Black Cat Weekly #23

By Cynthia Ward, Michael Allan Mallory, Laird Long and 6 more

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #23. Lots of good stuff this time—highlighted by a novel from Golden Age mystery author Rufus King, Duenna for a Murder. Plus a few novellas, and lots of great short stories, a solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles, and great selections from Michael Bracken (Laird Long’s “Taken for a Ride”—which qualifies as both a mysery and a fantasy story) and Barb Goffman (Michael Allan Mallory’s “Random Harvest”).

On the science fiction side, the Cynthia Ward Presents story is missing this week, but that’s only because we have a fantastic alternate-history story from Cynthia herself! Check out her “On Stony Ground.” Plus an epic disaster story from Allan Danzig, a fantasy from Unknown by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard, a space-based tale by Richard Wilson, and a miniature military SF story from Larry Tritten.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Soul Searching,” by Laird Long [short story]
“A Fine Kettle of Fish,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Dead Wrong,” by Frank Kane [short story]
“Taken for a Ride,” by Hulbert Footner [short novel]
“Random Harvest,” by Michael Allan Mallory [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Duenna to a Murder, by Rufus King [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“On Stony Ground,” by Cynthia Ward [short story]
“Corrigan’s Homunculi,” by Larry Tritten [short story]
“Carillon of Skulls,” by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard [short story]
“Abel Baker Camel,” by Richard Wilson [short story]
“The Great Nebraska Sea,” by Allan Danzig [short story]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Feb 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781479472017

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

SOUL SEARCHING, by Laird Long

A FINE KETTLE OF FISH, by Hal Charles

DEAD WRONG, by Frank Kane

TAKEN FOR A RIDE, by Hulbert Footner

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

RANDOM HARVEST, by Michael Allan Mallory

DUENNA TO A MURDER, by Rufus King

PROLOG

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

ON STONY GROUND, by Cynthia Ward

CORRIGAN’S HOMUNCULI, by Larry Tritten

CARILLON OF SKULLS, by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard

ABEL BAKER CAMEL, by Richard Wilson

THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA, by Allan Danzig

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Soul Searching is copyright © 2007 by Laird Long. Originally published by banes-universe.com, October 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A Fiine Kettle of Fish is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Random Harvest is copyright © 2020 by Michael Allan Mallory. Originally published in Minnesota Not So Nice. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Dead Wrong, by Frank Kane, was originally published in 1961.

Taken for a Ride, by Hulbert Footner, was originally published in 1939.

Duenna for a Murder is copyright © 1950 by Rufus King, renewed 1978. This novel has appeared in serialized form in the Chicago Tribune under the title An Elopement is Arranged.

On Stony Ground, is copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Ward. Originally published in Analog, May-June 2019. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Carillon of Skulls, by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard, is copyright 1941, 1969 by Lester del Rey. Originally published under the pseudonym Philip James in Unknown Fantasy Fiction, February 1941. Reprinted by permission of the Lester del Rey estate.

Abel Baker Camel is copyright © 1987 by Richard Wilson. Originally published Amazing Stories, January 1987. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Great Nebraska Sea, by Allan Danzig, originally appeared in Galaxy Magazine, August 1963.

Corrigan’s Homunculi is copyright © 1989 by Larry Tritten. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1989. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #23.

Lots of good stuff this time—highlighted by a novel by Golden Age mystery author Rufus King, Duenna for a Murder. Plus a few novellas, and lots of great short stories, a solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles, and great selections from Michael Bracken (Laird Long’s Taken for a Ride—which fits neatly into both the mystery and fantasy categories) and Barb Goffman (Michael Allan Mallory’s Random Harvest).

