Black Cat Weekly #31

By Wildside Press

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #31.

This time, the lineup includes pretty much everything fans look for in fantasy and science fiction—time travel, pyramids, space adventure, alternate history, war, monkeys, and even Nazi spies. Does it get much better than that?

Not to forget our mystery readers, for them we have time travel, a private detective, police, international adventure, war, a solve-it-yourself puzzler, and even Nazis. (Did I mention there’s some overlap between the fantastic and the mysterious in this issue? Surprise! There is.)

I leave you to sort it out among yourselves.

In case you need some help, here’s the breakdown:

Non-Fiction

“Speaking with Joe Haldeman,” conducted by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

“The Dutiful Rookie,” by James Holding [short story]

“A Wee Bit Of Dough,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

“The Case of the Truculent Avocado,” by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Paying the Price, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

“Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy

“Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“How High Your Gods Can Count,” by Tegan Moore [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

“How We Came Back From Mars,” by Ian Watson [Darrell Schweitzer Presents short story]

“Death by Proxy,” by Malcolm Jameson[short story]

Bring the Jubilee, by Ward Moore [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667699882

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE DUTIFUL ROOKIE, by James Holding

A WEE BIT OF DOUGH, by Hal Charles

THE CASE OF THE TRUCULENT AVOCADO, by Mark Thielman

PAYING THE PRICE, by Nicholas Carter

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

VAN GOGHING, GOGHING, GONE, by Alan Orloff

SPEAKING WITH JOE HALDEMAN, an Interview by Darrell Schweitzer

HOW HIGH YOUR GODS CAN COUNT, by Tegan Moore

HOW WE CAME BACK FROM MARS, by Ian Watson

DEATH BY PROXY, by Malcolm Jameson

BRING THE JUBILEE, by Ward Moore

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone, is copyright © 2022 by Alan Orloff. and appears here for the first time.

One for the Road is copyright © 1978 by James Holding. Originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, February 1978. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Case of the Truculent Avocado is copyright © 2019 by Mark Thielman. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Jan/Feb 2019. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A Wee Bit of Dough is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Paying the Price, by Nicholas Carter, originally appeared in Nick Carter Stories No. 146, June 26, 1916.

Speaking With Joe Haldeman is copyright © 1976 by Darrell Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

How High Your Gods Can Count is copyright © 2016 by Tegan Moore. Originally published in Strange Horizons, May 2016. Reprinted by permission of the author.

How We Came Back from Mars is copyright © 2011 by Ian Watson. Originally published in Solaris Rising. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Death by Proxy is copyright © 1945 by Malcolm Jameson. Originally published in Startling Stories, Spring 1945.

Bring the Jubilee, by Ward Moore, is copyright © 1952, 1953 by Ward Moore.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #31.

This time, the lineup includes pretty much everything fans look for in fantasy and science fiction—time travel, pyramids, space adventure, monkeys, alternate history, war, and even Nazi spies. Does it get much better than that?

Not to forget our mystery readers, for them we have time travel, a private detective, police, international adventure, war, a solve-it-yourself puzzler, and even Nazis. (Did I mention there’s some overlap between the fantastic and the mysterious in this issue? Surprise! There is.)

I leave you to sort it out among yourselves.

In case you need some help, here’s the breakdown:

Non-Fiction

"Speaking with Joe Haldeman," conducted by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

The Dutiful Rookie, by James Holding [short story]

A Wee Bit Of Dough, by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

The Case of the Truculent Avocado, by Mark Thielman [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Paying the Price, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone, by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy

Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone, by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

How High Your Gods Can Count, by Tegan Moore [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

How We Came Back From Mars, by Ian Watson [Darrell Schweitzer Presents short story]

Death by Proxy, by Malcolm Jameson[short story]

Bring the Jubilee, by Ward Moore [novel]

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

Karl Wurf

THE DUTIFUL ROOKIE,

by James Holding

Kelly claimed afterward that it was just like the ending of a late, late TV movie: the body of the bad guy lying on the floor; the young cop in the arms of the grateful heroine being soundly kissed for his timely assistance; and the young cop’s dumb older partner arriving at the scene too late, as usual, for the action.

