Masthead: Best New England Crime Stories

By Level Best Books

MASTHEAD is the eighteenth Best New England Crime Stories Anthology, which once again brings together the best short crime fiction stories with a New England theme. Included are stories from seasoned authors and brand new voices in the genre, with stories as varied and unique as the region they represent. Included in this collection is the Al Bl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953789198

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The Dames of Detection

MASTHEAD

Best New England Crime Stories 2020

First published by Level Best Books 2020

Copyright © 2020 by The Dames of Detection

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Black Sheep © 2020 by Shannon Brady

Foresight and Hindsight © 2020 by Marlin Bressi

How to Get Bloodstains Out Of Leather Pants © 2020 by Chris Chan

Gray Lady Noir © 2020 by R. M. Chastleton

Eat Your Veggies © 2020 by John Clark

Breakthrough © 2020 by Bruce Robert Coffin

Vindication © 2020 by Sharon Love Cook

His Brother’s Keeper © 2020 by Tina deBellegarde

The Coldest Cove © 2020 by Brendan DuBois

Shark Attack © 2020 by Patricia Dusenbury

The Wonderworker © 2020 by Mary Dutta

Ticked Off © 2020 by Gerald Elias

A Business Dinner © 2020 by John Floyd

Forensic Magic © 2020 by Debra H. Goldstein

Breaking In © 2020 by Judith Green

The Executors © 2020 by Maurissa Guibord

Black Market Baby © 2020 by Margaret S. Hamilton

Killer Bees © 2020 by Steve Liskow

Blood Feud © 2020 by Michael Allan Mallory

The Halloween Man © 2020 by Jason Marchi

Pizza 911 © 2020 by Ruth M. McCarty

The Caretaker © 2020 by Adam Meyer

Caldwell Blood © 2020 by Jennifer Moore

Magically Misunderstood © 2020 by Lorraine Sharma Nelson

The Haunting of Linonia And Brothers © 2020 by Erica Obey

Other Arrangements © 2020 by Alan Orloff

In Walked Trouble © 2020 by Olive Pollak

Risking It All © 2020 by Tonya D. Price

Sudden Death Overtime © 2020 by Michele Bazan Reed

Be Not Afraid © 2020 by Pat Remick

Death of A Mill Girl © 2020 by Harriette Sackler

Undercover © 2020 by Lida Sideris

The Inside Job © 2020 by Clea Simon

Lara Comes Alive © 2020 by M. J. Soni

Blue Glass © 2020 by Cathi Stoler

When Your Number’s Up © 2020 by Anne-Marie Sutton

Just A Little Before Winter’s Set In © 2020 by Larry Tyler

The Lobster Trap © 2020 by Bev Vincent

The Maine Attraction © 2020 by Cathy Wiley

Editing by Shawn Reilly Simmons

Editing by Verena Rose

Editing by Harriette Sackler

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-953789-19-8

Cover art by Level Best Designs

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE AL BLANCHARD AWARD

I. CONNECTICUT

KILLER BEES

THE HALLOWEEN MAN

THE HAUNTING OF LINONIA AND BROTHERS

LARA COMES ALIVE

WHEN YOUR NUMBER’S UP

II. MAINE

EAT YOUR VEGGIES

BREAKTHROUGH

BREAKING IN

THE EXECUTORS

MAGICALLY MISUNDERSTOOD

IN WALKED TROUBLE

BE NOT AFRAID

JUST A LITTLE BEFORE WINTER’S SET IN

THE MAINE ATTRACTION

III. MASSACHUSETTS

HOW TO GET BLOODSTAINS OUT OF LEATHER PANTS

GRAY LADY NOIR

VINDICATION

HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER

SHARK ATTACK

THE WONDERWORKER

TICKED OFF

A BUSINESS DINNER

BLACK MARKET BABY

PIZZA 911

OTHER ARRANGEMENTS

RISKING IT ALL

SUDDEN DEATH OVERTIME

DEATH OF A MILL GIRL

UNDERCOVER

THE INSIDE JOB

BLUE GLASS

THE LOBSTER TRAP

IV. NEW HAMPSHIRE

BLACK SHEEP

THE COLDEST COVE

V. RHODE ISLAND

FORESIGHT AND HINDSIGHT

FORENSIC MAGIC

BLOOD FEUD

THE CARETAKER

CALDWELL BLOOD

VI. VERMONT

THE RED HERRINGS AT KILLINGTON INN

Also by The Dames of Detection

INTRODUCTION

In our sixth year as the editors of the Best New England Crime Stories, we are pleased to present MASTHEAD: The Best New England Crime Stories 2020. We are continuing our tradition of arranging the stories by state—a trip through New England starting with Connecticut, then continuing on to Massachusetts, Maine, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Vermont.

This year we’ve decided to do something a little different. While we’ll be going through the states and stories in sequence, we’re only going to give you a few key words for each story. Just enough to spark your interest. And so we begin:

CONNECTICUT –

KILLER BEES by Steve Liskow – watch out for the sting.

THE HALLOWEEN MAN by Jason J. Marchi – beware of pumpkin head.

