'd never let on, knowing somehow he'd never accept her sudden death and would not stop until he'd discovered the truth. Tears stung his eyes – Allis – she wrote that she loved him, but for his safety, she'd ended things. Why hadn't she confided in him?

Max stared at the safety deposit box long after the bank manager had left him. His heart pounded as he inserted the key. Getting access to her box had been surprisingly easy and now he was about to find out why she'd been killed, and possibly who'd taken the life of the only woman he'd ever loved.

Various items of jewellery were inside a velvet bag; he had no idea about gems, but he could tell they weren't paste or cheap and wondered if she'd been given them by a former lover. He found letters, two birth certificates, and what proved to be a copy of a Will, plus various other documents along with some photographs, which he gathered together and slipped into a valise he'd brought with him. He'd look at them later. He'd leave the jewellery in the box for now. Firstly he wanted a good look at the items he'd found. He headed to Bob's office which seemed the safest place for now. He didn't want to risk home or Allis's house.

Bob's mouth fell open. 'You gotta be kidding me.' Feet resting on his desk, he leaned back in his chair staring at Max in disbelief, his freshly lit cigar never reaching his lips.

Max was equally stunned. He stared back. 'No, I'm not. It says so right here.'

The birth certificate stated that the young actress had been born in New York, not Washington as everyone had been led to believe. Her father was a revelation too. Allis, or Madonna, was the daughter of Sam Angelo, a notorious Mafia don who controlled Las Vegas, the East coast docks, and more. The Mob connection.

Max and Bob sat in silence, drinking it all in. The second birth certificate was in the name of a child, born some five years ago to Madonna Angelo, named Caesar. The father's name was an even bigger a shock.

'If this means what I think it means, Max...' Bob's chair shot forward.

'Look at this Bob.' Max shoved the other documents toward his friend.

Bob read in silence, glancing up at Max now and again, disbelief on his face. 'You gotta be kidding me.'

'This explains it all; her murder, her place and mine being ransacked, why she dumped me.' Max paced the office. 'The kid's with his father, held over her as a threat if she didn't play ball.'

'Seems she was about to squeal, break the whole dirty business wide open, but too many people got an interest in her keeping her mouth shut.' Bob re-lit his cigar. 'What's the plan?'

Chapter Eleven

Chief of detectives, Randy Loren, leaned back in his chair regarding the two men. 'This is pretty inflammatory.' He blew smoke across the desk. 'I'll deal with this, leave it to me.'

'Where's Detective Pacino? It's best we talk to him.' Max shifted uneasily in his seat.

'Detective Pacino's out on a bust.'

Max and Bob were uncomfortable talking to his boss. The Chief had a reputation of being a bit too close to certain movers and shakers in the city, and neither man trusted him.

'I get to say who does what around here, no-one else.'

'Allis was murdered, the evidence is there,' Max repeated, a feeling of dread creeping over him.

The cop barely read the documents, yet readily dismissed their accusations against the wise guy who'd fathered the actress's child and was blackmailing her. 'I'll give this my undivided attention later.' He grinned without any trace of humour.

'Sam Angelo would've killed him if he'd known she'd had a kid with this low-life scum.'

'Who says?' The copper was thinking fast. 'And this garbage about killing the dame so this Marlene gets her role is fantasy.'

'Seems Marlene's in cahoots with all sorts of underworld figures and she's got this guy twisted round her little finger. Guess he'd do whatever it takes to launch her career. This movie is perfect for her. Getting rid of Allis at the same time's a bonus. They've got the goods on Allis; her Family ties, the kid, who knows what else—blackmailing her - Gambino owes him big time. Gambino was pressured into ditching Allis and pushing Marlene.' Max's face was puce with anger.

'Yeah, when Allis threatened to go to Sam Angelo, possibly sparking a war between his wise guys and the opposition, it all hotted up a notch,' Bob added. 'Allis wouldn't walk from the movie, so these scum threatened to expose Allis having a kid with him, it would have ruined her career. We think Marlene was spiking the booze Allis had, a bit too enthusiastically lately, and with all the different pills the Doc prescribed...' Bob and Max nodded in unison. 'Allis wasn't herself the last two months, around the time she was getting put on by this mobster.'

'Speculation, that's not evidence,' grunted Loren, his mind racing. These jokers were getting on his nerves.

'But it is. Allis wrote the whole thing down, you can't deny what she's written.' Max's frustration was about to erupt. 'She had a fling, got pregnant, just as her career started to take off. She got the parts she got because of the control this ass-hole has in this business, and then, once her star starts to rise, he's about to pull the rug; Marlene is knocking on his door big time. He drops Allis, but when she threatens to make a big noise, he kidnaps their secret son, holding his existence over her head. Marlene is waiting in the wings. They feed Allis mickey-fins over a period of time, Allis begins to act out of character and they wait for her to blow her career big time, but she doesn't blow it fast enough.'

'Yeah, Marlene is impatient and gives Allis a larger dose of barbiturates to hurry things along, and with the booze, it killed her. Seems Allis hinted about having 'insurance' kept some place safe. That's why they tossed her bungalow and her house.' Bob added, 'and that's why they had a go at Max and tossed his place too; they guessed he'd got the evidence Aliss hinted about, when they couldn't find it.'

'Max's life is in danger, you've got a listen to us Chief,' Bob shouted.

'You two are giving my ass head-ache with all this crap. This won't hold up.' Loren was angry. Stupid, stupid broad, sending Allis off without getting her hands on the goods. He'd done his bit, done as Salvo Gambino instructed. He'd buried the investigation and the studio guys got rid of the pills and booze. Now he had these two to deal with.

'I've gotta use the john, you two don't move.'

He left them and went into the vacant office next to his and made a phone call. He talked for a minute and then hung up. He returned to his office.

'This is dangerous talk, considering who you're accusing. You gotta think hard about this. Drop it, for your own sakes, nothing good is coming of this, believe me.'

'That's fishy, you wanting us to drop it, all of a sudden. Allis is dead, murdered, there's evidence and you want us to drop it, fade away; let it go.' Max jumped to his feet, 'why? What's it to you if we dish the dirt?'

'I'm warning you, friendly like, don't mess with forces you don't want to go up against.'

'Hear that Bob, he's threatening us, why would he do that?' Max glared at the cop. 'Got you on the hook too, has he?'

The Chief's granite grey eyes drilled into Max. He made a decision.

'Maybe we should talk to the Press about this Max, maybe the cops are in too deep and we're wasting our time here.' Bob made a grab for the papers on the Chief's desk but the cop was too fast for him. He snatched the evidence and pulled his gun.

'I'll keep these.' He ushered the two men towards a door in the corner of the room, which led to a back alley behind the station. 'Make a sound and I'll blow your heads off here and now.'

Chapter Twelve

Waiting in the alley, dressed in homburgs and long grey overcoats, two familiar looking figures watched as the Police Chief and his two captors came down the fire-escape. Max shivered, more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. 'Bob, it's the two who were in Allis's house,' he whispered to Bob.

'We're in deep shit.' Bob clenched his jaws, trying to stop his teeth chattering. 'What does PI Barnaby suggest we do now?' Barely audible.

'Shut up jawing you two.' Loren shoved his gun in Bob's back and beckoned the two thugs over.

'Mr. Gambino sends his regards Chief. He thanks you for your call. We'll take this from here.' One of the thugs with a heavy New Jersey accent, waved a gun at Max and Bob.

'Gambino, I might've guessed, he's into you too. Of course, now it makes sense. The cover-up, everything. You're working for Salvo Gambino, and he's Gino Ginelli's puppet, just like you!'

'You should've let it go, sticking your snout into stuff you ain't got no business poking around in. Allis knew the score when she shacked up with Gino, she did it to get under her Dad's skin when he refused to bank-roll her early career, but it back-fired.' The Chief handed two sets of cuffs to the gangsters who grabbed Max and Bob's arms behind their backs and restrained them. 'Sam paid out for her once too often, he called her bluff. He wasn't going to get into a Mob war with Gino over her, but Sam doesn't know about the kid, if he did blood would've been spilled on both sides.'

The two thugs shoved Max and Bob into the rear of their catering truck. Before the doors closed Loren stuck his head inside. 'Now everyone is happy. Gino gets to keep his kid, Marlene gets stardom, Sam's studio gets left alone and I get to tidy up some loose ends.' He grinned widely. 'Even little Caesar wins. He gets all his mother's money and assets. I'll see the Will finds its way to the right people. Least I can do for Gino.' He waved the documents Max had shown him. 'And all this vanishes into thin air.'

The truck was found two weeks later at the bottom of Laurel Canyon where it had apparently come off the road on a bend. Chief Loren handled the investigation into the deaths of the two men found inside. Rumour had it they'd been shot, executed, but at the Press conference Chief Loren dismissed the idea as fanciful speculation. 'A famous actor ends up dead with his agent and imagination and speculation runs rife. The truth is these two were an 'item,' get my drift? We'll never know what they were up to in the back of the truck parked where lover's often do,' Loren sniggered. 'The handbrake had not engaged properly, and it seems they might've got a bit too physical; the truck rolled over the side of the Canyon.' The hacks gasped in amazement. 'No-one knew they were there. They died of thirst and in that heat, well, you can imagine...'

'Just an accident then?' A young hack shouted from the back of the room. 'Nothing suspicious.'

Chief Loren nodded. 'That's what it was, a sad tragic accident.' He put on his best pained expression. 'Anyway the case is closed. The studio has a new leading man I hear, who is gonna be a huge success. Life goes on.'

The End

Jane Risdon is a crime writer, who dabbles from time to time in other genres; leaving her comfort zone is a challenge. Following a career in the International Music Business managing recording artists, songwriters, and record producers, Jane began writing seriously 5 years ago. She's lived and worked all over the world. In earlier years working at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. She married a rock musician during this time when his band came to England to tour; they've one son. She published by Accent Press Ltd. Her most recent novel, Only One Woman, co-written with award-winning author Christina Jones, will be published May 2017.

##  Dark At The Top Of The Stairs

### Elizabeth Horton-Newton
Part One

There's something about walking into a room where a dead body is sprawled on

the floor. Before you even see it you can smell it. It doesn't matter how long it's been laying there. Could be one hour, could be one day, could be one week. It may smell worse or stronger over time but it smells right away. As a homicide detective, you'd think I'd have grown used to the smell. I haven't.

Walking into the hall of the Foster mansion I smelled him immediately. According to the first cops on the scene he had fallen down the stairs, breaking his neck, about forty-five minutes earlier. When I arrived with my partner Joe Wilder the medical examiner was already there, poking around the stiff. It was really just procedure. The angle of his head pretty much told us he was dead and why he was dead. My job was to find out how he got to the bottom of the stairs.

Glancing up toward the dark at the top of the stairs I saw one of the most beautiful dames I had ever laid eyes on. That wasn't only my opinion. Beside me Joe let out a low whistle. "Will ya get a load of that tall glass of water?"

Although I agreed with his observation I shot him a look that I hoped said he should shut his trap. Then I let my eyes drift back to that vision. Her long blond hair framed her delicate face in waves of gold. She wore a long white satin dressing gown tied at the waist, accentuating the tininess of that part of her anatomy. It also served to show off the firm, high breasts that pressed against the material challenging its ability to confine them.

She caught my gaze and held it, almost defiantly. That kind of sparked my interest. What did she have to be defiant about? I sauntered over to one of the boys in blue and turning my back to blondie I asked in a low voice, "What's with the doll on the stairs?"

His eyes flicked up to where she was standing before leaning close to me and whispering, "She's the wife. She made the call. Said she heard a thumping sound and when she came out of the bedroom she saw him down here."

"Those her words?"

He pulled out his little notepad. "I heard a thumping and when it stopped I went out into the hall. I saw William down there, like that." He snapped the pad shut. "Those were her exact words."

I gave a little nod and looked over at Joe. He raised his bushy eyebrows slightly and I knew we were on the same page. Something besides the dead body didn't smell right.

"Well let's have a little talk with the widow." I turned back toward the stairs only to find she was no longer standing there. Before I could ask where she went the ME joined us.

"Let me guess," I said to him, "He's dead and he has a broken neck."

Glancing at the body in its grotesque position then back to me, the ME grinned. "Pretty obvious."

"Any idea what made him take a tumble?" Joe asked.

"I won't know anything until I get him on the table. He's not a young fellow. And it was dark in here when I arrived. Could have been a misstep. Could have been a heart attack. Could have had a little help from a bottle of single malt." He shrugged. "I can tell you if it was a medical problem. Otherwise it's your job to figure it out." With that he nodded good night to me and Joe and headed out into what was a cool moonlit night.

"I guess we need to talk to the widow Foster," Joe observed dryly.

"I guess we do," I agreed and headed up the stairs. The polished wood of the steps reflected the moonlight shining through a large window at the top of the stairs. Family pictures lined the wall as we passed; wedding pictures, pictures of children, even pictures of a few dogs and a couple of horses. I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down at the hall below, watching as the orderlies placed William Foster's body onto a stretcher and covered him with a blanket.