On the science fiction side, the Cynthia Ward Presents story is missing this week, but that’s only because we have a fantastic alternate-history story from Cynthia herself! Check out her On Stony Ground. Plus an epic disaster story from Allan Danzig, a fantasy from Unknown by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard, a space-based tale by Richard Wilson, and a miniature military SF story from Larry Tritten.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

Soul Searching, by Laird Long [short story]

A Fine Kettle of Fish, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Dead Wrong, by Frank Kane [short story]

Taken for a Ride, by Hulbert Footner [short novel]

Random Harvest, by Michael Allan Mallory [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Duenna to a Murder, by Rufus King [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy

Soul Searching, by Laird Long [short story]

On Stony Ground, by Cynthia Ward [short story]

Corrigan’s Homunculi, by Larry Tritten [short story]

Carillon of Skulls, by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard [short story]

Abel Baker Camel, by Richard Wilson [short story]

The Great Nebraska Sea, by Allan Danzig [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

SOUL SEARCHING,

by Laird Long

Dugan Growser was the last guy I wanted to see in my office, since I’d been haunting him at home for the last month.

You gotta find somethin’ for me, McCaffrey! he squealed, shoving the door right through me and dropping into a chair, as uninvited as demonic possession.

I cursed him like I’d been cursing him every night for the last thirty. And the effect was the usual—zip. What’s gone missing, Growser—your will to live maybe, I hope?

My soul! he bleated, not altogether correcting me. He shoved a three-fingered hand through his greasy, black hair and shuddered, his face swimming in sweat. You gotta find my soul, McCaffrey!

Have you tried jazz? I deadpanned, floating over my desk.

No, no! I don’t mean I lost it or nuthin’. I mean someone stole it!

How would a guy like you even know it was missing? I asked, watching the little runt rattle like teeth in a hockey player, enjoying myself.

Growser grinned a crooked grin, regaining some of his scummy composure. Okay, okay, we’ve had our differences, sure, McCaffrey. But—

Differences!? I shrieked (something I’d been doing a lot of lately). You killed me, remember!? Turned me into the only dick in this town with a clear conscience—literally!

Growser pulled a fat, green cigar out of his jacket pocket, planted it in his kisser. That was an accident, McCaffrey. No hard feelin’s. How was I s’posed to know the slugs I pumped in Fish Manson were gonna chew through him an’ eat into you?

You blast away with a .44, in the middle of a crowded street, and you don’t think maybe there’s going to be some collateral damage!? Even you’re not that dumb, Growser.

He shrugged his bony shoulders, wiped his pointy nose with a yellowed digit. What can I say? The opportunity just sorta came up. I couldn’t let it pass. Anyway, that’s yesterday’s news. You gonna help me or not?

Not! I shrieked.

Growser set fire to his stogie, puffed on it, as calm and deadly now as an oil slick. How’d you like it if I ratted you out to the Feds—told ’em you’re turnin’ down cases?

I clenched my fists, my fingers doubling back on themselves. The only reason I was still around, in spirit at least, still working cases and haunting Growser, was because I had a tax bill outstanding at the time of my untimely demise. And the IRS wanted what was coming, no excuses accepted. Just as surely as you can’t take it with you, you also can’t take off owing Uncle Sam.

Okay, Growser, I gritted, when did you first notice that your soul was missing?

He spat on the floor. Yesterday mornin’. I woke up same time as usual, but I had this real, kinda, empty feelin’ inside. I just wasn’t myself, you know—no life or nuthin’. He made a face at his cigar. Take this Cuban, for instance—it’s got no taste to me. And food? Fuggidaboutit! I go to Mama’s Kitchen in Harlem, I can’t taste nuthin’.

You sure your soul didn’t just pack up and leave on its own, like your ex-wives? Like maybe it went looking for better accommodations? Or maybe... it got while the getting was good?

Like I’m gonna keel over any minute—that what you mean? Growser asked, licking his thin lips, eyeing my encouraging smile. Like the Big Man upstairs put out a hit on Growser and his body just ain’t took the message yet? Yeah, sure, I thought about that. But the thing’s been missin’ for more’n twenty-four hours now, and I’m still kickin’.

That is an awfully long time for a soul to be missing, even in this town, I mused.

Yeah. Anyway, I come here ’cause I figure a guy like you’s got connections—you know, on the other side. And, face it, you need the bread, and I got the dough.

He had me there. Okay, I said. I’ll scout around, see what I can dig up.