From the standpoint of Kelly’s new partner, Birkowitz, however, it was infinitely more exciting and satisfactory than any movie. For three reasons: (1) Because this wasn’t any imaginary adventure dreamed up by some TV writer. (2) Because Birkowitz, a brand-new rookie aching to prove himself, was unexpectedly given the chance to do so on his very first night as Kelly’s partner. (3) Because he was so incredibly lucky as to make his first arrest as a full-fledged cop with admiring feminine eyes looking on.

When Birkowitz arrived for his first night of patrol duty at Station Six, the desk sergeant laconically introduced him to Kelly. Guy who’s been Kelly’s partner for three years has been transferred to South Side, he told Birkowitz. You’re taking his place in car sixty-two, right? So this is Kelly. And to Kelly, a big, weather-beaten, ugly man with laugh wrinkles around his eyes: This is Lou Birkowitz, Kelly. Fresh out of the training course downtown. Fly at it, boys.

That was all. Kelly and Birkowitz said Hi, to each other, shook hands, and went out together to car 62 in the station driveway, each examining the other with covert glances to size up the new partner assigned by the brass to share his dangers, excitements, boredom and monotony for the foreseeable future...as well as the cramped confines of car 62.

Kelly suggested gruffly that Birkowitz drive the cruiser that first night to familiarize himself with it. Kelly handled the mike and gave Birkowitz a guided tour of the territory they were supposed to patrol.

This was a rather quiet beat on the north side, Kelly explained, a good one for a rookie cop to cut his teeth on. It consisted of three-quarters of a square mile of quiet residential streets, a shopping center, a couple of blocks of commercial and professional buildings, and a few—less than a dozen—trouble-breeding spots, by which Kelly meant bars, taverns, all-night restaurants, and bowling alleys.

After an hour or so, the constraint that usually exists for a time between two complete strangers began to wear off a little. Birkowitz confided to Kelly that he sure hoped he’d be able to fill the shoes of Kelly’s former partner all right but that, candidly, he was so green that Kelly would have to bear with him until he learned the ropes. Kelly, a middle-aged man who had seen rookies come and go through the years, said sure, as senior officer of the crew, he’d make the decisions for a while anyway, and all Birkowitz had to do was follow Kelly’s instructions when they went into action as a team, and he didn’t doubt for a minute that Birkowitz would catch on quick and make a better cop than his old partner had ever been.

Birkowitz nodded at this, and said, Thanks, Kelly, I’ll sure try, and drove the police cruiser proudly.

An hour and a half after midnight their car number suddenly jumped out at them from .the constant mutter of the police band to which their radio was tuned. Car sixty-two? Car six-two. Come in. Kelly spoke into the mike. Here, car six-two. Kelly.

Take this address, the dispatcher’s voice came back tinnily. 1289 Moss Street.

1289 Moss, gotcha, said Kelly.

Lady reports a prowler. Where are you?

On Kent. Five blocks away.

Get it, the dispatcher said. Out.

Kelly hung up the mike and grinned at Birkowitz. Lucky boy. Go two blocks north and turn right. Step on it.

Birkowitz stepped on it. 1289 Moss, was that it?

Right. They swept around the corner into Moss Street. It’ll be in the third block up, about the middle, left-hand side. The darkness of the tree-shaded street before them was relieved at intervals by pools of dappled leaf-shadows cast by street lamps.

Birkowitz’s voice showed a shade of nervousness. Regular drill, Kelly?

Kelly glanced aside at his young partner. Well, he said, the prowler if any, still ought to be in there, Lou. It’s less’n a minute since we got the call. Maybe we could take him in. That would be something, wouldn’t it, your first night?

Yeah, said Birkowitz. What do we do?

Drift up easy and look things over first. Kelly saw no headlights before or behind them to indicate any other traffic on Moss Street just then. He switched off their own headlights and the flasher on top of the cruiser, reaching across the wheel to do so. Throw her out of gear and coast, Lou, he said. I’ll tell you when to pull up. A moment later he said, Now, and the car glided almost without a sound to the curb, four houses short and across the street from 1289. Kelly turned down the volume of their radio until it was barely audible.