"All tucked in and ready to go," Joe murmured as one of the men securely strapped the body down.

Several doors lined the upstairs hall which was carpeted in a thick, fluffy cream colour. Something glittered in the fibres and I bent to pick it up. Joe leaned over to study the small diamond earring that lay in the palm of my hand. "Nice stone," he commented.

"Yup." I tucked it into the breast pocket of my jacket and continued down the hall. At the far end soft light shone from an open door. As we got closer I could see a king sized bed covered with a cream coloured satin spread that looked a lot like the dressing gown of the woman who sat on the foot of the bed. Her long legs were crossed, the gown hanging slightly open, and her feather tipped slipper dangled from one foot, bouncing impatiently. Catching my glance at her pins she drew the robe closed but not before I spotted what looked like a bruise just above her knee. She seemed to be in a hurry to get things over with. Or maybe she was nervous. It remained to be seen.

"Speaking of nice," Joe whispered, "Get a load of those gams."

I didn't respond. I was more interested in the way she watched us approach. It kind of reminded me of a spider waiting for a fly to get close enough to get caught in its web. I didn't care for the feeling at all.

I stopped at the door to the bedroom and asked in my most polite official voice, "Mrs. Foster?"

The slipper stopped bouncing. "Yes."

I could see her eyes now, glittering ice blue eyes that were hooded by thick dark eyelashes. She may have been dressed for bed but her hair and make-up were ready for a night on the town.

Joe was shuffling around behind me obviously trying to get a better look at the lady. I don't think it was because he had an eye for fashion or home interiors.

"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. Are you up to answering a few questions?"

Her eyes drifted around the room as though the proper response was hiding behind the gold tieback drapes or behind one of the paintings of naked angels that hung on the walls. Finally those blue gems focused on me and her lower lip trembled as she replied, "I already answered the officer. Is this really necessary?"

A little bell went ding in my head and even Joe stopped his ogling and took a breath. There are some questions that have answers you expect. When you hear them you're okay. But when those questions get some other answers, the answers that just don't fit, a little bell dings. Mrs. Foster has just dinged my bell.

"Well ma'am it would be better if I could get the information directly from you since you discovered the body. Cops sometimes don't get things completely right." I offered a reassuring smile I had been practising and using for over ten years.

She was on her feet then and walked over to her vanity table picking up a cigarette case from amid the jars and bottles. For not the first time in my life I wondered what the hell women kept in all those containers. Her hand shook slightly as she flicked open her cigarette lighter and lit up. After a deep inhale and a slow exhale she tossed her head. "Well then ask away."

I moved a little further into the room and allowed my eyes to search around as I asked the usual questions. What had her husband been doing before he went downstairs? Getting ready for bed. Had they been drinking? They had wine with dinner. Did he have any illness that might have caused dizziness or weakness? Not that she knew of.

"What alerted you to his fall?" I didn't take notes but Joe was scribbling away. We'd chosen our roles years before. I was good at the asking and he was good at the notes. Teamwork; it stood us in good stead.

Taking another long hit off her cigarette she looked thoughtful. I watched her through the smoke that curled around her face. "Well I heard a thumping sound. I went out to the hall and saw him at the bottom of the stairs."

I glanced back down the hall. It was close to twenty feet from the bedroom door to the top of the stairs. "So you had already dressed for bed. Mr. Foster was still wearing his suit and shoes. Had he gone out for something?"

Icy blue flutters, pupils enlarging. You have to love blue eyes when you're a detective. It's easy to note any changes. And oh those changes.

Before she could answer we heard feet pounding up the stairs. Turning, I saw a man rushing down the hall toward the bedroom wearing a tux with his bow tie flopping loosely around his neck. He brushed past Joe and me and went right to the widow. She collapsed against him and buried her face in his shoulder. "Oh David, it's so dreadful. William fell. He's dead."

As David, whoever he was, stroked her hair and comforted her he looked at us as though we were the hired help and we'd taken a crap on the carpet. "Who are you?"

I made the introductions. Joe kept scribbling. "And you are?"

"David Reese. I'm the Foster's lawyer." Pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket he wiped Mrs. Foster's tears. She was a neat crier, Mrs. Foster was. Her make-up never streaked. I made a mental note to find out what brand that was. My wife would love it since she was always streaked when came out of the theatre after seeing one of the tear jerkers she loved. A man will put up with a lot for the woman he loves, even sappy films. Attempting to stare me down with appropriate anger Reese made it clear he thought I was heartless to be putting the widow through all this when she had just lost her husband.

Joe opened his mouth to protest but I gave him the elbow. "I am sorry Mrs. Foster. We'll just get out of your hair. Again, we're very sorry for your loss."

With that Joe and I headed for the stairs. As we descended to the now empty downstairs hall I noticed that several of the pictures that lined the wall were slanted. Joe instinctively reached out to straighten them but I grabbed his hand. Glancing back toward the bedroom door I saw that David and the widow had stepped into the hall to watch us leave. So we left.

I drove and Joe looked over his notes as the sky began to streak with the pink of dawn. Muttering under his breath Joe highlighted the events of the evening. I was used to his way of refreshing his memory. The first few months we'd worked together it had annoyed the hell out of me. But like an old married couple I got accustomed to it and now it was just Joe's oddball way of making sure he had all his ducks in a row. There were even times when his barely audible rambling would hit a nerve and mention something I had missed, bringing a seemingly unimportant detail to the surface. This was one of those times.

"Don't you find it a strange coincidence that both the late Mr. Foster and his lawyer were both decked out in tuxes? Wonder if they had been at the same event?"

Joe stopped reading and I took a quick glance to see if he had heard me. He was staring out the wind-shield, the deep lines on his forehead telling me he was pondering the question. "I feel like we're missing something."

"The widow F looked pretty dolled up herself considering she was going to bed. Have you ever known a woman to go to bed with her face still made up like a Hollywood starlet? My wife puts a ton of cream on her face before turning in; she looks like a meringue pie when she gets in to bed."

Joe nodded his head slowly. "So you think maybe they were all out somewhere together?"

Turning into the station house I confirmed what he said. "Could be. It certainly bears some looking in to." Pulling a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket I lit up and took a long, slow drag. "I think I'll head home and grab some shut eye. I do my best thinking when I'm sleeping. Let's see if we can get the widow in for an interview soon."

"I don't think her guard dog lip will like that," Joe observed.

I felt the grin on my face. "I'm sure he won't. He'll like it a lot less when we interview him too. Think the lawyer has a lawyer?"

Joe shook his head as he got out of the car. "I'll see if I can find out what the three musketeers were up to before the husband took a flyer down the mansion stairs."

"Get some rest Joe. I have a feeling the next couple of weeks are going to be very busy."

With that I headed home and Joe ambled into the station. He was like a dog with a bone when he didn't have all the facts in his little notebook.

Part Two

Molly was giving the kids breakfast when I let myself into our apartment. She shot me the look that told me she was not pleased with my working all night and I gave her a shrug. She knew when she said yes that I was a cop and everything that went along with that. Her old man had been a cop until he drank himself to death. I figured she should be grateful I wasn't much of a boozer although I did enjoy a shot of hooch now and again.

After grumbling good morning at the kids who knew Molly's look as well as I did and just mumbled back, I headed into the bedroom. I tossed my suit jacket on the chair and loosened my tie before kicking off my shoes and flopping across the already made bed. That was another one of Molly's wordless messages. I had just begun to drift off when I heard the front door slam followed by the click clacking of Molly's heels as she tripped down the hall. I kept my eyes closed hoping she would just go to work. I wasn't lucky.

"I just made that bed." The sound of the bottles on her vanity clattering sounded like small explosions.

"I'll straighten it when I get up." I tried to sound like I was sleeping. Molly didn't buy it.

"I'm going to be late for work." I didn't open my eyes but I knew she was standing at the foot of the bed staring at me. I kept my blinkers shut.

After a couple of minutes the bedroom door slammed making the window rattle followed by the front door slamming even harder.

"Have a nice day," I muttered sarcastically. I wasn't happy that Molly had decided to get a part time job. Made it look like I couldn't take care of my own. We didn't really need the money although she had been nagging lately about getting a house. You never knew where a broad gets crazy ideas. Anyway, it was only a part time job so it wasn't like she was gone all day or making big bucks.

I was just starting to drift off when I heard banging at the front door. Swearing I jumped out

of bed, tripped over my shoes as I headed for the door, and swore again as I flung it open to find Joe standing there looking like he just saw Carole Lombard in the hall. Babbling, he pushed past me into the kitchen tossing a handful of papers onto the table.

"Whoa slow down cowboy!" I started looking through the papers trying to read the chicken scrawl he called handwriting. "What's all this?"

He shoved his hat back on his head and took a deep breath before filling me in. "The lovely Naomi Foster is not the first Mrs. Foster. It seems the first Mrs. Foster died from, get this, a fall down the stairs. Care to guess where the stairs are?"

I let out a low whistle. "In the Foster home where Mr. Foster just met his untimely demise?"

Joe smiled triumphantly. "And who do you think was the housekeeper for the Foster's?"

"The stunning Naomi?"

Joe nodded, his already wide smile taking over the lower half of his face. "She is also the only heir to the Foster fortune."

I sat down at the table and using my foot pushed out a chair so Joe could join me. "And how big is this Foster fortune?"

Scratching at his neck his smile faded. "I haven't got that yet. But I will tell you our good buddy David Reese, Esquire drew up a new will for Mr. F two months ago. Everything goes to the widow except for an old hunting cabin in the mountains where Reese and his client liked to go to hunt."

"Who gets the cabin?"

Joe leaned across the table, his eyes sparkling like he won a bet on the bangtails in third at the track. "David Reese."

I leaned back in the chair, the two front legs lifting off the floor as I balanced on the back two legs. Molly hated it when I did that. She said it was a bad example for the kids. I figured the kids saw a lot worse things than that. "I think it's time we set up an appointment with the shyster." I pictured Naomi in my mind and shook my head. "Funny but the doll doesn't look like a round heel."

Joe shrugged. "You have enough dough you can look like anything."

I nodded agreement. "Hard to believe a lip like Reese would risk going to the slammer even for a looker like Mrs. F."

That made Joe laugh hard. "I'd risk going to the slammer for a shot at that dame. Toss in some green and it'd be a done deal."

Standing up I stretched. "Let me catch a few winks and we can meet up at the clubhouse about five." As Joe walked out the door I strongly suggested he get some shut eye himself. He didn't seem to need much sleep but I'd known a few coppers that had run themselves to death working cases. Maybe Joe was itching for my chair.

As I returned to bed, taking time to strip down to my boxers, I thought about how mad Molly was going to be. Maybe I could use the house fund as an excuse.

Part Three

A few hours of sleep did me good and I woke ready to roll. Before I headed out to meet up with Joe at the station I scrawled a note to Molly. Glancing at the kitchen clock I wondered why she wasn't home yet but figured she might have stopped at the store. At least I didn't have to engage in a shouting match. Setting my hat on my head I stepped into the hall and caught a strong whiff of boiling cabbage. Mrs. McGinty was cooking what she called supper. Sure enough her eight kids came up the stairs, climbing over one another like starving puppies, noses perpetually running and patched hand me downs even on the oldest boy. When they saw me they all stopped pushing and shoving one another and stepped aside so I could pass them, eyes downcast. As soon as my feet touched the landing I heard them begin to snicker and resume their greedy climb to the soggy supper that awaited them. I suspected if I was still on the force when they reached adulthood I'd be pulling at least half of them into custody at some point.

Outside a couple of the local hoods who had dropped out of school to get jobs as stoop sitters were smoking and eyeing the street hoping for some kind of action. Watching me with insolent eyes they barely moved to allow me to pass. My foot accidentally on purpose made contact with the back of a white tee shirt and I got a silent glare. I countered it with a tight grin, challenging the punk to say something, anything. He looked away. They always do.

A stoop sitter in training, too young to have earned a step, leaned against the hood of my car. As I crossed in front of him he made a feeble attempt at looking tough. I ignored him. As soon as the engine roared to life he jumped onto the side-walk. He had no doubt I would drive off with him clinging to the hood ornament like a piece of cloth waving in the breeze.

Walking into the station I gave a brief nod to Wilson who sat behind the high desk like a king observing his miniature domain. I didn't much care for Wilson. It wasn't just that he smelled of booze all the time; there were rumours his wife paid a lot of visits to the emergency room at general and there was more than one side doll that often had the same problems. The woman never talked and no one confronted Wilson. I had a feeling the day would come when I might have to have a serious talk with him off duty.

Upstairs Joe was tilted back in my chair, his feet on my desk, crossed at the ankles. His hat was pushed back on his head, his tie loosened, his jacket hanging on the tree by the window. He had more papers in his chubby hands as he concentrated on some new piece of information. Joe was a work horse.

I smacked the side of his shoe knocking his feet off my desk and he jumped up ready to take on whoever had interrupted his detecting. That was what he called it, detecting.