Good. Growser jumped to his feet, threw down his cigar with a look of disgust and crushed it out with his heel. You find whoever stole my soul, McCaffrey, ’cause no one steals nuthin’ from Dugan Growser! he barked, punching the air with a bony finger, like he was issuing a warning to the underworld, both above and below ground.

* * * *

There’d been plenty of cases of gung-ho angels, fallen and otherwise, snatching souls before their rightful owners had truly given up the ghost, I was well aware. Not to mention flesh-and-blood Christ crusaders, devil worshippers, and Board decertified voodoo/witch doctors trying to save or subvert souls while the flesh was still willing, but the spirit weak. So, the logical starting point in my investigation was Hyram Kruk, biggest middleman in the entire East Coast soul chain. If anyone had their ear to the ground in the soul racket, it was him.

He was a squat, surly sonuvagun who had run a string of discount pawnshops during his days of living and breathing. He’d been killed when the stolen gun he’d pointed at an unarmed burglar had accidentally blown up in his hand, killing him and the burglar. And it’d turned out that the first-time burglar had only been trying to get his hocked plumbing tools back, so he could take a job, get his family off welfare. It was quite the moral conundrum for the boys upstairs and down. And the convoluted terminus, coupled with his equally checkered past, had left Kruk in limbo longer than a calypso band conductor, two years and counting.

But while the higher and lower powers that be were debating Kruk’s fate for all eternity, they’d at least agreed to put the guy’s skills to good use, making him head receiver/shipper for the largest soul storage facility on the northeastern seaboard. Kruk bagged ’em, tagged ’em, and stacked ’em, before eventually shipping them on their way. And he wasn’t above doing a little fencing on the side, both to stay sharp and to score brownie points with the boys in the great beyond, on either side of the divide.

How’s business, soul man? I greeted him, as I slipped into his warehouse beneath the most populated cemetery on the Jersey shore.

Eh, it’s got its ups and downs, Kruk responded, ziplocking a baggie, flinging it onto a shelf. What’d you want now?

Just passing through, I cracked, casually browsing around for anyone I knew.

Yeah, and me, I’m the ghost of Christmas past, he responded, in Hebrew. He always could see right through me.

Well... I was kind of wondering if you’d seen Dugan Growser’s soul around—say, in the last twenty-four hours or so?

That bum finally get plugged?

No such luck, I replied, liking his analogy nonetheless. He’s still in the upright and cocky position, but he claims his soul’s been stolen. Thought you might know something about it?

Kruk gave me a ghastly grin, and waited.

You set up any deals lately? Maybe some brimstone-breather couldn’t wait to get his mitts on a fresh one?

Kruk waited some more.

I stared at his shadowy form, then smiled. I’m not bribing you, Kruk. I’ve got no money to call my own, and you’ve got about as much use for money as a rich man has for the eye of a needle.

Kruk’s shoulders drooped. Oh, yeah. Old habits die hard, eh? He pulled an imaginary pipe out of the corner of his mouth. Nah, just like everyone else, I ain’t seen Growser’s soul. I woulda remembered that one—probably need a pair of oven mitts just to handle it. But I do got some information might interest you.

We both waited some more.

Damn! Kruk grunted eventually. Okay, so I hear on the ghostvine that some phony souls been turnin’ up at some of the West Coast warehouses.

Huh?

Yeah. Nuthin’ here yet, but a guy in California tells me they’ve had a coupla cases of soul doping already.

Soul doping?

Yeah. Someone switching their dirty, rotten soul for a nice, clean one—you know, trying to hitch a ride to the stars, instead of getting the shaft. They caught a politician and a trial lawyer already.

How’s that possible? I mean, where’re the whitewashed souls coming from? And how are they making the switch? You’re not selling salvation on the side again, are you, Kruk?

He gave me a dirty look. C’mon, I wouldn’t pull that kinda stuff! I don’t know from nuthin’ about transplanting souls. Besides, my case is in arbitration right now—you think I’d jeopardize that?

Then it hit me. You mean someone’s dealing in souls topside, without a spiritual connection? A flesh and blood for-real person?