Come on, he said in a murmur. Quiet. They climbed out of the car, leaving the doors slightly open to avoid noise, and slid swiftly across the street, two ghosts among the leaf shadows.

Silently they trotted along the grass-pavement verge toward 1289, which was a modest, cracker-box shaped, two-story house set on a sixty-foot lot. It was in total darkness. The nearest street light, a hundred yards away, threw only a faint shadow-blurred suggestion of illumination on the house front due to the intervening trees, yet with the help of starlight, it was enough for Kelly.

Front door and windows closed, no broken panes, he whispered to Birkowitz, so chances are the prowler got in through the back. They melted into the tree shadow before number 1289.

Now what? asked Birkowitz in a tight mutter.

Give me two minutes to get around back and find where he broke in. Then you hit the front door with plenty of noise. Chances are he’ll go out the way he went in, and I’ll be waiting for him.

Right, Birkowitz agreed. Two minutes. He looked at his watch as Kelly disappeared into the narrow lane of blackness that separated 1289 from the house next door.

Kelly moved very quietly for a big man. He rounded the rear corner of 1289 on the double and found himself in a small back yard. A flight of three steps led up from the yard to a porch which masked the back door of the house.

Kelly mounted the three steps without hesitation and crossed the porch to the door. He saw that its upper half was composed of a dozen small panes of glass glazed into slender wooden sash. The pane of glass nearest the doorknob was broken, and the door stood open about six inches.

Kelly shook his head—a familiar pattern. The prowler had broken the glass, reached a hand through, unlocked the door on the inside and walked in. Might as well have a sign posted saying Welcome to Burglars as a door like that, Kelly reflected.

He put his ear to the crack of the door and listened; nothing. He couldn’t see anything but blackness in what he presumed was the kitchen beyond the door, not even any looming shapes of stove or refrigerator. He unbuttoned his holster flap, stepped to one side of the door into deep shadow, and glanced impatiently at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. He was surprised to see that only thirty seconds had passed since he left Birkowitz. A minute and a half to go before Birkowitz made his move—if he made his move. Kelly remembered uneasily the note of uncertainty in the kid’s voice just a moment ago.

He was setting himself when he heard the scream. It came from inside the house—shrill, high-pitched, feminine, a little muffled as though by distance but with enough terror in it to raise gooseflesh on Kelly. The scream was followed almost immediately by a shattering crash, then a sodden-sounding and ominous thump.

Kelly waited for no more. He charged through the back door, his shoulder nearly taking the door off its hinges as he passed. His eyes, more used to the darkness now, showed him dimly that the room he pounded through without pausing was the kitchen and that a rectangle of lighter darkness in the far wall was a doorway.

He leaped through that doorway into a hallway beyond, just as a light came on upstairs and shone down on the treads of a stairway rising on his right to the second floor. With his free hand, Kelly braked his momentum with a grip on the newel at the foot of the stairway, then swung himself around it like a monkey on a pole and went up the stairway two steps at a time.

He needn’t have hurried, he saw, the moment his head came above the level of the upstairs landing, for that’s when he took in the scene that he was later to liken to a TV movie.

A skinny, seedy-looking youth with streaked blond hair and no chin to speak of lay on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs at one side of the landing, among the scattered fragments of what had been a large, framed wall mirror. From the head of the stairs, Kelly could see the whites of the youth’s eyes and, since he lay quite motionless, Kelly rightly deduced that he was out cold. A little to one side of sprawled body, Patrolman Birkowitz stood with his arms around a diminutive brunette of such dazzling beauty that she would have drawn any male eye ineluctably, even if she had not been wearing a semitransparent nightgown, which she was.

She was engaged in kissing officer Birkowitz with obvious enthusiasm and, Kelly noted with a massing twinge of envy, Birkowitz was returning the favor with more than routine interest.

Enjoying the tableau, Kelly waited a moment at the head of the stairs. Then, gently, he cleared his throat. Birkowitz and the brunette broke apart with a reluctance for which Kelly could not entirely blame them.

Birkowitz, said Kelly sternly, didn’t they teach you in that police school downtown that police officers are strictly forbidden to do any kissing while on duty?