"Jeez Lou, why'd ya do that for?" When he was taken off guard he'd slip into the language of his youth, the tough talk of the West Side.

Laughing, I snatched the papers out of his hands and he grumbled loudly. Scanning what he'd been holding I could see he'd been a busy beaver. "I think it's time to visit the widow."

I'd barely finished the sentence when Joe was on his feet pulling on his jacket. As we walked to the car he filled me in on his latest discoveries. Apparently the country cabin was used by both Reese and Foster as a place to take what they called clients. I had a sneaking suspicion something shady went on there. Both men had perfectly good offices. You only took clients to out of the way places when you were doing something you wanted to keep under wraps. I knew enough sneaky shysters to read the signs on this little home away from home. Joe had connected with Reese's former secretary who was not happy with her abrupt dismissal when a younger and perhaps more willing applicant got her job. She would make it a lot easier getting some clue into exactly who Reese counted as clients.

Right now I wanted to surprise the wealthy widow with a visit and a few questions. Imagine our surprise when David Reese answered the door. His frown let us know he didn't welcome our appearance. "You again," he snarled, "Don't you guys understand Mrs. Foster is in mourning?"

I decided not to let Reese intimidate me. "As a lawyer I think you might understand we are investigating a suspicious death." There. I had used the word suspicious. Let the lip chew on that.

Reese's mouth moved and his face turned red from his neck up in a slow rise like a volcano about to blow. Before he could respond Mrs. F appeared behind him, looking angrily over his shoulder.

"Detectives, please come in. I want to help in any way I can."

Joe and I brushed past Reese, Joe giving him the elbow, and followed the widow into the living room. She was wearing black and it looked good on her. The dress seemed a little tight for a mourning dress but I could appreciate the swing of her full hips. A quick glance at Joe told me he found her attire as appealing and questionable as I did.

Once in the living room she sat down on the couch and crossed those long slim legs causing the dress to rise a little higher. A drink which I guessed was whiskey sat on the cocktail table alongside a silver cigarette case and a heavy looking silver lighter. "Would you care for a drink, detectives?" I thought I caught a little quiver in her voice.

"No thanks ma'am. We're on duty." Joe had already pulled out his trusty notebook; a regular Johnny on the spot. I glanced around before I decided to take a seat in an easy chair which put me in a position to watch both the widow and the lip. Joe moved to stand beside my chair. He always says he thinks better on his feet. "We just have a few questions. There are a couple of things we need to clear up."

"Of course; whatever I can do to be of assistance." She leaned forward to lift the cigarette case and her dress dipped down a little in the front. It was just enough to reveal what appeared to be a bruise at the top of one perfect breast. Now when did that happen? I tried to remember if I had seen that much of her the previous night. I couldn't say for certain so I filed it away for later. I watched her light her cigarette making note of the slight shaking of her hand. It could simply be the result of losing her husband but I suspected that wasn't the case. Then her foot started that bouncing again and my eyes drifted from the black high heel up to the hem of that little black dress. When my eyes reached her face I saw she was watching me and I thought I caught a grin on those rich red lips.

Reese cleared his throat. "Can we get on with it please? I have to take Naomi to the funeral parlour to choose an appropriate casket. There are arrangements to be made."

A curious use of words, I thought. "Of course." Turning back to the widow I began. "Can you tell us again what happened last night? Did you and Mr. Foster dine at home?"

Those blue eyes took on a grey shade and flicked toward the lawyer. Apparently, this was not a question she anticipated. Before she could respond Reese interrupted.

"Actually I was with Mr. and Mrs. Foster at a charity event last evening."

I could hear Joe's pen scratching eagerly on the notepad. The sound seemed to fill the room. Blue eyes looked at him over my shoulder and the hand holding the cigarette seemed a tad shakier.

I kept my eyes on the widow but I directed my question to the lawyer. "Did you all leave the event at the same time?"

Her eyes did that nervous dancing thing again. Ah ha. There was something here. "Actually, Naomi was feeling ill and I offered to escort her home since Mr. Foster was due to make a speech."

"I take it you and Mr. Foster weren't very close," I observed.

Reese straightened. "Why would you say that? He was my client for many years."

"Yes you worked for him. But he didn't consider you a friend."

The widow's foot was really bouncing now. She picked up her glass and took a sip of her drink the ice cubes picking up the beat and clinking a new rhythm.

"As I said he was my client for almost twenty years. Why would you assume we weren't friends?" He was trying to stare me down. It didn't work.

"You call him Mr. Foster." I took a moment to let that sink in. "But you call Mrs. Foster by her first name, Naomi."

A lovely shade of pink began working its way up from the collar of his neatly pressed shirt, over his chin, and settled in his cheeks. Now his eyes danced over to the lovely Naomi. "Well, I..."

"David and I have been acquainted for some time. He introduced me to William."

Now that was a tantalizing bit of information and Joe was scribbling frantically now.

The sound was even louder and it caused the tension level in the room to rise.

"Was that how you got the job as the housekeeper?" I pulled no punches.

Those blue eyes flashed a deep grey now and they looked like thunder clouds. "I wasn't a housekeeper. I was an assistant to both William and his wife. I helped them plan events, kept their calendars, planned menus, all the things that keep a home running smoothly."

"Who was the housekeeper?" I wasn't backing down. She could add all the pretty little details she wanted. She was still a glorified housekeeper.

"Exactly what does this have to do with Mr. Foster's accident?" Reese tried to draw my attention away from the storm that was brewing on the couch.

Never taking my eyes from the widow I responded. "I just want to be straight on where everyone stands and where everyone was when the victim took a tumble." I purposely used the word victim. The sudden whitening of Mrs. Foster's complexion told me I had hit a nerve.

"I told you. I brought Naomi home because she felt ill and she went directly to bed."

Now I turned to the lip. "Did you go to bed with her?"

"Wh-whatt? How dare you!"  
"Well how do you know she went right to bed? Did you tuck her in?" Joe wasn't writing now. I could hear his breathing pick up behind me.

"I told him I was going right to bed and he let himself out." Roles had changed and she was the one trying to get my attention now.

I stood up and passing Reese I walked to the entrance hall and looked down at the spot where William Foster's body had been the night before. Then I looked up the stairs at the dark hallway. Glancing back at Naomi I asked, "Do you happen to own a pair of diamond earrings?"

Her hand flew to her left ear. "Why?"

I held out my hand, the twinkling stud resting in my palm. "I found it at the top of the stairs last night. I assume it's yours."

She reached for it but I closed my hand and slipped it back into my pocket. "Do you have a housekeeper Mrs. Foster?"

She nodded, wide-eyed. "Yes. But the earring is mine."

"Oh I'm sure it is. How often does she clean for you?"

"Every morning." The puzzled expression on that beautiful face was worth a million.

"Look, what is this all about?" Reese stepped between us. "It's Naomi's earring. It's her house."

"Well that depends on Mr. Foster's will, I would think." I moved slightly so I could see past the lawyer. "So you must have lost this earring sometime last night. Were you wearing them when you went to the event?"

Reese may have been getting an inkling of where I was going. Naomi Foster did not. Before the lip could stop her she admitted she'd worn them the night before. "How did you manage to lose one in the upstairs hall?"

"I-I may have been taking them off to go to bed," she stammered uncertainly. She looked at Reese. "Did I take it off in the hall?" His facial expression told her she's made one heck of a mistake. "I mean..."

"Let's cut to the chase." I nodded at Joe who stepped up beside Reese. "Who grabbed your head, this shyster here or your late husband? And who knocked you around enough to leave the bruises on your breast and leg?"

Naomi's hand went to her throat, her arm covering her breast. Her eyes were so wide I wondered if it was possible for them to pop out of her head and roll around on the floor.

"If I was laying green down on this I'd say a medical exam would turn up a few more bruises."

"See the way I figure it, you and your lawyer here have been hitting the hay for a while, maybe before the first Mrs. Foster took a nose dive down the stairs." Sideways glances between the two answered that question. "Getting the old man to marry Naomi here may have gone into play before the fall of the older Mrs. F. Not that it matters right now. What does matter is how Mr. Foster got to the bottom of the stairs. When Reese here came dashing in to interrupt our questions he bounced off the wall and knocked some pictures askew. When Joe and I were leaving I noticed something odd. The pictures had been hung in different places. Whoever put them back on the wall after Mr. Foster's fall didn't put them where they had been before. William Foster didn't roll down the stairs below the level of the pictures. He bounced off the wall trying to catch himself because he'd been pushed."

Reese was slowly backing up, putting distance between himself and Naomi. I noticed it. Joe noticed it. Most importantly Naomi noticed it. "Wait, wait. I didn't push William. It was him." Her finger shook as she pointed at Reese. "He made me do it. He killed her. He told me it was an accident, that she was drunk and slipped going downstairs. When William came home he found us in bed. They fought. William was pushing him down the hall, telling him to get out of the house. I tried to stop him and he turned on me. He hit me. Then he turned back to David and they were at the top of the stairs and all of a sudden..." She gasped. "He shoved him. William stumbled and almost caught himself so he shoved him again. Then he made me help him clean up."

"Are you going to believe a round heeled maid? She called me and told me William was drunk and he attacked her and they fought. She pushed him down the stairs." Reese was sweating now. Beads of perspiration were rising on his forehead and running down the sides of his face.

Naomi leaped at him, those long red nails almost connecting with his face. Lucky for the lawyer Joe grabbed her, pinning her arms to her sides.

"Relax Mrs. Foster. You see there's something your boy here didn't share with you. You'll get this house which is mortgaged up the wazoo. But he gets the cabin. Sounds like you got a good deal. But there's something in that cabin worth a lot more than this house. Did you know your husband was a coin collector? There's a name for that. He was a..." I looked at Joe.

"Numismatist." Joe offered Naomi an apologetic smile. He always had a soft spot for a pretty twist and she certainly was a looker.

Now she was really hot to get her claws into Reese and he was just as hot to turn on his heels. My iron discouraged him.

"I'm not taking the rap for him I'll tell you everything!" Naomi was resigned. Joe and I corralled them in the sitting room and I got on the horn to the clubhouse. We had to put them in separate cars because we were sure Naomi would shred his kisser.

Part Four

Once we got to the station I sent Joe on home and I decided to do the paperwork on the arrest. I didn't think Naomi was a gold-digger at the beginning but the lure of all that cabbage was hard to resist. Reese was a crafty shyster who somehow convinced old Foster to stash his treasure at the cabin to avoid taxes. I had a sneaky feeling the old man was thinking of moving it and that made Reese antsy. He needed to get rid of Billy boy before that happened since he was going to inherit the cabin.

After wishing the crew good night I drove home, exhausted but exhilarated. A good collar is like a shot of single malt Scotch. Hits the spot and warms you all over. I parked the car and stuck my police board in the window. Most of the stoop sitters had retired elsewhere for the evening.

I climbed the first two floors and was about to hoof it that last set of stairs to our apartment thinking maybe Molly was right and we should move to a house away from the city. The hallway light had burned out again on the third floor and it was dark at the top of the stairs. I fished in my pocket for my cigarette lighter. Just then the apartment door opened and I saw two shadows embrace sharing spit. I recognized those shadows. I knew that hat pushed back on the man's head and I knew those long legs that stuck out from under the silky robe I'd gotten her for Christmas. Maybe it wasn't just my job that Joe was after; maybe he wanted my whole life. I counted the steps leading up to the landing and thought a person could break his neck falling down those stairs. And there weren't any pictures on these walls.

The End

_Elizabeth Horton-Newton grew up in New York City. She began writing when she was a child, and, in the 4th grade wrote an essay about her dream job- she wanted to be an author. She continued to write short stories over the following years as she raised a family. After attending Long Island University in Brooklyn, NY with a major in Television Production and a minor in English, and East Tennessee State University where she received a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies concentrating in Psychiatry and Sociology, she worked in the social work field for thirteen years. Elizabeth also holds a certification in Forensic Document Examination. Retiring from the workforce in 2013 she turned her focus to her first love, writing. She currently lives in E. Tennessee with her husband, author Neil Douglas Newton. Her first book, "View From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale", is a romantic thriller that revolves around the conspiracy theories surrounding the Kennedy assassination. This was followed in June 2015 with the release of "Riddle", a romantic thriller about a Native American convicted of killing his high school girlfriend. "Carved Wooden Heart is her first collaboration with author Starla Hartless. She is currently at work on her fourth and fifth novels, "Stolen", a romantic thriller about kidnapping, gypsies, and the Witness Protection Program and "Highway of Blood and Tears" once again focusing on indigenous peoples issues. In addition she has short stories in several anthologies and has been compared to Sir Alfred Hitchcock and Stephen King. In addition to writing, she also blogs and is an amateur photographer. Author Website_ elizabethhorton-newtonauthor.com

## Sorry Vivian

### Neal Skye

Philadelphia, June 1945

I guess you are very surprised to receive this letter, especially after all these years. And surely you will be more surprised after having read all these lines. I am deeply sorry for what I have done and believe me: I am not proud of it! Honestly there has not been a single moment I was proud of what I did to you. While I have been thinking about you the past years every damn day surely you have been thinking about me on a daily basis as well. You just did not know. You have been seeking for an answer of something you did not understand. But nothing that happened was your fault. And nothing that happened has been in your hands – at any time. So don't blame yourself. Blame me.

