Black Cat Weekly #41

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding, M.A. Monnin, Pat H. Broeske and 6 more

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #41.

Lots of great reading this time—including a classic mystery novel by Elizabeth Sanxay Holding. Once you finish it, you can cruise through an original blackmail story by M.A. Monnin set in Germany (thanks to acquiring editor Michael Bracken), then Pat H. Broeske has a Hollywood tale of a missing classic Cadillac (thanks to acquiring editor Barb Goffman). Plus, of course, we have our Hal Charles solve-it-yourself tale.

For science fiction and fantasy fans, we have a historical fantasy from Amy Wolf (courtesy of acquiring editor Cynthia Ward), plus classic science fiction from Lester del Rey and Malcolm Jameson, and two more fantasies from the legendary pulp magazine Weird Tales, by Frank Belknap Long and G.G. Pendarves.

Here’s the lineup:

Mystery / Suspense / Adventure:
“A Bird In The Hand,” by M.A. Monnin [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“A Sweet Solution,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“The Fast And The Furriest,” by Pat H. Broeske [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Kill Joy, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“The Lazarus Chronicle,” by Amy Wolf [Cynthia Ware Presents short story]
“A Code for Sam,” by Lester del Rey [short story]
“Devil’s Powder,” by Malcolm Jameson [short story]
“Werewolf of the Sahara,” by G. G. Pendarves [novella]
“The Space-Eaters,” by Frank Belknap Long [novella]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781479479283

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

A BIRD IN THE HAND, by M.A. Monnin

A SWEET SOLUTION, by Hal Charles

THE FAST AND THE FURRIEST, by Pat H. Broeske

KILL JOY, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE LAZARUS CHRONICLE, by Amy Wolf

A CODE FOR SAM, by Lester del Rey

DEVIL’S POWDER, by Malcolm Jameson

WEREWOLF OF THE SAHARA, by G. G. Pendarves

THE SPACE-EATERS, by Frank Belknap Longv

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

A Bird in Hand is copyright © 2022 by M. A. Monnin and appears here for the first time.

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

The Fast and the Furriest is copyright © 2017 by Pat H. Broeske. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July/August 2017. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Kill Joy, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding, is copyright © 1942 by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding.

The Lazarus Chronicle is copyright © 1994 by Amy Wolf. Originally published in Realms of Fantasy, December 1994. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A Code for Sam is copyright © 1966 by Lester del Rey. Originally published in Worlds of If, November 1966. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Devil’s Powder originally appeared in Astounding Science-Fiction, June 1941.

Copyright © 1941, 1969 by Street & Smith.

Werewolf of the Sahara originally appeared in Weird Tales, August-September 1936.

The Space-Eaters is copyright © 1928 by Frank Belknap Long. Originally published in Weird Tales, July 1928. Reprinted with the kind permission and assistance of Lily Doty,. Mansfield M. Doty, and the family of Frank Belknap Long.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #41.

Lots of great reading this time—including a classic mystery novel by Elizabeth Sanxay Holding. Once you finish it, you can cruise through an original blackmail story by M.A. Monnin set in Germany (thanks to acquiring editor Michael Bracken), then Pat H. Broeske has a Hollywood tale of a missing classic Cadillac (thanks to acquiring editor Barb Goffman). Plus, of course, we have our Hal Charles solve-it-yourself tale.

For science fiction and fantasy fans, we have a historical fantasy from Amy Wolf (courtesy of acquiring editor Cynthia Ward), plus classic science fiction from Lester del Rey and Malcolm Jameson, and two more fantasies from the legendary pulp magazine Weird Tales, by Frank Belknap Long and G.G. Pendarves.