That’s the way I peg it, yeah. Someone’s figured out how to catch souls without a license. And he’s cutting deals with the damned, to try ’n make their final journey a whole lot more uplifting, if you know what I mean. Kruk’s thick, bloodless lips framed a melancholy smile. I wish I’d’ve lived long enough to see a scam like that.

* * * *

I went back to my office, did some thinking on the case. If soul doping was the angle, then why would anyone in their right mind pinch Dugan Growser’s charred essence? That thing was a ticket to Hell just waiting to be punched.

I couldn’t figure it—till Growser incarnate blew into my office with a gobful of profanity and a clip n’ paste note in his mitt. One hundred large, in small, for the return of your soul, the note read.

It was a stiff price for a badly-damaged piece of merchandise, and Growser was more than unwilling to pay it. I don’t pay nobody no ransoms! he spat.

You want to find out who stole your soul, don’t you? I argued, glad I didn’t have the senses left to smell the reek of the rat, taste his spittle.

Yeah, sure! But—

I held up a hand, halting him. Then I eased the little man’s indignation by promising to get both his soul and his hundred grand back, and finger the soulnapper. I wasn’t going to do it just for Growser, either—he could take a hike in a cow pasture minus the soles on his shoes, for all I cared—but for mankind, as well. There were bigger issues at stake here than just one wiseguy’s scabby soul. A living being with the ability to snatch and switch souls could really do some damage, maybe even tilt the precarious balance between good and evil in the wrong direction.

I didn’t bother explaining any of that to Growser, though. I didn’t fully understand all of the implications myself. I just promised the hood revenge, and he agreed that was worth paying for.

* * * *

The phone call came later that night: Put the money in a garbage bag, leave the bag next to the bench under the clock tower in Hill Street Park, two a.m. Whoever it was must’ve known that Growser trusted banks like they trusted him, because my client grudgingly admitted that he could exhume a hundred grand from the pickle jars he had growing in his backyard, have it bagged by two.

By midnight, I was making with the leaves of a big, old oak tree that looked down on the bench in question, and Growser was performing what to him was true sacrilege—stuffing gelt into a garbage bag. Nevertheless, he slipped into the park at the appointed hour, looking as casual as a straitjacket, glancing around like he’d never seen nightfall before.

He drifted over to the lighted clock tower and reluctantly deposited his garbage next to the bench, after a couple of false starts. Then he was just dumb enough to stare up my tree, trying to spot me. I did a bad hoot-owl imitation to get rid of him, make his actions look less suspicious, wishing I was a bat out of Hell and he a throbbing vein in the neck.

Eventually, he sidled away, casting wistful glances back over his shoulder at the lonely bag of cash. And ten minutes after Growser’d made his tearful departure, a man in a hooded jacket rode up on a bike, grabbed the garbage bag, and rode away.

I was flying the friendly skies, so I had no trouble keeping up with the bicycling bagman. He pedaled his ass all over town, twisting his head around every now and then to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He finally biked it on down to the waterfront, skidded to a stop in front of a small, abandoned-looking warehouse. He parked his two-wheeler up against the graffiti-stained wall of the building, then buzzed a series of buzzes on an intercom next to a red, metal door. The door responded, and he went inside.

I followed him through the brick wall, face-first, and wasn’t altogether surprised to see that the warehouse was anything but abandoned. In fact, the place was crammed full of enough electronic equipment to stock every Radio Shack east of the Rockies, with a couple of geeks’ basements left over. And there were enough bubbling test tubes, boiling beakers, and steaming flasks to create a thousand Mr. Hydes.

The hooded bagman carefully made his way through the flashing lights and gurgling liquids and humming machines, as I hung ten in the rafters. He knocked a series of knocks on the steel door of a small office pushed into one corner of the building, and the door opened up and he disappeared from view again.

I waited, and eventually the garbageman came back out of the office, less his garbage. I watched him leave the warehouse, then watched the office door again; I wasn’t interested in flunkies, I wanted the heart and soul of the operation. And I soon found him, when the steel door reopened and Dr. Francesco Franks shuffled out, clutching that morning’s trash.