I know you guys are doing this so I have done it as well: Countings days. That's why I know it's been 1937 days when we met last and round about three months earlier I had met you for the very first time. I still remember every single word you had said. It's repeating in my mind like a never ending loop. I do not have many talents beside of getting in trouble. But I can talk to women. I can make them believe, can make them trust me. And that was even easier as the melancholy in my eyes were real. I had to flee from Germany – so far my story was true. I in fact was a journalist and I was the first of us to know. Though we really tried to be careful only a week after I fled to Amsterdam they closed the newspaper publisher. I have never had any contact to any of my former colleagues since then. Amsterdam was not really save for a long time. So I earned some money and stole a lot to buy a ticket for a trip to New York.

I came here with not more than a small suitcase containing some clothes to change. My English was extremely poor those days and when we met first it still was not really good yet. Anyway another thing I guess why you thought I needed help. And I did. I ran into you in that little cafe in Little Italy. I knew you loved this quarter with its Italian Shops, Italian restaurants, Italian cafés. Of course it was rather unusual to join a group of young ladies, but I did. And I was focussed on you right from the start. For reason.

"Guess what I do for a living!", you asked while starring at me with wide open eyes. And if I did not know it before I would have guessed something a young lady really can be proud of. Because you were.

"I am not good in guessing!", I answered with a smile.

"I am", your lips were so close to my ears that I could sense your breath, "a cop!"

"I knew it!", I laughed and found myself holding breath at the same time. You thought I was joking but this answer was one of the few ones that actually were true.

"No, you did not! Noone does!" you laughed.

Oh my god—and he is my witness - as well as everything that happened that day was meticulously planned—for a moment it was just you and me, laughing. You had that kind of smile that makes every face look beautiful, and yours even was without it. That day I though about stopping that plan, creating a new one with

you included but without doing something that made you hate me. You think you don't hate me? Well, you will. Just keep on reading.

I could claim I had no choice which is partially true, partially nonsense. I only had to be man enough to stand up and assume responsibility for my actions. But that would have been kind of ironic to flee from Germany to avoid jail and then blew my only chance to avoid the same dilemma in the States. Or, even worse, to risk they sent me back to where I came from, which would have meant concentration camp. Now, a few weeks after the war is finally over, there are some horrible rumours about them which makes not easier for me, because somehow this proves me right not having risked that.

Of course you remember Detective Henry Allen. I often listened to you when you talked about your work and his name came up rather often. You were proud to be a female cop and he was someone to look up to. Someone you thought you could learn a lot from. He treated you differently than most of your colleagues and you thought he liked you, same as he would have liked a male cop, right? Sorry, but you were so naive. You trusted him, same as you trusted me. Well, I have got some real bad news for you: This guy hated you! Not particularly you as a person, but you as a female cop. And even worse news are: He definitely was none to look up to, especially not to him as a cop! Allen was corrupt and you might say, who was not? But he was someone with influence. A career that was supposed to end at least as a Captain. Which in fact he is now as you might know. Did you send a congratulation card to his promotion? Or have you waked up meanwhile?

The suitcase they found in your apartment with your finger prints on it – the one you thought of being mine, containing all my belongings – that was not a confusion. Noone tricked me in and I did not give it to you by accident. It was pure purpose. The suitcase with the numbered bank notes – we even knew they were numbered and I definitely knew to which bank they belonged to. Detective Henry Allan was under suspicion to be the mole at the NYPD. That's why no-one of the Mariani-Family has ever been arrested. But this time it was getting close. It was clear someone at this department must be the mole. Allan knew that day will come so he built you up as the perfect suspect. Some other evidences found in your department had been placed by me. You are innocent – I have known that all the time but needed to save my pitiful live.

Guess these lines will be read by the prison direction.

You might think why I am telling you this now. I never made it back to Germany. A month after they arrested you I was caught committing another bank job in Philly. This time I shot a colleague of you. The Electric Chair is waiting for me and is going to do its job tomorrow. So when you will read this I will be dead. After all these words you will not believe me – I hoped until the end they will free me some day and we can be finally together. It is true: You are the love of my live. You deserve better. Take care!

The End

Neal Skye was born 1964 in Bremen, Germany. Already in his early years he wrote a couple of crime audio plays, mostly inspired by the "Detective Kim"-books of the Danish author Jens K. Holm. After school he laid the focus songwriting and investigations of games. In 2016 he published his first crime novel.

Publications in 2016 so far:

Rich & Mysterious – Der Niagara-Fall (Crime Novel), Franzius-Verlag Bremen (Germany)

Rettet das Mädchen (Crime—Anthology Teilweise Tödlich), Karina-Verlag Wien (Austria)

Hello, America (Anthology Sommer und noch mehr), Autorennetzwerk

http://www.nealskyebooks.com/buecher.htm

## The Mickey

### Neil Douglas Newton

I watched as Shmuley pulled his Mickey out of the flames with a metal spike. He pushed it off the hot spike with his foot as quickly as he possibly could, doing his best to avoid burning himself on the hot metal. The potato, black and charred as all Mickeys are expected to be, landed in a pile of leaves we'd pushed together just for that purpose.

It was always at least five minutes before you could take the first bite. Shmuley was a real chazzer; he watched his Mickey like he could cool it off faster if he just looked at it. I couldn't tell you how many times he'd swiped the leftovers of my Mickey. He'd tell me later on that I was a schmuck for leaving it out without watching it.

He finally gave up on the Mickey and turned to me. "Herschel! She doesn't like you like she likes me. Don't fool yourself!"

I smiled. Shmuley was about as ugly as it got. And of course he was talking about the beautiful Rachel Finkel. All the boys in our high school dreamed of Rachel. And I knew she liked me; it drove Schmuley crazy.

"You're gonna marry Rachel Shmuley," I shouted at him. "She told me. She wants you!"

My friends began to laugh and Shmuley's face turned red. For Shmuley that was bad. He had greyish red hair and skin and when he blushed his face turned the colour of borscht. As his face got redder and redder, the laughing got louder and louder. "You're a shit, Herschel!" Shmuley shouted. "Rachel wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. She's going out with me!"

Saul ran over and grabbed Shmuley by the shirt. "Rachel loves you! She'd do anything for you! It's like a movie with Gable. You look just like him, Shmuley. You look like Gable!"

We all laughed. Shmuley stamped his foot. "You're just a pischer, Saul. All of you." He went back to his Mickey and turned his back on us. When he picked up his prize from the leaves it was still too hot and he threw it back and forth between his hands. He threw us a dirty look over his shoulder and bit into it. He was trying to show us he was a tough guy.

The rest of us laughed again. I looked into the barrel where we'd set up a fire. Though we spent all our time in the neighbourhood, I knew from the few Goyim I talked to in school that in 1938 there were vacant lots like this all over New York where boys our age were building fires and baking Mickeys. The Jews like me, the Dagos, the Micks, all of them. My grandfather, the scholar, always told me that immigrants had a lot in common, especially in a place like New York. If we ever got together we could own the world.

My Mickey looked like it was ready to be eaten, though you could never tell with a Mickey. I'd heard they all came from Long Island and the weather and the soil where they were grown would make each one different. I took a quick look at Shmuley, fat and stupid, munching his Mickey in the corner, still angry. He reminded me of the stories my grandmother would tell me about the Golem she learned about as a child in Lithuania. The Golem was only a legend but Shmuley was an honest to God monster.

I pulled my potato out of the fire by its spike. Just like Shmuley I knocked it off into the leaves before I could do any serious damage to my hand. Before I could inspect it Shmuley jumped up and shouted, running at me and grabbing my Mickey; he threw it as hard as he could. I watched in horror as it flew up in the air and found its way into the alley. As we all stood with our mouths open, my potato rolled away faster than I would have thought possible.

I jumped up from the box I was sitting on and lunged at Shmuley. The rest of my friends jumped up. "You're a dick, Shmuley!" one shouted. The rest called him names as I grabbed him.

Shmuley. I going to ask Rachel to spit in you. And she'll do it."

I pulled my fist back and was about punch him when he closed his eyes and sat down on the ground, covering his face. Just as I was about to connect, I began to see what a putz he was and I felt sorry for him. He began to moan and I let go of his shirt. While he waited for my fist to connect with his face, I ran out of the lot and into the alley. The sun was going down and I wondered if I could see my Mickey at all. If it rolled fast enough, I knew that it could have gone all the way to the next street. I leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of it. As I moved along the alley, my heart sank; I knew I could have walked right past it in the bad light, a dark grey blob that would be hard to find even if the sun was out.

When I got to the next street at the end of the alley, I knew I probably lost my Mickey. Getting a potato for each of us had been hard enough during the depression. I thought about going back and beating Shmuley up but I knew that really wasn't something I wanted to do and my Mickey was gone either way. I was deciding what to do when I heard a scream. Without thinking I ran around the corner; a door was cracked and I could see a woman cowering in the corner of a small warehouse room. Lying next to her was a man who looked like he'd been gone over pretty good. In the next second I heard a Tommy gun fire and I saw both the woman and the man's body jump from the impact of bullets.

I almost screamed but caught myself. I got a quick look at the killers face; mean looking. He had the nose and face of a typical wise guy but there was something familiar, something I couldn't place. Trying my best to be quiet I stepped backwards and had the bad luck to step on a brick that was sitting in the middle of the street. I heard shouts from inside the warehouse and I didn't wait; I ran through the night, glad that the sun was about as close to setting as it could have been.

I took the first turn I could, heading away from the lot and all my friends. Another two blocks took me to a canal. I jumped down into the water and swam to the other side of boat where no one could see me from the street. It was November and the water was starting to get cold and felt my kishkes begin to cramp up after about fifteen minutes. Up on the street I heard voices, fading in and out. My feet started to go numb and I began moving my legs in the hope that I could keep my blood moving.

After what seemed like weeks, I heard the voices fade away. I waited another ten minutes just to be safe. Finally I got desperate, thinking my feet would fall off. I swam out from behind the boat and climbed on the ledge below the street. Pulling my head just above the level of the street, I looked left and right, holding my breath. No one. I could hear voices but they were at least a couple of blocks away. After a few more minutes I pulled myself up and wondered if I should go near anyone I knew or just go on the lamb. I doubted any of the gangsters had seen me and I figured it would best if I kept it that way.

There was a warehouse about ten blocks from where I was. I knew there was a bakery behind it; my boys and me would wait for them to throw out their broken loaves late at night. I could hide in the warehouse and come out in the middle of the night and get something to eat. Then I thought of my mother and what she would think if I just disappeared and I started to cry. Hiding behind a car I thought about what it would be like if I never could go home again, on the lamb for the rest of my life. Sometimes I thought all I got from my mother was tsuris. But just then I was thinking of the chicken soup she made me and the songs from the old country she sang to me when I was just a kid. I knew that I'd been wrong about her; she was always so good to me.

I wiped my eyes and thought of what could happen to my family and my boys if the wise guys found me. It was time for me to take a powder and right away. I hugged the edge of the canal, crouching down, ready to go back into water, then jumped up and ran down the street. Before I knew it I was behind the warehouse, in front of the window I'd learned to jimmy months ago. The boys and I had spent as much time there as we did at home. Now I was going to live there.

There was a utility closet on the second floor where we had taken our cooked mickeys. I knew the warehouse was empty; in the middle of the depression, whoever owned it fixed it up good but there was nobody to rent out the space. I went into the closet and before I knew it I had fallen asleep.

I woke up hours later; it was the sound of sirens that woke me. I thought about why I was sleeping in a closet with schmutz all over me and I started to cry. I knew that I had to think, that I couldn't give up. But I was only sixteen; what could I do? I wiped my eyes and heard my stomach make a noise. I knew that I had to eat. Outside the window there was nothing, just a car now and then.

Outside I took a better look around. Down their near the water there were no apartment buildings and I felt pretty safe. A quick run down to the next block, I found the bags of bread pieces that the bakery threw away like drek. My mother used to complain about them, knowing there were children starving in places in Europe. I guess it cost too much gelt to send the drek bread back to Europe. Businessmen were so high and mighty, throwing away good food, I wondered how they slept at night. We all knew that they were the ones who ruined things and made the depression happen in the first place.

I didn't make it back to sleep. While I stuffed my face with bread I thought of all my options. Around the time the sun came up the light bulb went off. I worked my way through the warehouse. My boys and I spent half our time in the warehouse looking for stuff that had been left behind by renters that had gone bust years before. We found some tools that we sold, some pens and paper that we gave to girls and a bunch of other things. One of the things we always saw were uniforms and clothes. In an hour I had on a work shirt and pants and a tweed cap. The clothes were dirty and I knew it made me look like the all the poor schmucks I saw on the street with their hands out. No one would pay any attention to me.