THE HAUNTING OF LINONIA AND BROTHERS by Erica Obey – Mr. Doyle is on the case.

LARA COMES ALIVE by M. J. Soni – never underestimate a woman.

WHEN YOUR NUMBER’S UP by Anne-Marie Sutton – drumming up votes for your

candidate.

MAINE –

LOVE YOUR VEGGIES by John Clark – there’s no reasoning with a rogue cop.

BREAKTHROUGH by Bruce Robert Coffin – a novel way to cure writer’s block.

BREAKING IN by Judith Green – when is a crime better unreported?

THE EXECUTORS by Maurissa Guibord – who can forget the lime Jell-O?

MAGICALLY MISUNDERSTOOD by Lorraine Sharma Nelson – juggling two magicians can be murder.

IN WALKED TROUBLE by Olive Pollak – don’t steal from the lobstermen.

BE NOT AFRAID by Pat Remick – don’t get the Ferragamos wet!

JUST A LITTLE BEFORE WINTER’S SET IN by Larry Tyler – the costly help of a stranger.

THE MAIN ATTRACTION by Cathy Wiley – good food, good travel, and murder.

MASSACHUSETTS –

HOW TO GET BLOODSTAINS OUT OF LEATHER PANTS by Chris Chan – they’re teaching Buffy in college now.

GRAY LADY NOIR by R. M. Chastleton - Who said working at a Nantucket hotel reception desk wouldn’t lead to a successful career?

VINDICATION by Sharon Love Cook – did his eyes deceive him?

HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER by Tina deBellegarde – foolproof schemes never are.

SHARK ATTACK by Patricia Dusenbury – don’t scare the twins!

THE WONDERWORKER by Mary Dutta – the ruthless world of college admissions.

TICKED OFF by Gerald Elias – the high cost of healthcare.

A BUSINESS DINNER by John M. Floyd – never trust a blind assistant.

BLACK MARKET BABY by Margaret S. Hamilton – is stolen sugar just as sweet?

PIZZA 911 by Ruth M. McCarty – that’s code for HELP!

OTHER ARRANGEMENTS by Alan Orloff – prenups can be murder.

RISKING IT ALL by Tonya D. Price – it’s never wrong to do what’s right.

SUDDEN DEATH OVERTIME by Michele Bazan Reed – beware of the pretzel!

DEATH OF A MILL GIRL by Harriette Sackler – worker safety of the past.

UNDERCOVER by Lida Sideris – an old trunk and its secrets.

THE INSIDE JOB by Clea Simon – a recluse solves the crime.

BLUE GLASS by Cathi Stoler – a message from beyond.

THE LOBSTER TRAP by Bev Vincent – can’t give that lobster away.

NEW HAMPSHIRE –

BLACK SHEEP by Shannon Brady – what happens if you can’t pass the test?

THE COLDEST COVE by Brendan DuBois – there can be only one.

RHODE ISLAND –

FORESIGHT AND HINDSIGHT by Marlin Bressi – the correct name was on the will.

FORENSIC MAGIC by Debra H. Goldstein – you’re never too young to solve a crime.

BLOOD FEUD by Michael Allan Mallory – plagiarism can be deadly.

THE CARETAKER by Adam Meyer – children never forget.

CALDWELL BLOOD by Jen Collins Moore – there’s nothing more deadly than family.

VERMONT –

THE RED HERRINGS AT KILLINGTON INN by Shawn Reilly Simmons – never underestimate a group of amateur sleuths. Not when they call themselves the Red Herrings.

Again, this year’s harvest of stories exceeds all expectations. We think they are exceptional and think you will too. ENJOY!

The Editors at Level Best Books

Dames of Detection, Inc.

Verena Rose

Harriette Sackler

Shawn Reilly Simmons

THE AL BLANCHARD AWARD

Al Blanchard was one of the original organizers of the New England Crime Bake conference, a president of Mystery Writers of America, New England Chapter, and a member of Sisters in Crime. He was known for encouraging new authors, for being a dedicated writer and mentor, and for being a fan of all things mystery. New England Crime Bake, the popular regional gathering of mystery writers he and a few others conceived of all those years ago, is still going strong. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, a virtual conference was held this year.

After Al Blanchard’s tragic death in 2004, the Crime Bake Committee established The Al Blanchard Award in his memory to honor the best short crime story either by a New England author or with a New England setting. Stories are judged by a committee and the winner is included in the Best New England Crime Stories anthology, published by Level Best Books.

We are pleased to once again bring you a variety of crime stories featuring New England authors and settings. Congratulations to Mary Dutta for winning this year’s award with her short story The Wonderworker.

Verena Rose

Harriette Sackler

Shawn Reilly Simmons

Editors & Co-Publishers

The Dames of Detection

Level Best Books

I

CONNECTICUT

KILLER BEES

By Steve Liskow

Rick Somers finished hooking up the new propane tank to the grill and watched the man with the cell phone kneel by the wicker chair on the deck next door. The guy wore a tie and dress slacks even though the temperature soared above ninety and the mid-morning humidity off Higgins Lake made it feel over a hundred. Without the white fedora to ward off the sun, he’d probably keel over. Rick’s neighbor emerged from the back door with two glasses, and Mr. Fedora stood. He closed the cell phone and exchanged it for one glass before both men disappeared back into the house.