Here’s the lineup:

Mystery / Suspense / Adventure:

A Bird In The Hand, by M.A. Monnin [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

A Sweet Solution, by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

The Fast And The Furriest, by Pat H. Broeske [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Kill Joy, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Lazarus Chronicle, by Amy Wolf [Cynthia Ware Presents short story]

A Code for Sam, by Lester del Rey [short story]

Devil’s Powder, by Malcolm Jameson [short story]

Werewolf of the Sahara, by G. G. Pendarves [novella]

The Space-Eaters, by Frank Belknap Long [novella]

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ACQUIRING EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

A BIRD IN THE HAND,

by M.A. Monnin

Michael St. Killian logged into the computer at the shared desk for adjunct University of Maryland faculty in the Education Center office on Ramstein Air Base. Hmm. Only three students enrolled in his Palatinate History class. Hopefully it would fill, at least enough to be a go. PI jobs had been scarce. His part-time position with the University of Maryland didn’t buy much schnitzel, but it did keep him from paying German taxes under the Status of Forces Agreement, and it allowed him to exercise his benefits as an Air Force retiree.

A good life. How many people could retire with benefits from one career at thirty-nine, and be free to pursue a second one while enjoying retirement pay? Thank you, Uncle Sam.

Michael, Talia, the U of M secretary said from her desk across the room, did you hear Rose is leaving her husband? She’s going back to the States to stay with her parents.

He glanced at Rose’s desk. It was empty. He hadn’t seen the Education Center Program Coordinator in several days.

Don’t say anything, Talia said. I’m not supposed to know.

Won’t tell a soul, he promised.

When the phone rang, Talia answered, then put the caller on hold. This one’s for you.

Got it. He picked up, hitting the single lit button on the desk phone. St. Killian, he said. Maybe it was an eager history major needing an elective.

Senior Master Sergeant St. Killian? The male voice on the other end was commanding, older, didn’t sound like anyone in need of an undergraduate course.

Retired now. Just St. Killian, he replied.

A moment of silence stretched out.

This is Colonel Lawrence Lyttle.

Colonel Lyttle, commander of one of the Communication Squadrons on base. Definitely not interested in undergraduate courses.

Yes sir, St. Killian said, remembering from the colonel’s interview in the base paper that he had a son. One probably looking at college soon. What can I do for you?

When Colonel Lyttle let another moment of silence hang in the air, St. Killian helped him out. Looking to get your son into some classes?

No, I was calling in regard to your other profession. Major Bianchi recommends you highly.

St. Killian glanced at Talia, knowing she was listening to his half of the conversation. No problem, I can take care of that. I can come talk to him, give him some recommendations.

You didn’t make full bird colonel without being quick on the uptake. My quarters at seventeen hundred. There was a moment’s silence. If that works for you.

The awkward addition of consideration showed that the colonel was more used to telling than asking.

Fine. What subjects are we talking about?

Another moment stretched out on the other end of the phone. A photo.

Right. See you then. St. Killian hung up and saw Talia quickly study the stack of files in front of her.

He picked up his leather jacket from the back of his chair. Convince more students to take my class, he told her as he left. I don’t know if my Palatinate History is going to be a go.

I’ll make it sound fascinating, she called as he left the office.

It is, he called back.

Blackmail. Things were looking up.

* * * *

Base housing on Ramstein consisted mostly of townhouses, not like the solidly-built apartment buildings he’d lived in, four stories high with three stairwells each. An Army brat, he’d spent most of his life in one after another at American military installations across Germany. Enlisted in certain neighborhoods, officers in others. Full bird colonels got more square footage.

Ascertaining Lyttle’s quarters, St. Killian parked a street away, then walked to the house. He wasn’t going to disrupt what little privacy his client had by parking in front. Military bases were like small towns, where residents noticed anything new or different.

At five o’clock on the dot, St. Killian rang the doorbell. Some military habits had relaxed since retirement. Promptness was not one of them.

A small woman with short sandy hair let him in. He dismissed the possibility that she was Mrs. Lyttle. There was none of the take-charge, professional woman or career officer’s wife about her. A maid or housekeeper then.

She led him into the living room, where the colonel stood looking out the window at the street. Lyttle turned at his entry.

Thank you, Vicki. When she went to the kitchen at the back of the house, Lyttle took St. Killian’s measure.

If the problem had anything to do with official US business, St. Killian would report it to Bianchi, head of the Office of Special Investigations on base. OSI handled everything from drugs to espionage.