I walked down the street, head down, stopping to ask for change every from I passed; if the guy who did the hit got a glimpse of me he would never recognize me now. The Italian section was on the other side of the park. I went to the meat market and snuck back into the alley behind the store. Pulling my cap down over my eyes, I pretended to go to sleep. I waited almost two hours before a young man my age came out the back door, dragging a sack of garbage. He gave me the evil eye and hurried to throw his sack into some old fruit cartons.

I raised my head and whispered his name. "Bruno."

He froze, then walked toward me. "Herschel. What is this? What happened to you? You look like a bum."

Bruno and I had gone to school together. Back then he was heading toward failing out of school. The other kids picked on him and laughed at him because his English was terrible and he had a funny accent. He would cry when he left school, keeping up a good front when the other boys were watching. I found him hiding behind a fence on my way home from school, crying like a little girl. We were always taught that we should look out for other people, even Italians. God didn't want us leave each other in pain.

I worked on his English with him and helped him get through the basic maths. The called us the strange boys; not all the Jews and the Dagos got along. I think I saw some of myself in him. Once I got to know him, most of the crap I'd been hearing about the Italians turned out not to be so true. Years went by and we didn't see each other much but I knew that he walked down the street with his head held high. That was enough for me.

He kneeled down. "I need your help," I told him. "You're the only one who can help me."

"This is something bad, isn't it?"

"I saw someone taken care of. Silenced."

His eyes got big. "Wise Guys?"

"There was tommy a Tommy gun. Who else?"

"Oh shit. You came here because my cousin is a made man."

"I had no choice."

"He smiled. I know. Did they see your face?"

"No. I want to keep it that way."

"I'll tell it to you true. If this person who got taken care is someone my cousin wants dead, I can't do much for you."

"I know. But maybe he'll help me. I'm not going to say anything."

He stood up. "You've always been good to me, Herschel. I'll see what I can do. If there's a problem I'll tell you and you're going to have to go on the lamb."

"I know."

"If he wants to know who you are I have to tell him. But I'll tell you first so you can run. Meet me back here tonight at ten."

"You're a mensch, Bruno." I began to cry.

He smiled. "I always wanted to pay you back for the way you helped me. Everyone else treated me like a bum."

"Thanks Bruno."

"Come back her at ten."

I pulled my cap back down and walked back to the warehouse. I played all the angles in my head, like being at the movies. One minute I saw a happy ending, the next I saw myself dead, my mother wringing her hands and crying, sitting Shiva for a week. I had some bread left from the night before and, after a few bites, I lay down. I was too scared to sleep and I didn't want to miss my meeting with Bruno.

I thought of my parents and my grandparents. Maybe Bubby would be making stuffed peppers like she did when I was kid. "You're part Hungarian," she would tell me. They were always telling us things like that. I learned what I could and could get by with the Yiddish. But I always wanted to be a pitcher for the Yankees. My parents didn't understand. They thought I should be a doctor or maybe a Rabbi.

Still, I would have loved to be with my Mom and Dad and my Bubby and Zeyde sitting at the table with the bread and schmaltz. I never thought about it before; I took it for granted. And now I knew that I might never see it again. Why had this happened to me? Why not Shmuley? What did I do wrong? I began to cry again. I wanted to kill that Golem who had ruined my life. I wanted to kill Shmuley. Where was that guy with the Tommy gun? I tried to remember his face; maybe I'd seen him before. And why did he look familiar? What would I do if he did something to my parents? My Bubby and Zeyde? How would I live without them?

I wanted to kill him. If I could just find him.

I let myself cry in the silence of the warehouse; my cries echoed back to me in the dark.

I didn't let myself take a nap, as much as I wanted to. If I missed Bruno at ten, it would be bad. I schlepped around the warehouse, doing my best to stay awake. The time passed like molasses. My stomach was in knots and I felt like someone had boffed me hard. After a few hours I was so bent that I could hardly breath. I was only a kid, a nice Jewish boy who hoped some day to work in maths, market research or one of the new jobs. I didn't know anything about carrying a heater or cooling anyone.

I finally fell asleep but my stomach was so bad I woke up in fifteen minutes. I figured it would just get worse if I stayed in the warehouse so I went to the alley to wait for Bruno. On the way I saw a clock in a store window: 8:40; I'd have to cool my heels for an hour at least once I got to the alley.

When I got there I was surprised; Bruno was already there. When he saw me there was a smile on his face and I knew the news would be good. I ran forward and took his hand. "What?" I asked him.

"He never saw your face? You sure?"

"I'm sure. I never even walked through the door. The most he could have seen was the shadow of a boy. More than enough boys in the Bronx that it wouldn't be easy to figure out which one is which."

"Then you have a chance. I talked to my uncle. This has nothing to do with my people. And it's a personal beef. But you have to know. The man with the heater is one of your people. He's a Hebe killer for Murder Incorporated. My uncle knows a guy who knows him. Someone was making time with his girl. So he scragged him. And the girl."

You could have knocked me over. A few hours ago I was going to be food for the fishes. And now I had a chance. But I had some things to think about. "Your Uncle? He's not going to say anything about me?"

"No reason to. He doesn't owe anyone on this one. Like I told you. It was personal. Not a hit put out by a made man. But my uncle...well he thinks this buttagots Hebe should get scragged himself. He says he's an animal and that no one likes him. He has something to tell you. This buttagots has a signature. When he kills someone he leaves bird of paradise on the guy he kills."

"A bird? It don't sound like a bird you'd see around here."

"Not a bird. A flower. My Uncle has a green house. He knows all about flowers. It's his legit business that he pays taxes on. Make the government happy. No, these flowers are hard to come by. They cost more than even the Hebes make in a month." He smiled and punched me in the arm; we were all struggling to get by. "My Uncle, I tell him all the time about what you done for me." He reached into his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in sandwich paper. "Here's the flower. Tonight there will be a hit on a made man in the Genovese Family."

"Why."

"He has a big mouth and he's got some attention from the wrong people. This is to send a message to an underboss who's this main man's Rabbi; they won't get rid of the body. That's all you have to know. But, the hit, he's got some good friend in the family and they are going to... have a conniption when he gets scragged. My Uncle is not part of this; it's another family's business. He just heard about it. Now you take that flower to the meat factory on Sedgewick. You get there around midnight. You'll hear the shots. Wait half an hour and go in. You'll see a stiff. Put the flower on his chest and scram. Your troubles will be over. No one will ask why this Hebe hit-man takes this guy out, even though he didn't. They'll just think that the family hired Murder Inc. to do the job."

"What about the guys who want him dead, the ones who want to send a message. They'll be setting up the hit."

"There will be a picture in the stiff's pocket. That's the message. You don't need to know about it. The underboss who's supposed to get the message will get it. And the guys who will do the hit won't care if someone thinks they didn't do it. The message is the point. This Hebe is for hire. Not so strange that he would take a contract. That's what most people will believe as long as you plant the flower."

I began to cry. Bruno put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't cry, Hershel! I know we're supposed to hate each other. A Hebe and a Paisan. My uncle, he likes history. Especially about New York. All of us, we come here and they all hate us because we speak different, we eat different food that smells funny. Our clothes are funny. But the Micks and the Krauts, they all made something of themselves and then...fifty years later; it's all different. We all fight our way out of the gutter; that makes us brothers. I won't forget you and what you did for me. Someday when I'm a man you'll come to my house and you'll sit at my table and drink my best vino and my wife and bambinos will know who you are. Not just a Hebe but a real man who does the right thing. And someday, maybe our bambino's bambinos will play together. My uncle tells me that the only good thing about people like us...he calls them immigrants...is that we all forget what we were. New York chews us up and spits us out. And who knows what we'll be in 100 years?"

I wiped my eyes. "What can I say?"

"I know what you call us. What everyone does. We all use these names for each other because we live apart. It's easier. So someday when you are old, you can say a WOP made it right and paid you back for making his life better. Forever. If it wasn't for you I'd be a foot soldier for one of the five families. That's the last thing my parents want. I'm going to be an accountant. Because of you."

"Thank you, Bruno. You're a mensch."

"I think I know what that means. I know it's something good if you say it."

I hung my head.

"Stop that, Hershel! You have somewhere to be in an hour and a half. Remember stay outside for a half an hour once you hear the shots."

"I will. I owe you."

"You owe me shit. Go."

I took the flower and hoofed it to the meat warehouse. Like clockwork, just after midnight, I heard a tommy gun. A few shots and that was it. A half an hour later I snuck up the stairs. It took me ten minutes to find the stiff. I put the flower on his chest just like Bruno told me. I'd never seen a dead man before and I couldn't help myself; I had to stop and look. His mouth was open like he was trying to say something. Blood was spread across the floor from the back of his head. I thought that it could have been me, Shmuley, Bruno. The world was crazy. Focacta.

I stared for a minute. Then I ran.

I waited another couple of days, staying in the warehouse just in case. I met Bruno behind the market both days. There were stories about a Jew who worked for Murder Inc. being killed. They said it was revenge for another hit that he took as a contract. But there was no talk of a young kid.

The third day I went home. My mama jumped up and screamed. "Mayn kind!"

She grabbed me and held me, crying and screaming. My father watched with his eyes full of tears. My sister and brother ran in from the back yard. "Hershel!

Where have you been?" my brother asked.

"I'm sorry. I had to go away. I can't tell you why. It was for our family."

My mama let me go and fell into a chair. "I went everywhere asking for you. No one knew anything. I thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry mama."

"Where were you?"

The argument went on for an hour; I just shook my head, knowing I had to keep my trap shut. Part of me became frightened and angry; no one could know what happened and here was my mama asking all the wrong questions. But another part of me was happier than I'd ever been to be our house, to be with my family.

That night I came back to the lot where my boys were cooking Mickeys. I had to stand more questions when all I wanted to do was get back to normal. Schmuley stood by himself watching me, a look on his face like he saw a ghost. I'd disappeared just when he'd thrown my mickey into the alley; I knew he was wondering what he might have had to do with it.

I didn't even give him a look. I got myself a Mickey and started to cook it. I waited. After a half hour or so, the gorgeous Rachel Finkel waltzed in and Schmuley's eye bugged out of his head. I smiled.

She had tears in her eyes. "We've all been worried about you. I heard you were gone. Your mama told me that I couldn't ask you where you've been but the story's been all around the neighbourhood. I have to go home and eat dinner. But I wanted to see you. I hope you come by and have the Shabat meal will us. Soon. Promise me you will." She leaned down and kissed my cheek.

Shmuley's eyes followed her as she walked away. He sat down and looked down at the ground. Then he picked up a Mickey he'd brought. I walked over and stood in front of him and I know what was written on my face. I stared at him for a minute until he got up and walked away, leaving his Mickey in the fire. Saul shook his head. "No one will miss the putz. If you hadn't given him the bum's rush I would have. I know you can't tell us where you were but we're glad to have you back. Mazel Tov!" He took his mickey out of the fire and took a bite.

I gave him a little smile. "Glad to be back."

I pulled my Mickey out of the fire. I was home.

The End

Neil Newton grew up in in Bayside, a small community in NYC; he began writing as a child. Neil is a musician who loves playing finger picking guitar; he has written several songs. The Railroad is Neil's first novel. Like its main character Neil spent a life changing half hour in the subway on 9/11 as the Twin Towers went down. He wears a vintage subway token on a chain to remind him of what happened to him, his city, and his country. Neil is working on his next novel, "Unraveling the Coil" based on the philosophy of Nikola Tesla.

##  Well I Die Tomorrow and I Can't Wait

### Adam C. Mitchell

There was no point, really, no point in wasting my last nickel on the parking meter, so instead I just didn't bother. I just sat in my beat-up grey Ford, listening to some awful street performer warble "Swinging on a Star." No, I just sat there quietly for well over an hour, waiting for that bastard Gerry O'Connor, and thinking. One of the main things I thought about was if a leaking bucket full to the brim of bitterness in a man's soul could make him cross that thin line of no return. However, in my case, sitting there, I'd realized I'd already crossed that line some time back. I'd crossed it the night my sweet daughter Chloe was killed in a flaming wreck beside the highway, on the way out of this would-be Gomorrah. She had become nothing more to the world than another innocent victim of Central City. Her killer was a drunken fool behind the wheel—even if the papers made out otherwise in the cover-up. She was a teacher for Christ sake; there wasn't an ounce of evil in her; just love and smiles.

I still remember it—I came home one night from work. It was a Wednesday, if I remember rightly. I'd come home, to find my wife and high school sweetheart had taken my pistol, a war trophy form Germany, and given herself a brass headache. Killing herself, out of loss. That's the day I think I crossed that line, and after a few years of grief and twisted hatred for this damned city and those in it, I'd become a very different man. Preferring drink and the shadows, to the light and life, the world outside Central City had to offer.