Daddy, what’s a wandering eye?

Rick started. Ten-year-old Melanie, his for two weeks, frowned at him. Is it like lazy eye, like Jamal had until he got glasses?

Um, not exactly. Why? Rick’s neighbor returned with the newspaper and sat in that same wicker chair in a T-shirt and cut-offs. His overdressed visitor must have left.

Mommy says you’ve got it.

Louise could never let something alone. Three years after the divorce, she still accused him of chasing skirts. It means…you notice things. Like you’re always alert.

Do I have a wandering eye? Melanie’s newly straight teeth resembled sugar cubes when she smiled. He’d mentioned it when he picked her up, and she smiled even more broadly. Happily, she looked more like him than like Louise.

Um, I’d never really thought about it.

I bet I do. Mommy always tells me I’m like you. The neighbor started suddenly in his chair and grabbed at his calf. Then he put down his newspaper and limped back into the house.

She says it like she thinks it’s bad.

Do you think it is?

Uh-uh. When Melanie shook her head, Rick noticed that the sun was bleaching her brown curls to the color of honey. When I grow up, I want to be a science professor like you. So, I should pay attention to stuff, shouldn’t I?

You don’t want to be a CEO like your mom?

I want to be outside on days like this, not sitting behind some stupid old desk. Melanie looked across the path and toward the lake. It’s been an hour since we ate. Can we go swimming?

He looked at his watch. Make sure you put on lots of sun block though, or your mom’ll yell at us both.

The afternoons were packed, but late morning they could have the beach almost to themselves and discuss Melanie’s tennis lessons and Louise’s promotions. A half-dozen other bathers read or dozed on towels while Melanie dug through the soggy sand for shells and let the gentle waves bury her feet. Rick walked as though he still had to shield his daughter from the ripples even though she swam like a porpoise. Whenever she came out of the water, he was vaguely surprised to see that she had feet instead of fins.

Mommy’s got another boyfriend. Melanie’s voice held the disdain only a ten-year-old can muster.

Sounds like you don’t like him, Rick said.

Uh-uh. He’s dorky. He calls Mommy ‘Weezy.’ Melanie stuck out her tongue and jabbed her finger down her throat. He always does what she tells him, like a puppy or something. I keep waiting for her to smack him with a newspaper.

Melanie still wanted a dog, and Louise still refused.

He’s probably very nice, Rick said. Melanie made a gagging sound.

They spread out on the towels and she pushed her curls off her forehead. Daddy, how come you don’t have a girlfriend?

I guess I don’t feel like settling down again, honey. The sun on his back made him feel like bacon in a pan.

Neither does Mommy, but she has lots of boyfriends. She says she’s just… Melanie screwed up her face. Exploring her opinions?

Options? Trust Louise to make romance sound like a business arrangement.

Yeah. What’s an option?

A choice. You know, like one option is having a hamburger for lunch, and another one is having a chocolate milkshake.

Or pizza?

Right.

So how come you don’t explore your options, too? Melanie looked around the beach. Like her. That lady over there.

She pointed at Dana walking back toward the cabins. Her long T-shirt clung to the tanned circles dancing on either side of a thin red line.

Do you think she’s pretty?

I hadn’t really noticed. Melanie’s eyes narrowed like when he tried to tell her about Santa Claus again last year, forgetting that she was ten. Well, I guess she is. Yes.

Is she nice?

I’ve only talked to her a couple of times, he said. But she seems to be. She’s living next door.

He had answered the ad for a superintendent/maintenance man at these cottages, the attraction being the use of the smallest cabin a mere hundred yards from Higgins Lake. The place had a decent kitchen and a small grill in the back yard, so he’d talked Louise into letting Melanie stay with him for two weeks. It didn’t take much effort. He had little real work except an occasional plugged sink or backed-up toilet. Groceries lay an easy four miles away. It would be perfect if Dana were staying with him instead of with Ron next door.

The suntan lotion on his back felt like it was beginning to bubble.

We’d better take a break and check the answering machine, he said. Would you like a pizza tonight?

With lots of olives?

Louise hated olives and loved anchovies. That should have been a sign, years earlier.

Sure.

They were only fifty feet from their cabin when Dana burst through the door and saw them, her blue eyes round as dinner plates.

It’s Ron, she screamed. I think he’s having a heart attack.

Rick dropped the towels and dashed across the sand. What’s—?

In the kitchen, he’s not breathing. I called 911, but he’s turning blue.

She held the door and Rick slid by her, vaguely registering the throw rug on the split plank floor as he passed through the sparsely furnished living room and into the kitchen. Sure enough, Ron sprawled next to the sink. His eyes stared through Rick from a contorted face the color of an old work shirt. Rick pried his lips open and felt Dana and Melanie behind him.