I recognized the not-so-good doctor from his numerous appearances on TV, and in the Tabloids. He’d been a world-renowned neurosurgeon at the Good Samaritan Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Hospital, before going gynecological on a couple of female patients and getting the unceremonious heave-ho. His syndicated self-help/game show, Brainiacs, had quickly followed him down the tubes.

I descended from the heavens, as Franks placed the bag of cabbage on a workbench. On-call tonight, eh, Doc? I said from a shadowy corner of the building.

He spun around, his Einsteinian hair a split-second behind. Who are you!? he yelled, pushing back a pair of black-rimmed glasses on his cowcatcher nose. The lenses in the vintage frames were thick enough to grace the Palomar Observatory.

I’m your worst nightmare, I replied sardonically, my back up against and partially-through the brick wall. Is all the loot there?

Franks shook his enormous braincase, the wrinkles on his mug etch-a-sketching into an expression of anger. No! he fumed. There’s only ten thousand dollars here!

That figured.

Franks forgot his money troubles long enough to jerk a snub-nose .38 out of his labcoat. Now, who are you!? he demanded.

Bain McCaffrey, I responded in a quavery voice, acting scared. The longer Dr. Franks thought I was the real deal, the longer he’d believe I could actually do him some physical harm, and visa versa. The guy Dugan Growser hired to give him some soul satisfaction.

Like hell you will! Franks hollered, blasting away.

Hot lead smashed into the wall behind me, sending stone shrapnel rocketing in all directions. Franks emptied his gun into the wall, then charged me. Either he didn’t believe in ghosts, or the dim lighting and his appalling eyesight had worked in my favor, because the wayward genius hit the bricks headfirst and hard, little realizing that I was as solid as salesman’s handshake. He staggered backwards, slammed up against a workbench, windmilled his arms, knocking test tubes and beakers and Bunsen burners flying and crashing and bursting into flame, setting his lab ablaze.

Then he slowly slumped to the floor, life leaking out of a fissure in his forehead, explosions flaring up behind him. I zipped to his side. How’d you get Growser’s soul!? I yelled.

He looked up at me, through me, orange flames flashing in his shattered, Coke-bottle lenses. It was all a mistake! he gasped. They took the wrong soul!

You wanted a clean one, right!? For soul doping! But-but you’d thought you’d cash in anyway—with some ransom money!?

Franks nodded, blood sluicing down his ancient, grey face. I needed more money... to fund my experiments... to perfect my soul-searing device... make the transplantation undetectable. You see, I wanted to...

He didn’t get the chance to fully explain himself, not in his lifetime, anyway. I left his corpse and frantically scoured the lab, desperately trying to save some souls anyway I could. But the leaping flames and billowing smoke made identification impossible, and I never did find Growser’s soul, or anybody else’s. What I did briefly spot was a small, black machine that looked like a cross between a dustbuster and a pocket fisherman. It was labeled Soul Snatcher 3000, in silver letters on its side, and it, too, was consumed in the inferno. Along with Dr. Francesco Frank’s ultimate plans for it.

* * * *

You didn’t get my dough back, huh? Growser whined, when I roused him off his toilet, explained all that had happened after he’d taken out the trash.

It burned with the warehouse, I told him again. And I thought you might be worried about losing your soul?

Growser sat back down on his throne, doing me at least that one small favor. Nah, that’s no big deal. In my line of work, I’m probably better off without it. ’Sides, it got what was comin’ to it, right?

I couldn’t argue with that.

He grinned, pointed a finger through me. And so did the thief—this Dr. Franks or whatever! He scratched his blue-shaded chin. I just wish that ten grand hadn’t gone up in smoke, is all. See, part of that money was your fee, McCaffrey.

That kind of double-cross is going to come back to haunt you! I shrieked.

Growser shrugged. Yeah, same time, next night, huh, McCaffrey?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laird Long pounds out fiction in all genres; over 2,000 stories and counting. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include the magazines, e-zines and anthologies Hardboiled, Bullet, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Pulp Literature, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, and New Canadian Noir; and the standalone book No Accounting For Danger. Soul Searching first appeared in www.baens-universe, October 2007.