I had lost everything that mattered to a man, everything I'd fought in the war to try to protect. That of family and home. I was a man who didn't care anymore; I'd lost weight way too much to be considered healthy for a man of my age. My once-strong nerves were now shot to hell in a hand basket. Insomnia had become my present companion, and to top it all off, I'd totally given up chewing food, preferring to drink it straight with ice, instead. My once rock-solid passion for my career had died the same day I'd lost my dear Sally. My job and its demands now seemed just too pitiful to really care about. I knew my demeanour and life were worrying my partner Jeff Collins, who after putting up with me for longer than he deserved one day gave me both barrels.

"Nathan," he said, his tone both angered and measured, but with just enough worry to make me sit up and listen. "Nathan, you're sick. Can't you see it? Don't lie to me, either; you need serious god-damn help. I'm worried about you, pal," he said, trying to smile "You look like you've already brought the farm and gone to bed in your own pine box. Why don't you see a doctor, get some help, maybe?" I had to take a moment

"I have, Jeff," I said truthfully. Jeff was the one person who I couldn't and never would lie to; he gave the Kovakx's a shot, especially with Sally and the baby being left with nothing after the death of some P.I. in the city. He made me a partner in his business and gave Sally a job in the office, bookkeeping, and the like. I owed him so much. "Jeff, there's nothing wrong with me—well, except for that dark little voice in the old head. That's honestly what the quack said, but he does say a shrink would probably do me some good."

"Come on, Nathan, it's not a totally terrible idea, a 'head shrinker' may help you cage up the past and bury it. Help you move on and things, I don't know, I'm no expert, after all. All I know is Sally would hate to see you like this."

I just shook my head "Sorry, Jeff. I'll just live with it, and if I have to take it down with me, sorry, pal, no dice."

"Take it down with you? Sorry, soldier, this isn't the Bastogne. Wise up." Jeff was more than just a friend; he was more like a brother. We'd served overseas, too. We'd spent way too long in a foxhole, freezing together in that wretched forest in Bastogne, and then years later when I'd returned state-side after him, he'd taken me, a battered solider, and turned me into a salesman and then to top that, made me a co-owner of his business. Granted, typewriter sales weren't flashy but after the last four years, it was normal and enough. He'd been with me, and been my rock through two funerals and seen first-hand my fall from sanity. Well, what Europe had left me with anyway.

"Chrissakes, Nathan, don't talk like that!"

All I could do was playfully flip a hand at him.

"Listen, Jeff. It's like this. As you've probably noticed, I don't give a damn about anything anymore. I lost my heart and soul the day I lost Sally. My only child was stolen from me, and I have no little ones to call me Grandpa. But what I have instead and to look forward to is a totally bleak life with way too many years ahead of me, unwanted years left on the clock, and frankly, I just can't deal with it anymore. If it wasn't for you and the business, I think I'd just follow Sally's lead." I could tell after that bombshell he couldn't—or just wouldn't—take any more of it in.

"Nathan. Pal, come on, this is all just talk—surely?"

I smiled "Don't panic, Jeff. I won't. I want to live to see justice for my family. Besides, the blasted business insurance we carry on each other says no payout if we play the suicide card,"

I joked, but I don't think it helped.

I could see Jeff start to relax. He still wasn't sure, but went along with it. "That's my boy. If it weren't for the insurance, I'd give you the gun myself. I could use the bankroll. It would come in very handy right now. Business frankly is nose-diving."

I could tell he meant it, too. I hadn't escaped noticing we were way in the red. I just carried on the joke, but more for him than me, saying, "Don't be a wise guy. I can still give you a fat lip, ya hear me? Any-ways, don't suppose there's no way of getting around that little insurance clause, old buddy of mine."

"Not in a month of Sundays," he chortled, shaking his head and almost losing his hairpiece as he did. "Not a chance, partner. You kill yourself, you get nothing but worms and stale air." That's when he sat down and looked me dead in the eye. "Anyway, Nathan, just forget about it, will you? And once and for all put all the hurt from the past behind you—besides, I don't think Sally would want to see you like this."

Jeff was right; she would hate me like this. So after a few more pleasantries, I made a show of going to do some work in my closet of an office. However, all I could think about was that damn clause. I couldn't shake it, no matter how hard I tried. I had told my friend the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd given up living without Sally. Even my absolute hatred for that pond life O'Conner did not seem to matter really, not anymore. I was just coasting, and too far gone in all the ways that mattered. But on the other side of the tarnished C note, I owed Jeff everything. I couldn't just leave him without a dime, especially when business was this bad. My friend had pretty much made me the man I was, took a chance on me when the city had washed its hands of me a broken solider with nothing but memories to keep him going. Christ, he even insured my sorry ass for a hundred thousand dollars, as a way of showing how much he appreciated me, and he was a flit, he secretly liked other men, in a way the man upstairs frowned on if you get my drift dear readers. But he never once crossed the line with me. Not even when I could tell he had a few feelings building up for me. He was a real friend. He was who he was; if he was confused I didn't really care. You can't choose who you fall in love with after all, even if it was all very one-sided. So killing myself would be a poor return for all his faith and kindness towards me. Unless, however, my death gave him a hundred thousand reasons to keep going. The Idea came to me that night while listening to a Philip Marlowe radio play. I just couldn't switch off afterwards, so as always, I grabbed a bottle, poured myself more than two fingers, and let the darkness in. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. A very simple idea; after a bit more thought, I realized there were no possible lose ends, either. It was the perfect solution, which also gave me my first solid night's sleep in months.

It still seemed flawless—a plan with not a wrinkle in it, and that's what kept my resolve as I sat in my car waiting for Gerry O'Conner to come by. I had followed him for the last few days and knew this was his lunchtime stop. I noticed my hand kept checking my coat pocket. Had my subconscious taken over, or was it just nervous muscle memory? I was also over the moon that the weather had turned, and the downpour had stopped, and soon the side-walks would become crowded again. Perfect, I thought, looking in the car's rear view. I found myself flashing back to the conversations back at the office. Then later at the hardware store, gentleman's club, bar, and at my family's humble grave, I'd had said to myself and others over the last few days. A dark, almost excited, pleasure began to take over me as I waited for O'Conner to play his unwitting part.

That's when I heard the bell from the parking meter. My time was up. That's when I saw him, reading a newspaper as he walked towards his usual spot. As I saw him, I became overly focused, to the point at which I could read clearly the newspaper's saddening Headline

'GANDHI SHOT TO DEATH; RIOTS SWEEP BOMBAY.' Seeing that headline gave me even more resolve; this wasn't a just world anymore, and I didn't want any part of it.

O'Conner's face was pale and sweaty under busy red eyebrows and a balding head of red hair; his comb-over was floating in the breeze and wasn't fooling anyone. The Irishman's fat body swayed as he ambled.

Was he drunk, again, and to what extent?

Was he as wasted as the day he murdered my little princess?

Then with controlled haste, I slid myself across to the other seat, near the curbside door, got out and made damn sure I was in his path. I spoke up so that Gerry and anyone nearby could hear; witnesses are always helpful in this sort of thing. I did feel bad that one of them was a young woman, with a baby in a Silvercross Shearton stroller; it was the same one me and the wife used for our own bundle of perfection. In my mind, seeing the Silvercross was an omen that Molly and Sally were looking down on me, happy.

So, raising my voice, I said with all the built up anger in me, "Ah, hello, up-chuck. There you are. I've been hoping to bump into you."

O'Conner shot a deer-in-headlights look straight at me, dumbfounded.

"Hello, Mister..." he began.

I didn't let him finish. I pulled out my pistol and pulled the trigger. As my finger squeezed down, time seemed to slow to a crawl. I watched the faces of the witnesses, the sheer horror of images the young mother will never be able to un-see; but most enjoyably, I watched in slow motion the bullet. Watched it spin its way towards Gerry, boring a nickel sized hole right between the paddy's eyes. I felt myself smiling as a thin red stream of blood trickled down his face and then watched as he crumpled to the side-walk. That's when time snapped back. The hysteria was at a fever pitch but I was as calm as a monk. I just placed the pistol in front of me, got to my knees, my hands behind my head, and simply waited.

Jeff came to see me in lock-up, as soon as the flatfeet told him of my arrest. As he was frankly the nearest thing to next of kin I had left, and I told the police I would sign no confession unless they got Jeff here first.

"Nathan," he said, his tone downcast.

"Don't give me that look," I said. "Let's face it, both of us knew something like this mess was gonna happen one day. Don't blame me. For God's sake, don't pity me, an' don't think I went out of my mind. I killed that piece of trash O'Conner deliberately and with premeditation. Heck, I enjoyed it! He got justice, finally. I just did what the law couldn't or wouldn't frankly. You'll get the insurance money, too. I'll get death; all that, in my mind, is fair all the way around."

Jeff started to well up. "The insurance payout. Is that why you did this—for the god damn cash?"

"Well hell, Jeff, why not?!" I laughed "Partner, it's simple; if you kill yourself, the insurance company won't pay. But, Jeff, here's the beautiful catch. If you're executed by the state, for murdering a citizen of Liberty City... well, hell, the insurance monkeys will pay and keep paying, like good little yes-men. They have to—it's the law. Jeff, please be a pal, do me one more favor. Take the money and get the business off the critical list. It's been on thin ice for too long. I'll be happy soon. My family will be waiting for me."

And a week later, I was. Judge Powers saw to that; the verdict I got in the docket was

MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE, and he wouldn't accept any plea for mercy. Well, that suited me fine. I was ready; heck, I admit I was relieved when I got the chair and not the noose—it was the express train to my Molly and Sally. Wasn't it Scarlett O' Hara who said in a film something about not crying?

Well I won't be; I'm going out smiling like a fool. The fact that I'd beaten the suicide loophole just made it even sweeter, and I'd beaten the clause rather perfectly, don't you think readers?

Granted readers, a few days on death row gave me an almighty scare. Out of the blue, this failing state decided to throw out the death penalty. No more noose or chair; instead all death-rowers were to get life, times three. Well, that was just great, I can tell you. Now that could really have put a wrench in the works. No payout for Jeff, no one-way ticket to my family for yours truly.

But don't fear, friends, the loopholes kept on coming. The "No Chair" rule was still applied, regardless. If anyone was to murder a member of law enforcement, they still got burned, no exceptions. So isn't it lucky that Gerry O'Conner was a police lieutenant in traffic when he killed my little girl. But what is even luckier is he was busted back down to beat cop when I gave him his brass headache. Seemed fitting, really.

***

"Nathan Kovakx, you were sentenced to death by electrocution on 12th September 1948 at midnight. In attendance is myself, warden Markus Ender, Officer Stephen Christie and Doctor Tom Hammett. Also in the viewing room is Gerry O'Conner's widow and son.

"The crime was for two counts. One, murder in the first degree, and two, unlawful possession of a war trophy, noted in the court papers under Article 3a as one German-made Masuser P08 9mm Luger, which on the 5th September 1948, you used with premeditation and evil intent to murder Officer Gerry O'Conner of the Liberty City Police Department. You pleaded guilty and did not ask for mercy. It is now my solemn duty to oversee the enactment of your punishment. Nathan Kovakz, you rejected any and all religious support, which will also be noted. Do you have any final words for the official record?"

"Just one thing, Warden, if I may?" I said, smiling as broadly as I could

"Very well."

"I'm coming home, Sally. Tell Molly I will see you both soon. That's all, Warden Ender. Oh readers, yes you in the real world, thanks for listening" As I sat there waiting, I finally felt that dark passenger leave my soul; I was finally free.

"Very well, Nathan Kovakx. May God have mercy on your soul in the here-and-ever-after. Officer Christie, on the stroke of 12, complete the sentence."

The End

_Adam C. Mitchell lives at home in Whitchurch Shropshire, U.K., with his young daughter and dogs Molly and Mickey. While wearing the author hat, he is always trying to bring awareness that people with Dyslexia can accomplish anything, even publish a novel or two, telling them it should never hold them back from reaching whatever goals they set. Adam has been a fan of hard-boiled crime and this style of crime fiction, since he read 'The Big Sleep' in secondary school. When he is not writing, his nose is glued to a sketchbook, illustrating for his fellow Indie Author pals. He is also the creator of the "A Stab in the Dark Crime Writers Circle" and this very Anthology. Keep in touch with him at_ http://mitchellnoir.wixsite.com/acmitchell

## Deadly Steps

### Stacy Margaret Allan

Mary Riggans reached the top of the stairs looking like she'd just climbed a mountain. Her blonde hair fell down across her petite shoulders as she pulled the pins out one by one.

Richard laughed. 'Bloody hell, sis. You look like an old woman once you've made it up those steps.'

'I'm not even old enough to get married! Those stairs will be the death of me one day, so get the kettle on the fire and settle my nerves.'

'There's no coal.'

'Break that wooden chair in the corner. I nicked some newspapers from the train station to burn as well.'

'Mary! You need to stop stealing every five minutes or you'll end up in prison. I got you and mum out of that old bugger's house by the skin of my teeth and certainly not for you to be chained up somewhere else.'

'Granddad couldn't have us living on our own after dad died. You know what he's like. It's not proper. Anyway, after the army you had no one to cook and clean for you so now you need us here to look after you. Tell the truth.'