Birkowitz had the grace to flush guiltily; he did not, however, remove his arm from the dark-haired girl’s waist at once. Gee, Kelly, he began lamely, I’m really sorry—

The brunette cut him off. Wasn’t he tremendous? she asked the world in an admiring voice. Simply wonderful?

He musta been, Kelly said, from the looks of things.

Oh, he was! the girl caroled. "You should have seen him throw that man bodily against the wall. And before that, when I screamed, he ran right upstairs without even stopping to think whether the burglar might have a gun and kill him!"

Birkowitz interrupted her. Let me tell it, he said.

You’re too modest to tell it right. The girl regarded Birkowitz with shining eyes and turned back to Kelly. I was sleeping in there, you see… she waved toward an open door leading off the upstairs landing, ...when the sound of breaking glass downstairs woke me up. Then I heard our back door squeak open—it always squeaks when you open it—and I knew a burglar was breaking in. So I quickly shut my bedroom door and telephoned the police while the burglar was still downstairs and couldn’t hear me.

Kelly nodded approvingly. Good thinking, lady.

In about two seconds I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and I could see a little bit of light under my door, like a flashlight, you know?

It was a flashlight. Birkowitz pointed to a pencil flash lying with the burglar among the shards of shattered mirror. He picked it up.

I prayed he wouldn’t come into my bedroom first, said the girl, because there’s no lock on the door of the bedroom, you see.

You ought to get one, Birkowitz broke in.

She nodded her head. I will. Anyway, she said to Kelly, I was simply amazed at how fast you got here. I heard the burglar go into the guest room there, next to my room, and start pulling out dresser drawers. I kept watching out my window for you to arrive and, sure enough, there you were in less than a minute, it seemed: two policemen, one going around back and one staying in front. So I just naturally opened my window and called down to the one in front. She twinkled up at Birkowitz. That was you, wasn’t it?

Sure, said Birkowitz. Who else?

Shut up, Kelly said. Let her tell it, Birkowitz. She’s doing all right. You said you called down to him, lady?

Yes. I called down to him to please hurry up because the burglar was in the next room and I was scared. The burglar must have heard me talking and thought I was telephoning the police, because he came bursting into my room and grabbed me and I screamed bloody murder.

I heard you, Kelly said. You got quite a scream, lady.

"But the burglar had no more than grabbed me when somebody came dashing up the stairs and grabbed him, and threw him clear out into the hall against the mirror. Then I turned the light on, and you came running in from the back, I guess..." Her voice trailed off and she gave Birkowitz another soulful look.

The burglar began to stir. When he emitted a falsetto moan, Birkowitz, very businesslike, walked over to him, stooped, brought the lax wrists together and slipped a pair of handcuffs on them, just as the police school had taught him.

Kelly scratched his head. I guess I get the picture, lady. But tell me one thing. If you lock your back door at night, why not lock your front door, too?

Oh, I do, officer. Always.

You do? He stared at her in bewilderment. Then how did Birkowitz get into the house so quick?

Birkowitz straightened from his crouch beside the skinny burglar and flushed again. I had a key to the front door, he said sheepishly. I live here, Kelly.

What! Kelly reached out and steadied himself against his shock with a hand on the wall. He regarded his young partner uncomprehendingly tor a moment, then muttered, "Well, how about that! He looked at the tiny brunette. 'Then you’re Mrs. Birkowitz?"

Of course. She giggled. "Do you think I’m the type who goes around kissing strange policemen?

Kelly shook his head. Maybe not, he said defensively, but sometimes women do funny things when they’re...they’re... he groped, and finished, …emotionally aroused.

The girl’s merry laughter at this sally made it Kelly’s turn to flush. Lou, I don’t get it. You heard the dispatcher give me this address for file prowler, didn’t you? Your own house?

Yeah.

"Then why didn’t you tell me it was your house, for heaven’s lake?"