Mel, do you remember how to do the breathing?

They started CPR, but when two EMTs took over from them eight minutes later, they couldn’t find a pulse either. Dana leaned against the refrigerator, her face shiny with tears.

Ma’am, why don’t we go into the other room. Marv Kerns, the local state trooper, took the young woman firmly by the arm. Rick, why don’t you and the young lady join us.

Rick found a glass in the cupboard, but before he could run water in the sink, he saw the syringe lying next to the drain board. A tiny bead shimmered at the end.

In the living room, Marv listened carefully to Dana, repeating that she’d left Ron reading the paper when she went for a swim.

What time was that Ms.…?

Vrbova. Dana Vrbova. Um, a little after nine, I guess.

Marv asked her to spell her name and wrote it down. And he was all right when you left him?

Uh-huh.

Rick caught Marv’s eye. We saw him reading on the deck just before we went down to swim, and he looked okay.

Dana Vrbova bit her lip. I found him as soon as I came back.

And that was…?

She only left a couple of minutes before Mel and me, Rick said. We were right across the path when she came out the front door.

I called 911, the woman continued. Ron’s cell was there on the counter. Then I saw these two and told them he wasn’t breathing. They started CPR and kept it up until the ambulance got here. Is he…?

Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid he is. Did he have heart trouble, or any other health issues?

I don’t know. We only met a couple of months ago.

Marv? Rick interrupted. There’s a syringe by the sink. I don’t know what was in it, but it’s empty now. I didn’t touch it.

Thanks. I’ll take it in a few minutes. Um, Ms. Vrbova, I hafta ask what your relationship is with Mr. Towers if you only met a couple of months ago.

The woman’s throat moved. He’s getting a divorce. When Marv cleared his own throat delicately, she frowned, which made her look almost eighteen. No, really, it’s in process. It’s not something he told me just to get me into the sack. She glanced at Melanie, then Rick, and her face turned the color of her bikini beneath her tee. Sorry.

It’s okay, Melanie told her. My mom shipped me up here with Daddy so she could fool around with her boyfriend. A wrecking ball slammed into Rick’s chest.

Dana’s lips pursed at Mel. That must really suck for you.

I like Daddy better anyway, Melanie said. Rick had to look out the window.

Do you know anything about the divorce situation, Ms. Vrbova? Marv asked.

I know there’s a pre-nup. Ron’s wife inherits unless he re-marries.

How much money are we talking about here? Marv asked.

I don’t know. I guess enough to make it worth fighting about. He didn’t come swimming because he was expecting a call from his lawyer.

Are you seeing anyone else? Or is Mr. Towers an exclusive friend?

When she realized what Marv was asking, Dana blushed again. I broke up with someone about a month before I met Ron. I like him, but I don’t know if we would have ever… Her face made Rick think of a venetian blind with a string breaking.

The EMTs rolled a gurney through the living room and out the door; the young woman’s fingers went to her mouth.

Can I go with them?

Sure, Marv said. He glanced at Rick and Melanie. Why don’t the two of you stay with me for a few minutes, then I’ll follow along.

They waited until Dana stepped into shorts and sandals, then Rick led Marv to the sink.

Marv took a wide berth around where the body had lain and looked down.

Diphenhydramine, he read one syllable at a time. Mean anything to you?

Allergic to bee stings. Rick taught chemistry at Wayne State, part of the pharmacy degree. Two water glasses stood in the sink, too, and neither man touched them.

Oh, Melanie piped up. Dad, remember he jumped up in the chair, then grabbed his leg like he’d been stung? Just before we left?

That’s right, Rick agreed. I forgot about that.

You’re pretty observant, Marv said.

Yeah, Melanie agreed. Mommy says I’ve got a wandering eye like Dad.

Marv avoided making eye contact with Rick. Can you show me?

On the deck, Rick watched Marv lie flat and realized that the man with a good fifteen years on him could probably do 100 push-ups without breaking a sweat. Hm, what’s this?

Marv pointed at a sewing needle taped to the leg of the wicker chair. The tip had a dark stain.

You should probably look at Ron’s left leg, Rick said. He remembered the man in the fedora using the cell phone on the deck.

You should probably check Ron’s cell phone, too.

* * *

Dana Vrbova huddled on the bench and watched Rick turn the filets on the grill. Her face was nearly as pale as her faded khaki shorts, and her blue eyes looked like bull’s-eyes in red circles from crying. Her cotton candy pink toenails enchanted Melanie.

You don’t have to do this, she said. But thank you.

You have to eat, Rick told her. Marv’s like a pit bull when he thinks he’s on to something.

I didn’t kill him, Dana murmured. The sunset made the horizon blaze, and Melanie lit citronella candles at both ends of the deck.

I know you didn’t, Rick told her. He led her to the table with the garden salad. Plates and bottles of salad dressing held down the paper tablecloth against the breeze off the lake.

Why did you and your ex-boyfriend break up? I’m betting it was your idea, not his.

Dana’s eyes narrowed as if someone pulled a drawstring. Why?

Guys don’t dump women like you unless they have a three-movie deal or brain damage.