A FINE KETTLE OF FISH,

by Hal Charles

When Ellen opened the front door of her Aunt Cora’s bungalow, she heard a loud shriek from inside.

No, Mr. Pepper! yelled the grey-haired woman as she grabbed the large, white Persian cat racing toward the doorway. You’ll get filthy outside. I’d better put you in the bedroom before our guests arrive.

You and Mr. Pepper are quite a team, said Ellen, closing the door.

I do love him so, said Cora, but I’m afraid as he grows older, he’s getting grumpier. Seems like your little sister is the only person he tolerates these days other than me. He wouldn’t stay out of her lap earlier today.

They laughed as Cora headed for the bedroom and Ellen walked toward the kitchen. Ellen would be getting married that weekend, and her favorite aunt wanted to host what she called a Bachelorette Party in her honor. No hunky firemen gyrating to loud rock music; just a few close friends for punch and finger food.

Ellen had arrived a little early, and only a handful of people were there. Entering the cozy kitchen, she was greeted first by her best friend, Amanda, who had volunteered to help Cora put things together. The official countdown has begun, girl, said the tall redhead. Enjoy your freedom while you can.

Ellen was happy that Amanda had given her blessing to the marriage. Her friend had dated Allen first, and Ellen had feared that she would have a hard time accepting the match. But Amanda seemed as excited about the upcoming wedding as she was.

Our guests should be arriving any minute now, said Cora as she rushed into the kitchen. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.

Cora, you’re such a perfectionist, said a short, heavyset blonde standing near the stove. I was afraid we were going to lose you earlier when you realized you needed more sour cream for the veggie dip and bolted out the door for the market.

Shrugging her shoulders, Cora smiled apologetically. What can I say? I want everything to be just right for my darling. And, of course, I want to make a good impression on the groom’s family.

Allen’s sister, Rebecca, winked dramatically. So far, so good.

Rebecca had always been friendly enough, but Ellen worried that, as his older sibling, she was a bit over-protective. Nothing definite, just a word here or a glance there.

Ellen felt a slight tug on her arm and looked to the left to see her little sister, Maggie, who, only 14, stood almost eye-to-eye with big sister. Where have you been hiding? said Ellen.

I was getting some extra chairs from the back porch. Aunt Cora invited half the town I think.

I hear some people at the door, said Cora. It’s show time, ladies. Let’s uncover things and get them out to the dining room.

We can get the punch bowl, Ellen said, motioning for Maggie to follow her. The two had been inseparable since Maggie was old enough to tag along with Ellen on their farm. Whether it was fishing in one of the family’s ponds or hiking up the mountain to catch a sunrise, Ellen could count on looking around to see Maggie’s beaming smile.

When the two reached the huge bowl, Ellen pulled back the cover. Glancing down, she saw an obviously dead fish floating atop the pink liquid.

Oh my, gasped Cora from behind the sisters. Why would . . . who could . . .

Cora closed the kitchen door, and the trio moved to the dining room where Ellen spent the rest of the afternoon wrestling with why someone would want to ruin the party. Then as she watched Cora, Mr. Pepper in her arms, say goodbye to her guests, Ellen remembered something her aunt had said earlier. She didn’t know the why, but she had good idea of who had tossed the fish in the punch.

Solution

Ellen remembered Cora’s comment about Mr. Pepper’s attraction to Maggie and reasoned that the cat must have smelled the fish Maggie handled. Confronted, Maggie admitted that she was angry at losing her big sister to Allen. When Ellen promised she would never break their special bond, Maggie apologized with a big hug.

DEAD WRONG,

by Frank Kane

It was a three-story walk-up. By the time Johnny Liddell knocked on the door to 3D, he was panting heavily. It was just as well — he would have anyway the minute the door opened.

She was tall, with coppery red hair framing a heart-shaped face. A light-blue dressing gown did a half-hearted job of containing a breathtaking façade. She was high-breasted and the way the sway of her torso traced designs on the dressing gown, it was apparent she wore little, if anything, underneath it. Her trim, small waist and high-set hips gave some hint of the long, shapely legs the gown did manage to cover.