Birkowitz was earnest. I thought it was a gag, Kelly. Honest. I thought it was a joke that you and the dispatcher had fixed up to throw a little scare into me, your rookie partner, my first night. Maybe see how I’d behave, I don’t know. Birkowitz shrugged apologetically. At the police school they warned us that when we got our assignments, there’d be some hazing from the veteran men. And besides, I’d just promised I’d follow instructions, and you told me to stay out front for two minutes before I hit the front door. He went to his wife and hugged her absent-mindedly. When Tina yelled down to me to hurry, and then I heard her scream, I knew it couldn’t be a gag, after all. So I got to her as fast as I could. You don’t blame me for that, do you? My own wife?

Kelly said, No, I guess not. Now, take that punk there under your arm, Birkowitz, and let’s get down and report in. He wagged his head. I know one thing. The boys at Station Six’ll never believe this one, never. He turned to the brunette and said genially, "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Birkowitz. And I can tell you privately that if your husband hadn’t disobeyed instructions tonight, we’d have sent him back to the police school for a postgraduate course!"

A WEE BIT OF DOUGH,

by Hal Charles

Amy Murphy always enjoyed visiting her Aunt Mary, especially at this time of year. Amy’s family had come to America from what they affectionately called the Old Country, and while they had adopted their new home with enthusiasm, a part of the Emerald Isle remained in their blood. And no time was this love more evident than around St. Patrick’s Day.

As Amy entered the kitchen, she was greeted by a smiling wisp of a woman standing by a huge stove that had prepared so many delicious meals for both family and friends. Ah, Amy me girl, Aunt Mary said with the accent that always seemed to grow more pronounced around this holiday, the saints are smiling on your aunt today.

Amy watched as her aunt practically danced over to the elaborately-decorated bread box that had been in the family as long as she could remember. Your Aunt Mary has been visited by the wee people.

What?

Mary opened the tin box and pulled out a large jar filled with bills and coins. The wind has torn several shingles off the roof, and I’ve been saving to have it repaired.

What does that have to do with the wee people?

Since Mr. Hagan told me the cost of the repair, I’ve been sticking every spare cent in this jar, said Mary.

I’m still not following, said Amy

Truthfully, my savings haven’t amounted to much, and I was getting a little worried waiting for the roof to leak. Then I remembered the old stories about the wee people. Nana used to say that if you were a good person and truly believed, the wee people would help you out.

I don’t know, said Amy, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

Well, all I know is I invited some folks over today to join us for the St. Patrick’s Day parade on TV. Everybody was in the den when I decided to get a glass of water. Something told me to look in the bread box, and faith and begorra, there was a new $100 bill in the jar.

And you think it was put there by a leprechaun?

How else can you explain it?

Amy didn’t want to spoil her aunt’s excitement, but her own curiosity wouldn’t let her leave this mystery unsolved. Who are your guests in the den?

Mary smiled. Your cousin Kevin had the day off from the lumber yard and stopped by. And you know my friend and bridge partner Sadie Devlin. Then Virgil Stanton from down the street—

The Virgil Stanton, said Amy teasingly.

Oh, go on, said Mary, a hint of red rising to her face.

As they entered the den, Amy ran some options through her mind. Not quite ready to accept the existence of leprechauns, she reasoned that one of the three guests must have slipped the bill into the jar.

Sadie Devlin had been Mary’s best friend for years. Amy had no doubt that Sadie would help her friend with the repair cost, but on a fixed income herself, could Sadie afford the generosity?

Money was certainly no problem for Virgil Stanton, who owned a thriving hardware store downtown. She had heard, however, that the businessman was extremely tight with his finances.

Amy’s cousin Kevin was a hardworking young man with a wife and two kids. With his job at the town’s only lumber yard, it was everything he could do to make ends meet.

Sitting down in a huge overstuffed chair, Amy studied the group. Kevin finished a glass of milk and set it down next to a sandwich plate filled with crumbs while Virgil Stanton fiddled with a cell phone as if expecting a call or text. Sadie Devlin seemed more interested in a bulky catalog than the television set.

Faith and begorra, indeed, Amy said under her breath as she realized wee people could come in unexpected sizes.

Solution

When Amy saw the crumbs on the plate in front of Kevin, she reasoned that he had made himself a sandwich and discovered the jar while looking for the bread. Working at the lumber yard, he had probably learned about the repair and its cost from Mr. Hagan, the roofer and decided to help out his aunt. As she watched the parade, Amy was content to let her aunt continue to believe in the generosity of the wee people.