Dana studied the dressings and settled on balsamic vinaigrette. She poured it over her lettuce so carefully that Rick almost offered her a measuring spoon.

He wanted to know where I was every second, she said finally. Who I saw, why I took so long, even at work. It was making me crazy. Then I began to realize he didn’t have any good points that balanced that sh—stuff. She glanced at Melanie.

You were together how long?

Six or seven months. She moved a cucumber slice around with her fork. Long enough for him to forget my birthday and kick my dog once.

You’ve got a dog? Melanie asked. What kind?

A beagle. His name’s Baxter. Dana looked at the ten-year-old with the straight white teeth, her own teeth only slightly less perfect. Do you like dogs?

Yeah, but my mom won’t let me have one. Melanie managed to make mom sound like a bad word.

Are you allergic?

Uh-uh.

Dana played with her salad again. You’re how old, ten, eleven?

I’m gonna be eleven before school starts.

A fiery rim light outlined the woman from her blonde hair and white shirt, down her khaki shorts and slim legs, to her Birkenstocks. Rick took a deep breath.

Dana, what’s your ex-boyfriend’s name?

She swallowed a cherry tomato. Brian, she said. Brian Maddox. Why?

Does he like to wear a white fedora?

When Dana nodded, Rick opened his cell phone.

* * *

The grill still gave off a faint glow, just enough so Rick recognized Marv when he appeared around the corner of the cottage three hours later. Melanie curled between her father and Dana in the sweater that the woman had produced when the breeze picked up from off the lake.

Hoped you’d still be up. Marv found the beer in the cooler near the grill.

I take it you’re off-duty? Rick asked. He didn’t want to move from the huddle on the bench, even though he knew it would be polite.

Oh, yeah. Booked them both, and they’re singing like Steve and Edie.

Who? Dana and Melanie demanded.

Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé, Marv said. Before your time. He sank to the wicker chair where Ron had been fatally wounded, downed half the can, then nodded at Rick.

You were right. He could have used a dozen syringes and it wouldn’t have helped. But the guy didn’t notice you over here. They didn’t expect anyone to see.

See what? Dana asked. Her voice sounded like taffy. Melanie burrowed into her side.

Your ex-boyfriend, tape the needle with wasp venom to the chair leg, Rick said. Ron scratched his leg and thought he’d been stung. Mel and I saw him go into the house. But his dear soon-to-be ex-wife switched his antidote for water.

When? Dana asked. And how did she even know about Brian?

Three weeks ago, Marv said. She went over to your…Ron’s place to argue about the support checks. She found your name and number on his cell phone and hired a PI to find your last boyfriend. She offered him a cut of three million dollars.

We didn’t even talk about getting married, Dana said softly. We were still getting to know each other.

Beatrice couldn’t afford to take the chance, Marv said. If he re-married, the pre-nup said she didn’t get a cent.

What if they retract the confessions? Rick asked.

Marv finished his beer. We’ve got Brian’s fingerprints on the glasses. And on the tape he used to fasten the needle to the chair. His phone message to Beatrice is on Ron’s cell, too. He told Ron he was lost, and his own cell had died, so he came in and asked to borrow a phone. When Ron got him a drink, he only needed a few seconds to rig the chair.

Money makes people do nasty things, doesn’t it? Rick watched Dana curl her arm around his napping daughter. During the evening, she’d told Mel that she’d been a physical therapist for six years—which made her ten years older than she looked and three years younger than Rick. And she had a dog.

Mel? You ready to go to bed?

Okay. His daughter’s voice was fuzzy. She sat up slowly and looked at Dana. Was I getting heavy?

Uh-uh, Dana told her. No problem.

Rick watched the woman hold Melanie’s hand while she stood and wondered what he could say that wouldn’t sound stupid.

Hey, Mel? Dana’s eyes were on him, not on his daughter. Why don’t I scoot home tomorrow and bring up Baxter so you can meet him?

Rick felt himself growing warm.

That is, Dana continued. If it’s okay with your dad.

* * *

Steve Liskow (www.steveliskow.com) has published 15 novels, and his stories appear in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Mystery Weekly and previous Level Best collections. He has won the Black Orchid Novella Award twice, Honorable Mention for the Al Blanchard Award four times, and been a finalist for both the Edgar and the Shamus.

THE HALLOWEEN MAN

By Jason J. Marchi

Alate October wind whistled in the eves, rattled the attic vents, and settled on a second-floor windowsill of 11 South St. James Street. The windowsill belonged to one Therlin Monroe, age twelve, who looked out the window now at the long shadows on the wet morning lawn below and felt an early frost in his spine.

A single shadow on the lawn moved, and attached to its heels was Sam Morato, Therlin’s friend since the first grade.

Time to build the straw man! Sam called up to Therlin.

Coming right down, Therlin said, then ran down to greet his friend at the front door.

What’s first? Sam asked.

His clothes! Therlin said. A worn pair of his stepfather’s dark green work pants would be perfect. Howard had so many pairs he’d never miss one.