'Maybe, but I'm making sure you two are alright so I don't have time to find myself a wife. I've got enough on my plate keeping the three of us alive.'

'Where's mum?'

'Doing what she has to.'

'What's that?'

'Don't ask.'

'If she's not back with money for coal by the morning, I'll break off some of those bannisters. There are enough of the bloody things to burn for a fortnight.'

'Don't break any more of the house, Mary. I'm starting to wonder if you're more trouble than you're worth.'

'You don't really mean that!'

'The old biddy downstairs will put us out and I was very lucky to get this room.'

'That stinking old hag can't see two feet in front of her face. I don't know how she makes it outside to the toilet in time when she's tripping over her own shoes.'

'She's got ears like an elephant. She hears everything, so button your lip. How did you get on at the factory?'

'Mum was right, he does look rich. I met his daughter while I was there and I'm making her my new apprentice.'

'Nice looking, is she?'

'No time for a wife, you say? You'll change your mind when you see this one. She'll put you in the mood for marriage. She's bloody beautiful, and if she wants to keep it that way then she'll do as she's told.'

'It's a shame I can't marry her, then.'

Effie Cannon looked in her bedroom mirror, impressed with what she'd done. Her lips were a thin smack of red, her cobalt blue eyes were framed by a dark haze of powder and she used an eye pencil to draw black lines up the back of her legs to pass off as stockings. Her brunette hair was styled in a victory roll and fixed tightly in place, with a swept-up curl. She looked gorgeous and she knew she'd make a killing tonight.

As she crept towards the front door, her father shouted, 'Where are you going?'

It was as if he was a bat with sonar, the way he always caught her sneaking out. She was clutching her shoes in her right hand and she hadn't made any audible footsteps. 'I'm meeting Mary.'

'I don't like that girl. I don't approve of you spending time with her. Make sure you're home before it gets dark and stay away from the soldiers, I'm warning you.'

'Whatever you say, Dad.'

She was out of the house before he could lecture her any further.

Patrick Cannon wanted her to stay clear of the soldiers because they would put him on his arse if they heard about what he'd done. He'd been in the army himself until he'd been dishonourably discharged for selling vital equipment before he'd even made it on a boat to fight against Hitler.

More to the point, he couldn't bear for Effie to leave him as she'd taken charge of the housework when her mother died.

Effie crept through the dull lamp-lit streets until she met Mary outside the closed grocer's shop.

A blonde bombshell, Mary stood stamping her feet and rubbing her fingers. 'Come on, girl! It's bloody freezing out here. My nipples are like bullets, so I've been told.'

A man walking past chastised them. 'Ladies!'

'There are no ladies out here, love. Fuck off,' Mary said, sticking up two fingers at him. He tutted and hurried away, shaking his head.

'Mary! You'll get us into trouble.'

She hooked her arm through Effie's and grinned. 'Let's get out of here then.'

They strolled towards The Minto Lounge, basking in the light from the windows, and stood outside smoking Mary's cigarettes. They didn't have to wait long before their first punter arrived and began to chat to them, hoping for a kiss from one of them before the night was out.

He was a local lad but not a soldier so it was only half as much fun to have his wallet out of his pocket. It was hardly worth the run to the next pub in case he realised his pocket was empty in a hurry and gave chase.

'Give me a look,' Mary said, taking the wallet out of Effie's hand.

'Be careful, someone might see.'

'This is a soldier's wallet. It's got his identity card in it.'

'He didn't look like a soldier.'

'He wasn't. There's blood on this. Come on.' Mary led Effie further through the dark streets. 'Something's not right. Why would a scruff like him be carrying a soldier's wallet?'

Effie thought for a moment. 'He must have stolen it first, so what we did was payback.'

'If he can make a soldier bleed, he must be more dangerous than he looks. Unless the soldier was drunk, of course, but usually they go out together in groups. If this is evidence of a murder, we need to get rid of it.'

'What if his family don't know he's missing yet? Let me see the address. We can check.'

'Do you fancy going to jail? Knock on their door and you'll have to explain how you got your hands on it.'

'I can say I found it lying in the road.'

Mary's tone changed in an instant. 'You take it then. I've got work to do and I need to make a living so I can eat. We don't all have a wealthy daddy at home.'

'My dad's not rich! But do whatever you like. I'll make my own way home.' Effie had only bumped into Mary a few days ago outside the brickworks factory where her dad worked and though their new routine had been exciting, she needed to give this wallet back to its owner. She had morals and her mother would have expected her to act on them.

She clutched the wallet to her chest as she walked home, avoiding eye contact with men as was proper at this time of night.

She walked through familiar streets, eager to stay away from the pub where they'd laid eyes on the scruffy man who'd caused them so much trouble.

She'd lost a friend and wondered if it had been worth it. However, if Mary was willing to lead her halfway across Lochgelly in the dark and then desert her without a second thought, maybe she hadn't been such a good friend after all. She'd been leading Effie astray and now it was time to call an end to it, before they were cast aside by the rest of the town for their bad behaviour.

Effie tucked the wallet into the waistband of her skirt and hoped it would stay there throughout her father's attack because no doubt he'd swing for her for being out so late. She closed the front door behind her and tiptoed through the hall, trying to make it to her bedroom.

'I can hear you, young lady. Get in here and make my supper! What time do you call this?'

'Sorry, Dad.'

'Did you do what I asked?'

'What?'

'I told you to stay away from those bloody soldiers! And I warned you to get rid of that Mary girl. She's poison.'

'I told her I don't want to be friends with her anymore.'

'Just as well.' Effie scraped some food out of a tin and on to a plate and carried it through to her father. He took the plate and then slapped her hard across the ear, as she'd known he would. 'When I say get home before it's dark, I bloody well mean it. Now go to your room.' She did as she was told, with one hand holding the wallet securely against her front.

She lay on her bed with the door and curtains closed and held the blue identity card under her bedside lamp, reading the details of a stranger. His name was Richard Longley, of 22 Hunter Street in the Happyland area of Lochgelly.

Effie had walked through Happyland once before, caught in a daydream during the time when she'd fancied herself as a writer. She'd walked the streets looking for inspiration, excited by the romantic notions she'd had while reading some of her mother's old classic novels.

What she'd found there had been a lot less of the castles she'd had in mind and more of a slum. The tenement buildings were full of different families in each room, even squeezed into kitchens and cupboards. Grubby children played in the street with no shoes on. She'd marched quickly onwards, heading for somewhere more familiar and less dingy. She gave up on being a writer. She didn't think she was cut out for it.

Her mother, Lizzie, had been a secretary and her father had been the manager of the brickworks factory before he'd been summoned to join the army. Because he'd been in charge, Lizzie had managed to keep her job after they got married even though it was frowned upon. Jobs were in short supply and people had entire families to support, including other daughters who'd mothers had died. When Effie was twelve, Lizzie was knocked down by a tram on her way home from a night out and she never regained consciousness.

Effie still thought of her mum every night before she fell asleep.

The next morning, she walked into Hunter Street and immediately bowed her head, not wanting to meet the stares of the locals. She was scared, not only of what she was about to do, but of what would happen if nobody was in Mr Longley's house. It was her duty to go to the police with the wallet and she'd have a lot of explaining to do. Her father was going to kill her for getting into so much trouble.

Effie followed the house numbers as she walked along the street and came to a building with stairs at the back, shooting upwards towards a dark door. She looked up and felt an uncertainty that gave her terrible nerves and made her knees shake. She felt worse than she'd expected. Even though she'd been spooked the last time she'd visited this street, it had felt nothing like this.

Grasping the thin metal rail, she braced herself to knock on the door on the right which said number 22. She hated the silence and hoped nobody dared to open the door too quickly in case she got the fright of her life and fell down the stairs.

The door to number 22 was opened by an elderly lady with short grey hair and no teeth, wearing rags. 'What is it?'

'May I speak with Richard Longley, please?'

'He's upstairs. Go and get him.' The woman walked along the short hallway until she came to a steep flight of stairs. 'I'm not his secretary. If you want him, you'll have to go up there and shout on him.' Effie came in and closed the door then followed at the old woman's heels. 'This is my flat. That lot live up there.' She pointed at yet more stairs.

Effie wondered how many minutes they must have wasted climbing the stairs every day of their lives, carrying coal up and taking the ashes back down. The building was tall and far too narrow and she was glad she lived with her father in four large rooms in Garry Street.

Climbing once again, she wondered who would be waiting for her on the top level. 'Mr Longley? Are you here? I need to speak with you.' A shadow darted past the top of the landing and she wondered what was going on. 'Is anybody here?'

Reaching the top, she was in a large attic room with a kitchen area to the right, a zinc bathtub in front of the fireplace and a pile of coats on the floor. A mangle leaned against the kitchen wall.

She heard giggles coming from the left corner and she moved away from the staircase to look for the culprit. 'Mary! What are you doing here?'

'I live here, you idiot. Richard, you can come out now. She's here.'

The man they'd stolen the wallet from was hidden underneath the pile of coats. He stood up and grabbed it from her hand. 'I'll take that, Missy.'

Effie stared at them in a state of shock. 'What's going on? Is he your boyfriend?'

'No, he's my brother.'

'But he almost kissed you last night!'

'Almost... but not quite.'

'I don't understand.' When Effie realised they'd been waiting on her on purpose, she felt gripped by danger and wanted to leave. They'd played a cruel trick on her and she didn't feel like hanging around to find out why. She headed for the stairs.

'Oh no, you don't,' Richard said, knocking her to the ground. 'You've got a job to do for us. Once it's over I might let you go, but only if I feel like it. Are you looking for a husband? You're very pretty, just like Mary said.'

Effie felt tears pricking her eyes and stared at Mary in disbelief. 'I thought you were my friend.'

'I'm no one's friend, Effie. I do whatever's necessary to survive. If you do what you're told, you'll be home with Daddy soon enough.'

Ruth Riggans had grown up pretending to be a sister to the son she'd given birth to. Eventually, she'd got married and had Mary but her parents wouldn't allow her to take Richard to her new home. She'd had enough of pretending. Her son knew the truth now and she was willing to claim his dues, whatever the cost to his father. Patrick Cannon needed to step up and take responsibility for him.

Ruth's parents had raised Richard and sent him away to the army, despite her feelings. All of her protests had fallen on deaf ears. Now that she was reunited with Richard, her family was back together and her son had heard a nasty rumour about what his biological father had done. They planned to use blackmail to make Patrick commit further crimes to get what they wanted.

Richard had recently found out that Patrick was wealthy and that he'd provided him with an innocent younger sister, Effie, whom his sister Mary was now extremely jealous of.

Ruth's husband had been killed in the war and she knew how fragile life could be. How come Effie got to have a dad who was a crook, when a good man like Mary's father had ended up dead? It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Effie's world was about to be shattered when she found out what her dad was really like.

Ruth stood on Patrick's doorstep and when he appeared, she went for him with both barrels. 'We've taken your precious daughter. Don't think I won't harm her! I'll do anything necessary to get what Richard needs for his future. He fought alongside good men like my husband in that war and he deserves a better father than you.'

He ushered her inside, slamming the door behind her. 'What are you talking about, woman? Your father agreed to take him on as his own. It's your brother you're talking about, not your son, as is proper. What are you opening that can of worms for? Leave it be! The past is in the past. You'd better go and set him straight.'

'No, I'm setting you straight! You fathered my child and you will damn well act like it. Effie has everything and he has nothing, with three mouths at home to feed. You have to provide for us. Do it in secret, I don't care, just pay for our food and coal.'

'I'll do no such thing. You can keep Effie under your roof so he's got four mouths to feed now, not just three, and I'll find someone else to make the tea at work. You should have thrown yourself down the stairs while you had the chance!'

She lashed out, scratching his face. 'I hate you! I wish I'd never met you. What will Effie say when she finds out her dad's so callous?'

'She's your problem now. You've turned her against me and you can deal with the consequences. I don't want her back. Now get out of my house or I'll go to the police about this harassment.'

Patrick sat with his head in his hands as white hot blood rushed through his temples. He was burning with rage. Who did Ruth think she was, threatening to tear his life apart? If his workmates found out he'd fathered a son behind Lizzie's back, he'd be sacked from the company. He wouldn't be able to command their respect. They'd shun him for the rest of time because they'd loved Lizzie with a passion. Everybody had loved her. That's why she'd been encouraged to stay on at the factory after they'd got married. She was the life and soul of the place. She had a smile and a kind word for everyone and her cups of tea were legendary.

He didn't mind losing Effie. He could heat up his own dinners and wash his own clothes if it came to it. They'd never been close and she was little more than a burden to him.

Even Lizzie had found it hard to bond with her, with all her funny little ways. She had airs and graces that hadn't come from them and her head was always stuck in the clouds. They were hard working, ordinary Lochgelly folk and she was different, though they could never understand why. Effie had never been interested in playing outside with everybody else's bairns.