Johnny Liddell? Her voice was low, caressing. She studied him from slanted green eyes, from under expertly tinted lids. Her lips were full, moist.

What’s left of him. He looked back down the stairwell. That’s quite a defense gadget you’ve got there. More effective than a chastity belt.

The redhead grinned again, stepped aside. But not as permanent. She took his hat, tossed it at a table. Sit down, I’ll make you a drink.

He tottered to a chair, dropped into it.

Any preference?

In liquor? Scotch.

She turned, headed for the kitchen. He watched the easy play of her hips against the clinging fabric of the gown, started to feel better. When she returned, the effect from the front was equally revitalizing. She carried a bottle, two glasses and some ice on a tray, set them down on the coffee table in front of him. The devastating dip of the front of her gown as she set the tray down completed his cure, so that the Scotch would not have been needed.

He watched while she tilted the bottle over each of the glasses, dropped in a couple of pieces of ice. She picked up his glass, swirled the liquor over the ice, handed it to him.

Mr. Liddell-

Johnny.

She smiled, shrugged. All right—Johnny. When I called your office, did my name mean anything to you?

Liddell pursed his lips, considered, shook his head. You said Horton. Sally Horton.

She nodded, dropped down on the couch alongside him. My husband is Bob Horton, the jazz pianist at the Nest. You’ve heard of him?

Liddell nodded. I’m not what you’d call an aficionado, but I’ve heard of him.

You dig jazz?

I’m an old schmaltz man from away back. Carolina moon, June, spoon. That kind of stuff. He took a deep swallow from his glass. Wasn’t there some kind of an accident or something? Your husband’s brother—

The redhead turned the full power of the green eyes on him. It wasn’t an accident. Jack was murdered. She dropped her eyes, stared down into her glass. Bob murdered him, Johnny.

Liddell grunted. He dug into his pocket, came up with a battered pack of cigarettes, held it out to the girl. She took one, stuck it between her lips. He scratched a match, waited until she had filled her lungs with smoke, then flipped one into the corner of his mouth. He lit his cigarette, exhaled twin streams from his nostrils, waited for the girl to talk.

I suppose you wonder why I called you, instead of going to the police? She looked up at him, let the smoke dribble from between half parted lips. They wouldn’t believe me. They think it was a hit-and-run accident.

What makes you think it wasn’t?

Bob and his brother haven’t been getting along lately. Bob’s gotten himself into debt over his head. He tried to get the money to square himself from his brother, but Jack wouldn’t bail him out. The last time it happened he said he was through.

It’s happened before? Where’d the money go?

The redhead took a deep swallow from her glass, set it down on the coffee table. Bob has a monkey on his back, Johnny. A great big one. And it costs more than he can afford to keep it. He’s been desperate for money. I heard the row the night Jack turned him down. It was pretty rugged.

And now?

Sally Horton shrugged. Bob is the sole beneficiary under an old will Jack had. And there’s plenty of insurance. She dropped her eyes to her lap. I guess you’re wondering why I’d be turning my own husband in like this?

Liddell nodded. The thought had occurred to me.

She met his gaze. Another thing that Bob and Jack were fighting about was me. Jack and I were planning to be married as soon as I could get a divorce from Bob.

Liddell whistled soundlessly. And you haven’t told this to the police?

I want to be sure, Johnny. It stacks up pretty bad against Bob, but if there’s just one chance in a thousand that it was an accident, I wouldn’t want it on my conscience that I set him up.

What do you want me to do?

The soft lips set in a hard line. On the other hand, if he killed Jack, I don’t want him to get away with it. I want you to find out for me. What I do will depend on what you find.

Where do I find your husband?

The redhead shrugged. Any one of a half dozen pads in the Village. Almost every night at the Nest he cuts out with some of the real cool set and the blast goes until it’s time for him to show back at the Nest.

She picked up her glass, drained it and held it out to him. While he was spilling Scotch over the ice cubes she said, That won’t be until about ten. She held her glass to her lips, studied him over the rim. You’ll have almost four hours to kill.

"It’s going to take me almost