Next? An old flannel shirt from the Goodwill bag his mother kept in the laundry room.

More? Yes, an oily pair of gloves from the back of a drawer in the garage workbench.

White, no black socks right from Howard’s dresser drawer—he’d never miss those either—and to go with them a pair of beat-up work boots, the pair with a hole starting in the toe of the right boot. His mother hadn’t bothered to throw those out yet.

What else? Sam asked.

Straw from Mrs. Davis’ barn, of course. No straw, no straw man, Therlin answered.

In the past it had been known as just the Davis Barn, but that was when Mr. Davis was still living.

It was October when he died, right? Sam remembered, and Therlin’s blue eyes widened for a second like round ice cubes, then narrowed to horizontal icicles.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew the story. Mr. Davis had come home from his daily walk, told his wife he felt tired, sat down in his favorite armchair and never got up again. His lungs lost the humid summer, his eyelids filled with autumn’s quick darkness, and his heart stopped to winter’s chill; the process of death had completed itself.

But that was five years ago. Now Mrs. Davis was the kindly widow who loved the neighborhood children and gave those who came to her door stalks of ripe rhubarb to chew or fresh apples—even when it was not Halloween night—and told stories about the old days on the farm. That farm had been sold to developers and divided to become the neighborhood Therlin and Sam now lived in. And every October, Mrs. Davis let Therlin take straw from the barn so he could make his doorstep dead man, which had long been a tradition on his mother’s side of the family.

Now we have to build his body, Therlin went on.

The boys carefully assembled the straw man blending all the ingredients, and when the body was fat on straw and his shirttails tucked in, they wrestled him into position on the front steps.

What about a head? Sam said. He isn’t solid ‘til he’s got a head.

The dead October grass flattened under their soles. Dogs’ ears pricked and cats’ eyes shifted under shrubbery as they followed the two twelve-year-old sprinters. The boys ran to the end of their own neighborhood, then straight through the middle of two others without stopping until they reached Fonicello’s pumpkin field.

There the boys stood, contemplating the patch of field hemmed in by trees that scattered down their sun-colored leaves in the cool wind.

Really think we oughtta take one? Sam asked.

Who’ll ever know?

But…

It’s only one pumpkin.

Here, Sam pointed. This one.

Therlin reached for the pumpkin, pulled it free of its vine, and carried it home as fast as he could. Out behind the garage, the boys knelt down before the pumpkin. Therlin’s hand held a gleaming knife which he thrusted through the skin of the orange globe and began carving.

You have to cut the top off first to get at the guts, Sam instructed.

I know how to do it, Sam. Don’t be a back-seat driver.

Just checkin’. I’ve never seen you make a jack-o’-lantern before. Your mom’s always made them.

Well, now it’s my job, Therlin said, and he proceeded to scalp the pumpkin, holding the lid up by the stem like a tail of hair.

It wasn’t long before Sam was saying, Lookin’ good, Therl, as the disemboweled pumpkin was straight-lipping them with jagged teeth and star-shaped eyes. "Pretty scary. He isn’t smiling. He almost looks mad. Your mom taught you that?"

Therlin nodded. And my Grandma taught her. And I’ve been thinkin’ about his face all summer. He looks like…how I feel.

Huh?

"I mean it’s how I feel a jack-o’-lantern should look. It’s supposed to look like somebody who’s dead, isn’t it? Dead men don’t smile, do they?"

I don’t suppose so. Well, yours looks pretty dead to me. Let’s put it on the body.

The boys stood back for a better look. The new doorstep squatter looked like a street bum sitting up against the house.

What’ll we call him? Sam asked.

I don’t know. We’ve never named our Halloween straw men before.

How about Mr. Davis? Name him after a real dead man!

"How about just Davis?"

Sam agreed.

He’s drunk, said Therlin suddenly, and he stood over the pumpkin-headed Halloween man feeling very big for once.

Who’s drunk? Davis?

Yeah. Look at the bum. He’s drunk out of his mind. Drunk on Mr. Nolan’s Concord grape wine and he’s passed out on my mom’s doorstep.

Sam looked at the straw-filled Halloween man, then at Therlin. The usual summer blue in Therlin’s eyes had turned to ice.

Come on, Therl. We gotta figure out what we’re gonna be for Halloween.

* * *

A gorilla, Sam said, looking at the costumes in Doctor Dungeon’s Halloween Horror Shop.

Perfect, Sam. Your mother’s a monkey.

Sam shoved his friend, smiling.

A pirate.

Therlin shook his head. Dumb.

A skeleton.

Come on, Sam, are you really almost thirteen or are you just a Guinness Book four-year-old?

Sometimes you’re a jerk, Therlin. What’s eatin’ you?

Nothin’.

"So, what are you gonna be?"

I don’t know yet, Therlin said.

We only have three more days to figure it out.

* * *

But what to be for Halloween was not the major concern on Therlin Monroe’s twelve‑going‑on‑thirty‑five-year-old mind. No, he had much bigger concerns. And one of them would be coming home from work, late as usual, and as unpredictable as an autumn storm.