When Ruth climbed the stairs, she expected to find Effie either tied up and groaning or still deep within an argument. Surprisingly, she was sitting up, drinking a cup of tea and eating biscuits.

'Where did those come from?'

'Effie had some money in her purse,' Richard said, still impressed that she'd offered to feed everyone after what they'd put her through.

Mary sat on the other side of him, protectively holding her brother's arm. She felt as if she was in a competition with Effie for his affections.

'You should've saved it. Patrick isn't going to pay us a penny. Sorry hen, but he says he doesn't want you back.'

Effie narrowed her eyes. 'I don't even care. How could he look me in the face for so many years and lie to me? He must have known I had a brother.'

'Oh, he knew, alright. The tight sod wouldn't acknowledge either of us.'

'I'm sorry for what you went through. If I could do anything to change it, I would.'

'Thanks, but your pity is useless to me. It won't pay the bills.'

Patrick was still reeling after his meeting with Ruth. He'd been for a few pints at The West End Bar, hoping their son Richard wouldn't walk in and make a scene. He'd always be looking over his shoulder from now on, afraid that Ruth's family would rat him out. The people of Lochgelly didn't take too kindly to adulterers, especially the kind who fathered illegitimate children and abandoned them. He'd be shunned by everybody who knew him.

He should have persuaded Lizzie to move out of the area years ago but Garry Street was near enough to the brickworks factory for a brisk morning walk, as his workplace was on the other side of Lochgelly Railway Station. His life had become too comfortable and he should never have trusted Ruth to do the right thing and keep her mouth shut.

Staggering home, he had to rest one arm against the wall to steady himself so he could turn the key in the lock. The house was dark and freezing. Damn Effie for not lighting a fire to keep it warm for him. He briefly wondered if Ruth had set her free then remembered she wasn't welcome here anymore. She knew too much and he didn't want to be judged, especially not by her.

He'd surround himself with the covers from her bed since she wouldn't be using them anymore. Ruth could supply her with everything she needed. That would be her punishment for trying to blackmail him.

He stormed through the house, bumping into the table in the hall and sending a vase of flowers crashing to the floor. What use were glamorous decorations now? He had only himself to please.

He grabbed the pile of covers off Effie's bed and paused when he saw her notebook slide off and land on her bare mattress. Throwing her covers down, he turned each page until he reached the last one with writing on it.

Richard Longley, 22 Hunter Street, Happyland, Lochgelly. Soldier's ID pass. Clearly not his, so where did he get it? Must find out.

She'd been visiting her brother already. How long had she been lying about her whereabouts? He crushed it under his shoe, grinding it into the carpet. He could feel her deceit and it burned.

A moment later, he stuck his foot out and booted the living room door open. Throwing Effie's pile of covers on the armchair next to the fire, he fell on to them and cried, tortured with grief. Giving himself a minute to think, he realised he missed her.

He froze with fear when he realised he wasn't alone. The shadow behind the open door became a dark shape which was frighteningly real.

'Hiya, Dad.'

'What are you doing here?'

'I thought it was time you met your son.'

'You're not my son! You're Ruth's brother. She's been lying to you.'

'Nice try. Effie says hiya, by the way.'

'Effie's never going to believe a word you say and you'd better not hurt her. She's all I've got. She's a good girl. How did you get in here?'

'She gave me her key. She knows my mum's not lying. You two made me and now you'll have to face up to the consequences. As soon as I was old enough to walk and talk, she told me I was her son. She promised one day to get me out of there but when she got married and moved out, my Granddad wouldn't let me join her. I had to pretend to be his son until I was an adult. He ruled my life with an iron fist and going to war was the softer option. I could have been killed! Have you got any idea what it's been like for me, growing up? No, of course you don't. You owe me years of money and attention so you can start by offering me a drink. You've obviously had plenty yourself.'

'Pour your own.'

'The cupboards are empty. Where do you keep your stash?'

'Stash of what?'

'Whisky, of course.'

'I thought you meant tea. There's none.'

'From one soldier to another, I'm betting that's a lie.'

'Soldier?'

'Aye.'

'You really fought in the war?'

'I didn't have a choice. Most people don't.'

'That's how Effie tracked you down.'

'How do you know that?'

'She writes everything down, stupid girl.'

'I was a soldier but not anymore. The war is over so they don't need me. What happened to you? You didn't last long in the army, from what I hear.'

'Who have you been talking to?'

'Unlike you, I was in the army for years. I made a lot of contacts. And then there's Effie. She's told me everything. She even supplied the tea and biscuits to get us through the afternoon. She's feisty when she gets going, isn't she? And she's not happy with you. Not one bit.'

'What have I done to her apart from give her a decent upbringing? Nothing, that's what.'

'You kept me hidden from her. You had an affair when you were supposed to be happily married to her mum. You left my mum to rot with a baby inside her while you turned your back and joined the army, then got dismissed for nicking and selling vital equipment that could have saved lives. You're a disgrace.'

'If I'm so bad then why did you come here? What do you want?'

'I want money and lots of it. It's the least I deserve for being abandoned like that.'

'I haven't got any.'

'The brickworks have. I've been looking round your factory and I've got a rough idea how it operates. Tomorrow you're going to pull a job for me and pay me what I'm owed. There's a safe with money in it. Either you do what I say, or Effie's going straight in there to tell everyone what you did to her mum and that you've treated me like I don't exist. You won't have a job after that. How will you keep this big house running with no money?'

'You can't do this to me. How dare you? Just who do you think you are?'

'I must admit, I'm the brains of the operation but my mum, Effie and Mary can be quite resourceful when they put their minds to it. Be ready to leave with me in the morning. I've got somebody watching your front door so don't think you can run away from this. You've got no chance.'

'And if I refuse?'

'Your life, as you know it, is over. Think about it. I'm sure you'll make the right decision, Dad.'

'Don't ever call me that again. I'm Effie's dad. You're nothing to me.'

'Ouch, you're cold. But nobody's colder than my Granddad. Get lippy with me again and I'll show you I'm the boss, just like he used to. Remember what I said. In the morning, be ready early. We leave at first light.'

He walked out and left Patrick to stare at his retreating shape, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him. He would have to go along with Richard's plan and break into the factory. It was the only way.

The next morning, Patrick felt a huge weight on his chest as he stared at the huge, empty brickworks factory. Nobody worked on a Sunday as it was a day of rest. Only churches and pubs would do business today and, at a stretch, the police.

The factory keys jangled where they hung dangling from the belt loop of Patrick's trousers. He'd been careful to fasten them tight, determined that Richard wouldn't be able to steal them and use the factory for his own ends after this was over.

Patrick was disgusted by his son. He should be out earning an honest wage but instead he was conning people, even his own flesh and blood, and making a bad name for himself. Patrick was glad that nobody important knew they were associated with each other. He was embarrassed by what he'd produced.

Richard stared up at the huge orange factory walls in a different manner entirely. He was used to assessing buildings for means of an advantage over the enemy and an escape route in case of deadly danger. He didn't need Patrick to let him in with a set of keys. That was ridiculous. All he needed was a cover story and an alibi in case they were caught trespassing.

Effie led Ruth up the front path of her dad's house. The keys were lying on the grass beyond the gate. It seemed that Richard had been the one who'd shown Mary how to pick people's pockets and he must have had a lot more practice, since he'd managed to fool Patrick Cannon.

They climbed the front steps and entered the house. Effie had a quick peek in her bedroom on the way past and stopped dead. She squealed as she ran over to her bare mattress. Her diary was open beside it on the floor. How dare he invade her privacy like that?

'Are you sure you want to do this?' Ruth asked her.

Anger burned through her entire body. 'Aye. Come on.'

They rushed through the house, lining everything of value up against the walls in the hall. Richard had arranged for a man with a large cart to meet them outside in an hour. If the neighbours asked any questions, she'd tell them she was moving house. It was the truth after all.

Patrick removed the money from the safe in his office as Richard leaned over him, watching his every move. He felt trapped and he hated not being in control of the situation. He was going to face rigorous questioning by his bosses and possibly even the Earl of Minto himself and he wasn't sure if he could talk his way out of it. What would he say?

He handed the bundle of notes to Richard. 'There's hundreds of pounds there.'

'Good. Let's go then.'

'I need to close the safe.'

'Wouldn't a burglar leave it open?'

'You tell me! I'm not a burglar. What am I going to say to the owners? It wasn't broken into. The safe was opened with the combination and they'll know it was me. Or Effie.'

'You can't send the police after Effie! It's bad enough that you've abandoned us. You can't send us on our way with that hanging over our heads.'

'What else would you suggest?'

'Come with us. You can start a new life with us far away from here.'

'Don't be ridiculous. I'd be penniless.'

'So, sell the house.' They walked along the corridor and headed back towards the factory floor. 'We could get to know each other. My mum won't mind. She still likes you, deep down.'

'I don't know what to say.' Patrick couldn't think of anything worse. He was going to remarry and get himself a new house maid. 'Can I think about it?'

'You have half an hour left until we leave town. Decide quickly.' They reached the top of a steep set of stairs. Richard stopped. 'You first.'

Patrick walked down two and turned suddenly. He grabbed Richard's coat and swung him down, shoving him as hard as he could, and watched him fall to the bottom. His eyes were open and frozen like a statue.

Patrick walked out of the factory with his head held high after returning the money to the safe and hoped no one had seen him.

Ruth had made her and Effie cups of tea and they sat in the living room together. 'Should we take the radio as well?'

'No, it reminds me too much of my dad. The amount of times he told me to shut up so he could hear it was unreal. He can bloody keep it and I'll buy my own.'

'With what we've found so far, I'd say we can keep going for three months if not more.'

'Good. That will give us time to think of something else. I'm good at office work so maybe I can use my skills elsewhere.'

'We're grateful to you for helping us. It means a lot that you've become part of our family. You're a lovely girl, Effie. I wish I'd known you sooner.'

'Don't let Mary hear you talking like that. She's jealous enough as it is.'

'The cart will be here in a minute with our belongings from Hunter Street. I hope Mary packed everything properly. There wasn't much so it should have been easy. Listen, I've already had it out with her. She said if Lizzie had found out about me and Patrick having a baby together, you would never have been born further down the line and she thinks I've got a cheek for speaking to you at all. But she's hurting and we all say and do things to lash out when we feel betrayed.'

'Do you think that's why I'm emptying this house? To spite my dad?'

'I'm sure you have your reasons, Effie. And like I said, we're very grateful.'

'You think I'm stealing from the rich to give to the poor, hurting my dad in the process and getting excited by it? Well, I'm not. I'm one of you now and we're all starving. I'll do whatever I can to keep us alive and it's about time I learned to look after myself. I've worked for my dad all my life and kept silent about his behaviour. My job at the factory will be gone now that he's cut me off. I'm a different person. I won't be forced to button my lip because I'm a survivor.'

Patrick sat in his prison cell and stared at his hands. After so many years of working in a factory where men with solid hearts created Lochgelly bricks to build solid structures, air raid shelters and the like, he almost expected his hands to look worn. But Patrick had lied about his army record when he returned to work and had cosied up to the management. He'd accepted a job as a manager and barely lifted a finger.

Lizzie had done all the leg work, followed by Effie. Effie had been drafted in as his apprentice when she was only twelve years old. Every cup of tea, every letter typed, every sum worked out on paper had been her doing and not his. Those who had walked by his office thought he'd been home schooling her and nobody had known any different. They'd accepted her presence and her cups of tea with gratitude. She was a little bit of Lizzie and they were thankful for the reminder.

Effie and Ruth had cleared him out by the time he'd got home from the factory and they were nowhere to be seen. However, they must have gone looking for Richard because the police had arrested him that Sunday night for his son's murder. Effie had told the police that Richard had gone to ask him for a job at the factory and made sure everyone knew the sordid story of Richard's genetic make-up.

The last he'd heard, Effie was running the office as usual and Ruth and Mary were making cups of tea and cleaning. He supposed the factory had been theirs for the taking.

Patrick stared and stared at his hands. He was obsessed by what they'd done. It ate away at him day and night. They'd killed his son, but even before that they were evil.

They'd laid his dead wife's body on a set of tram tracks while she was still warm. She'd found out about his affair with Ruth on a night out at the pub and when he'd urged her to shut up, she wouldn't stop. She shouted louder. She hadn't even closed the front door properly behind her and the neighbours might have woken from their beds with her noise.

As her fists rained down on his head, he'd shoved her backwards and watched as she stumbled, grabbed at the fresh air and landed at the bottom of their garden steps with her head facing the wrong way. He'd done what was necessary to keep himself out of jail. Until now.

The End

Stacy Margaret Allan is a self-published crime author. She lives in Lochgelly in Scotland with her fiancé and their two children. Her first novel, Sorrow Dreams, is based in a town she invented near her local loch and explores issues such as family trauma, alcoholism, drug addiction and prostitution. Stacy is studying for a degree in Criminology and Sociology with the Open University. She enjoys walking on the beach, visiting parks and spending time with her family. She aims to release two more books, a prequel and a sequel to Sorrow Dreams, before she begins her next series.