THE CASE OF THE TRUCULENT AVOCADO,

by Mark Thielman

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

Why don’t you just tell me why you killed the turtle? the deputy asked, giving me the practiced stare he had undoubtedly learned in Intimidation 101.

I shook my head. He is... was, I corrected myself, an avocado, not a turtle.

The deputy paused, momentarily taken aback. The dead guy looked like a turtle: round dark-green shell, mostly smooth, pressed against the floor; light-green underside facing up to the fluorescent lights arrayed along the ceiling of Uncle Bob’s Natural Food Emporium. All four green limbs splayed to the sides. Undoubtedly, whenever the deputy pictured a dead turtle or passed one patrolling some county back road, he always saw it belly to heaven, shell hard against the pavement, legs straining till death, trying to right itself. Likely, he had never run across a murdered avocado. Certain of his own rightness, the deputy tried again.

What’s a man dressed like a turtle doing dead in the produce section of my little town’s fanciest grocery store?

I rolled my eyes and looked around the employee breakroom of the Food Emporium. It was going to be a long day.

Charles wasn’t a turtle. The produce manager was wearing an avocado costume. It is California Avocado Month here at the store. Though, I added, I can see how it might look that way.

What I see— The deputy slapped the table for emphasis, nearly knocking over his small digital recorder. What I see is that you’re evading the real question I’m asking... And why can’t you sit still without squirming? Are you nervous?

I wanted to ask whether the deputy had ever sat through an interview wearing a Russian Banana Fingerling potato costume. It digs into your backside. If, however, you’re a potato and try to complain about a wedgie, no one takes you seriously. So, I thought better and decided to just answer the question I’d been asked. No, I’m not nervous.

How did you end up in the same grocery store as a dead trick-or-treater?

Now that was a question I had asked myself. I explained that I made my living as a private investigator. I liked the work, got to set my own hours, and be my own boss. The job gave me the free time to work out at the gym regularly, and I felt in the best shape of my life. The problem was that the work was sporadic, and the clients’ checks didn’t always clear. A while back, I had helped a woman get divorced from her cheating husband. The woman had been some public relations flack who knew somebody who knew somebody at the Potato Advisory Board. One day, she made the introductions. I didn’t feel the need to mention that she had gotten the idea when she had seen me coming out of her shower. Anyway, my tanned and recently enhanced biceps paired well with the Idaho Russet costume they had me try on. Now, I had a part-time gig as the Special Assistant in Potato Promotions. The women at the board called me simply the Spud Stud.

So the tur... avocado, the deputy corrected himself, he was your boss.

"I am a special assistant for the Potato Board. I work with the produce manager, not for the produce manager," I patiently explained, emphasizing the difference.

I’m just a deputy sheriff in a small, quiet, conservative Texas community. Why don’t you explain, what exactly does a special assistant do? The lawman leaned back in one of the breakroom’s plastic chairs and waited. His face told me that he didn’t care about the answer but was looking for a lie on which I could later hang myself.

What could I say, that I was like a rodeo cowboy only without the leather tack and broken bones? I rode a circuit in my beat-up Toyota Pathfinder with a footlocker full of potato costumes in the back. Should I complain that I bake inside a potato costume? Or that the voice on my GPS is my only friend? No, I decided. I’d give him the script as written by the board.

I tout potatoes as haute and wholesome. I introduce people to the differing colors and nuanced flavors available from the array of potatoes grown by American farmers. I encourage customers to challenge their taste buds by trying the potato puree. Here, I lowered my voice and ad-libbed, giving him inside information. It’s really a blender smoothie, but the marketing department liked the alliteration of puree and potato. You should try one.

As I said it, his glazed eyes told me that the deputy wouldn’t try anything from a blender that didn’t have ice, rum, and a pink paper umbrella, but I continued.

The board likes alliteration. The only thing I’m not supposed to do is call a potato a tuber. Research says that people associate that word too closely with cancer.

Are you saying old Charlie died of cancer? the deputy said, leaning in this time for emphasis. ’Cause it sure looks to me like he got stabbed to death with a carrot.