The white tornado arrived a little after seven that night. Therlin watched him from his bedroom window. Howard’s bald head approached in the porch light below like the moon falling out of the sky. A crash sounded on the front porch, and Therlin’s stepfather picked himself up off the flagstone steps. For a moment Howard hesitated as he looked toward the silent Halloween man sitting there on the front porch stoop like some hobo just off a train.

"What the hell is this? Therlin could hear Howard’s voice from below. Who put this jerk thing here?"

The front door slammed and Therlin’s heart jumped.

Doris! Howard shouted downstairs. Who put that damned-fool straw man out on the porch? I almost fell over it and broke my neck!

Therlin was now at the top of the stairs and he heard his mother’s soft voice trying to calm Howard. You know it’s Halloween. Your son made his Halloween man like he does every year.

"He’s your son, Doris."

Don’t. He’ll hear you.

I don’t give a rat’s ass if he hears me.

Please, Howard. Not at dinnertime. Please don’t start at dinnertime.

The downstairs fell silent then except for the gentle clinks and claps of pots and dishes. Then Therlin heard footsteps in the downstairs hall.

Therlin! his mother called up. Come down to dinner, honey.

But Therlin hesitated, standing there silently.

Therlin! Did you hear me? It’s time for dinner!

Still, he did not respond.

At the bottom of the stairs his mother’s legs were replaced by those of Howard.

"Therly, oh Therly, Howard called in the mock-girlish voice he often used to tease the boy. Then his voice abruptly changed, grew deep and guttural. Get your ass down here before I come up there and whip it ‘til it’s good and bloody!"

Something did not feel right. Therlin waited another full minute, then started slowly down the stairs. He stopped halfway when he heard Howard’s begin to shout again. "Goddamit, Doris, I told you to keep your son and his friends off the dining room rug!"

Therlin froze like he always did when Howard began shouting, and something inside him sank like a stone falling into a deep well. "What the hell is the matter with you? I paid a fortune for a new rug and you let the kid walk on it!" Therlin could barely hear his mother’s weak-voiced apologies between Howard’s bellowing. She desperately tried to calm Howard, as she did every time.

How about I ruin your mother’s good dishes? The irrational voice roared again, and the sound of shattering china weakened Therlin’s legs as he collapsed on the stairs. A dish for every footprint! Does that make you happy? Another smashed dish echoed in Therlin’s brain, and a quiet anger registered that echo.

* * *

After Therlin and his mother were able to swallow what little dinner they could at a silent table, Howard planted himself in front of the television, Doris went to a neighbor’s for the evening, and Therlin stayed in his room until eleven o’clock. By that time hunger had returned, and he went to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. When he walked back into the front hall, he caught a glimpse of Howard sitting in front of the television. Therlin put his head down and started for the stairs.

Where you going, boy? Howard called.

Back upstairs. His heart skipped when he said it.

What’s the big attraction upstairs? A girlfriend stashed away?

No, he said, and began to tremble. It was the old series of questions, drunken questions, questions that if not answered would bring rage.

Then why aren’t you going out? Huh? The man spasmed on the couch with the huh, coughing out the one ugly sound.

I’m…I’m going out…tomorrow night, with Sam.

What’s tomorrow night?

Halloween.

Therlin stood in the doorway now, one hand holding onto the doorjamb, the other hanging at his side. It almost felt like his free hand was going to sleep, all numb and weak.

"You’re going out on Halloween but you’re not going out on Mischief Night?"

Yeah, I guess. Therlin shrugged.

"Any boy worth his salt goes out on Mischief Night, on Devil’s Night, on Cabbage Night—whatever the hell you kids call it today—to raise hell."

Howard rotated his head, narrowed his eyes, looked at Therlin in the dark doorway and said, "Are you a girl, Therl?" He laughed, a short, drunken gurgle.

Therlin didn’t answer, just stood there, the numbness somehow spreading from his arm to his chest.

Black cat got your tongue, boy? Another loud laugh.

Still Therlin stood silent.

"You’re not gonna go out and ring doorbells, soap windows, spread toilet paper … and … smash pumpkins? What, there’s no devil in sweet little Therlin. Oh, Therlin won’t walk on the new rug. Oops—Therlin did walk on the new rug. Oh, Therlin didn’t mean to walk on the new rug, and Therlin didn’t mean to get dirty footprints everywhere, and Therlin can’t help it if he’s as stupid and pathetic as his screwy mother!"

The intoxicated man lurched out of his seat and Therlin backed-stepped into the front hall. Howard passed Therlin without touching him, still smelling like the outdoors where he worked. He smelled, Therlin knew all too well, like fermented apples, sour grapes, a hint of dry leaves and perhaps even straw.

Therlin followed him to the front door. Howard opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Inebriated, he stood there, swaying back and forth in the tide of midnight breeze.

"Hey buddy, is that my shirt? he barked in the darkness, and reached down to feign a poke at the Halloween man’s arm. And those my pants?" he said, kicking the Halloween man’s leg. Suddenly Howard nearly lost his balance, as if the wind had closed a hand around him like a puppeteer, pulling him this way and that. It was as if, Therlin thought, his stepfather were all straw and stuffing himself now. The man in him—if there ever was one—having been carved out and replaced long ago.