Actually, it looked to me like an organic heirloom parsnip, I said, trying to move the investigation forward. But don’t be ashamed. I’m a vegetable professional.

The deputy narrowed his eyes and looked at me hard. So you know vegetables. With Charlie out of the way, you could be produce manager. Sounds like I found me someone with motive.

I didn’t correct him this time.

And the killer was someone Charlie knew. No sign of a struggle. Didn’t even mess up the green paint on his turtle arms or legs.

I know how interrogations are supposed to go, just answer the questions and never volunteer information. But I just couldn’t help myself.

You’re right. He caught me stealing organic bean sprouts. I had to kill him. Once I get to be produce manager, I’ll get the first pick of the expired lettuce packages. Do you know the black market for that stuff?

His expression stayed hard, boring into my face. I think you’re mocking me. You know what they do to potato boys in jail?

I turned my palms up and opened my arms wide. The courses that I had been to said that this was the classic body language for demonstrating nothing to hide. Look, Sheriff, I’ve only been here three days for the potato promotion. I didn’t know Charles well. All I can tell you is that he was an angry man whose wife divorced him because he watched too much porn. Had a thing for girls and vegetables. Took his work too seriously.

The deputy’s eyes dipped to the table for just a fraction. Apparently, he hadn’t known about the pornography. He should spend less time bent over the corpse and more time absorbing rumors over in Dairy and Cheese.

I bet you’ll find a closet full at his apartment, I said. His ex got the house. And you know I didn’t kill him. I held up my swipe card. This store has a computerized timekeeping system. I just got here a few minutes before you showed up.

The deputy sweated me for a full minute with his stare. I showed better judgment this time and didn’t offer up any mock confessions. He and I, I discovered, had differing senses of humor. Finally, he pointed a finger at me. That thick digit would have looked impressive under the glass at Uncle Bob’s butcher counter lying alongside the other sausages.

Don’t leave my jurisdiction, he said. I’m gonna wanna talk to you some more.

Gonna wanna, I repeated. So does that mean I shouldn’t leave Produce, the store, the county, or the state?

The deputy growled and stalked past me out of the breakroom. I stayed seated. I needed to think.

I’m not sure making him mad is exactly your best strategy, a silvery voice behind me said.

I twisted in my chair and looked. Babette the Baguette stood there, not in uniform.

Hey, Babs, I said simply.

You know that’s not my real name, she said as she moved to the table and sat down. It was easy to do; the deputy hadn’t bothered to push his chair back in when he stormed out of the room.

Debra Lanning had been a B movie actress who sacrificed her twenties and thirties around Hollywood chasing dreams of stardom. She had told me that her film oeuvre included being the third screamer on the right in Thief of Time and third bimbo on the left in Killing Time. I had to go look the word up: oeuvre, not bimbo. She rounded out her filmography with small parts in a couple of short-lived sitcoms.

You’re right, I agreed. Making him angry was probably not in my best interest. My teachers always said I had self-control problems.

I did a commercial for a men’s pharmaceutical to help you with that, she volunteered.

Different sort of self-control.

I also know a little something about handcuffs, she said.

That drew a look.

I had a part in a police drama, the tone now barbed. I was the PTA president who was also the junkie prostitute. At the end of the episode, I got taken to jail. It was allergy season. Trust me, you do not want to sit in handcuffs with hay fever.

If I can stay out of the slammer until 10:00 p.m., I’ll catch the local news and remember to check the pollen count.

All I’m saying, she said, ignoring my remark, is that I know a little something about bad career moves. Sounds to me like you’re making one.

At the moment, I had to agree.

Here at the store, Debra was Babette the Baguette, the exotically accented loaf of French bread who shilled bakery items and signed autographs. A poster with an old publicity photo of her sat on an easel just inside the sliding front doors of Uncle Bob’s Natural Food Emporium.

She raised slightly out of her chair and angled it a few degrees so that I was looking at her more in profile than I had been. My face must have reflected curiosity.

Force of habit, she said. This is my good side. Always have to remember the camera angles.

If she didn’t look quite as good as she did in the publicity photo, well, unlike any other baguette I’d ever had, I wouldn’t throw her out just because