Trying to trip me, straw man? Howard said angrily. He tried to stand straight, then hunched forward again.

"My shoes! And look, what a real smart straw man this must be sleeping on my doorstep—with a jack-o’-lantern for a head! What do you think about all day, Mr. Pumpkinhead? Pumpkin pie? Pumpkin bread? Pumpkin seeds? Or are you just like my stepson Therlin, thinking about sissy things like carving pumpkins into jack-o’-lanterns instead of smashing ‘em?"

And with that, the drunken man yanked the flame-faced pumpkin from the straw man’s body, raised it over his head, and slammed it down on the flagstone walk. The wet thud extinguished the candle fire and the dark pieces lay like potshards—the orbit of a star-shaped eye socket here, the corner of a toothy mouth there. "That’ll teach a bum to sleep on my doorstep!"

Howard plunged into the house, shoved Therlin hard against the wall, then lumbered up the staircase. Therlin, breathing hard and fighting back tears, ran out the door. As he raced past, the straw-stuffed torso fluttered eerily, and dry leaves clutched at the remnants of the smashed jack-o’-lantern while the boy disappeared into the night.

* * *

All across town, the night wind screamed in skeleton trees, and the laughter of boys rose in the night. They were ringing doorbells, soaping windows, draping toilet paper, spraying cars with shaving cream, and exploding firecrackers into mailboxes.

And here too, on this side of town, lay the dark field of Fonicello’s pumpkins. These were the remainders that had not been harvested, but were left to rot. Therlin searched in the dark, feeling the firm gourds until he found one that had just the right shape, one big enough but that he could carry on his own.

Back home, behind the garage, in the slim illumination of a flashlight resting in the wet grass, a silver knife flashed like a smile in the dark, carving a new face. With each plunge of the blade, Therlin gritted his teeth and cursed. Again and again he cursed Howard’s name, fighting back tears. When done, he set the jack-o’-lantern in the bushes behind the garage, walked around, and slowly came up the front walk. The front porch light was burning yellow like a dim winter sun.

The straw man was still there, whole but headless.

Before going in, Therlin gathered up all the pumpkin shards from the flagstone walk—along with the wet guts from the new pumpkinhead—and scattered them on each of the four wood porch steps.

Once inside the house Therlin looked out at the lighted sidewalk, and snapped the small porch sun off, and closed the door.

Howard was in his chair watching a ballgame in the company of his beer.

Upstairs, the master bedroom was empty, for his mother was still out.

Therlin grabbed his prized Louisville Slugger All-Star bat and shoved a baseball into his coat pocket. He then crept down to the front door. Howard was still watching the game. The blue light from the television flickered over the floor and walls of the darkened front hall.

Therlin went out.

The sound of voices rose up out of the dark—laughs and howls and witches’ cackles. It was the mischief-night boys—coming right up this very street—to randomly pick the finest victims to receive their Halloween hazing.

After loosening the cooled porch bulb from its socket, Therlin hid in the bushes.

But the boys passed right by Therlin’s house, leaving it untouched. He had expected them to ring the bell and draw Howard out. Now Therlin did some quick thinking while the poltergeist boys continued to agitate nearby. Therlin ran up the darkened front steps, remembering just where to step around the slimy pumpkin entrails, and rang the doorbell.

The bushes shook as he fell back into their prickly grip.

No one came.

He jumped out and rang the bell again, pausing with his ear to the door.

The man inside cursed. What sounded like a small table crashed over and empty beer cans scattered on the wood floor.

Back in the bushes again, Therlin’s hands scrambled over the ground until they found a large stone. He hefted the stone a few times, then froze.

The front door pulled stiffly open and Howard stood silhouetted in the doorway. "Knock it off you little bastards or I’ll come out there an’ kick all your asses!"

Howard stepped back inside, half his body showing in the doorway. Therlin could hear him swear repeatedly as he tried the switch several times, but the front light would not come on.

The door slammed shut.

Therlin popped up, pulled the stone back over this shoulder, and catapulted it through a side transom window. He then ran to the edge of the road and stood facing the house.

The door pulled open again.

I’m out here, mister! Come and get me! Therlin called.

You little bastard, Howard yelled, and stepped purposefully onto the porch. Suddenly there was the slapping sound of bare feet slipping on the wet landing, and then Howard’s dark figure dropped from sight against the lighted interior beyond the wide-open door. He lay motionless, a heap of stuffed clothes on the flagstone walk.

Therlin approached hesitantly. Howard did not move. Therlin came closer until he was standing right over his stepfather, the Louisville Slugger clutched in his small hands.

Howard stirred. He groaned, then blinked his eyes open.

You wanted me to make mischief, Howard, Therlin said. How about this? He then pulled the baseball from his coat pocket, tossed it in the air above Howard’s expression of surprise, and swung the bat—hard. The crisp crack stabbed into the night, chasing after the last of the cackling boys who had