Bianchi speaks highly of you, Lyttle said.

How long would it take him to get to the subject at hand? Did he recommend me for this job?

No. Drink? Lyttle asked, going to a fine cherrywood cabinet. He opened the upper doors, revealing a mirrored bar. A respectable selection of alcohol bottles was reflected in the mirror. Lyttle picked up a bottle of Jagermeister.

Beer? St. Killian suggested.

I should stick to something lighter too. Lyttle moved to the open doorway between the dining room and kitchen. Vicki, two Lowenbrau please.

In the silence, the click of metal against glass could be heard, then the sandy haired woman deposited two open bottles onto the dining room table before returning to the kitchen.

Lyttle picked them up by the necks. Handing one to St. Killian, he gestured with the other toward two comfortable leather chairs on the living room side, away from the kitchen. Have a seat.

St. Killian accepted the offered bottle and sat. He could be patient.

In silence, the colonel took out his wallet and removed a folded sheet of paper. He passed it to St. Killian.

After setting the bottle on an alabaster coaster on the end table at his side, St. Killian unfolded the paper. A printed photograph. Pretty mild, as far as blackmail went. The photo was of a dark-haired teen, kneeling beside a bicycle. A pricey Trek. With his hands on the bike lock, he looked furtively over his shoulder.

The photo captured the kid’s caught-in-the-act expression. St. Killian knew there’d been a rash of high-end bicycle thefts on base over the last two months.

He looked up at the colonel. Your son?

Lyttle nodded. Ian. He’s fourteen.

St. Killian said. Any reason to think Ian is involved?

He says not. But he knows bicycles. Has a Specialized road bike himself.

St. Killian glanced back at the page in his hand. At the bottom, crudely drawn, were several social media logos.

The social media icons indicate that the photo is a threat. Someone wants to broadcast the idea that your son is the bike thief. Whether he is or not.

Yes. Lyttle gazed introspectively into his beer.

Easy enough to check. St. Killian called a friend in the police squadron and found out the bike that had been recently stolen was a dark blue Specialized, taken Tuesday night. After listening to a few more details on the thefts, he clicked off, then said, Tuesday night. Do you know where Ian was?

Home. Vicki can confirm it.

But not the colonel, he noticed. The photo in question had most likely been taken by cell phone, sent to an email address, then printed. Nothing simpler.

Ian says he’s not the bike thief. Do you know who took the photo?

Lyttle set his beer down and stared out the window once again. I have no idea. It came to the house, addressed to me. Vicki brought it in. That’s all that was in the envelope.

When was it taken?

Ian refuses to say. Right now the situation between Russia and Ukraine has us all on edge. Something like this, he turned and indicated the photo, is an unnecessary distraction.

If the colonel’s son developed a reputation for trouble, Lyttle’s career might take a hit. While he digested that, St. Killian’s gaze strayed to a large white beer stein capped by an ornate hinged metal lid. An image of an old-fashioned key, with the flags of the US, Germany, Russia, France, and Ukraine sprouting from it decorated the mug front and center. ‘In Honor of Accomplishing the Impossible’ was written on a gold outlined ribbon below the key.

The colonel saw his raised eyebrows. Tacky, isn’t it? Lyttle said, sitting in the leather seat next to him.

Souvenir from a past command? St. Killian guessed.

Lyttle nodded with a smile of fond remembrance. A going away gift from the group at the Consulate. For turning around a tricky situation. Those Russians like to talk a good game, but they’re appreciative of a little behind-the-scenes help. With his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands loosely. Funny, I can work wonders with some subtle diplomacy but am at a loss where my son is concerned.

St. Killian refolded the page and returned it to Lyttle. Taking out his phone, he brought up his notes app.

Let’s start with the basics. Is this a one off, or has he done it before? What I’m getting at, he said, is this. Do you get the sense that someone’s giving you a head’s up about Ian, or are they trying to use the photo as some kind of leverage? Has anyone made any demands of you?

No.

The question is, who would want to cause difficulties by circulating the photo? What would they have to gain? Embarrassment for your son, or for you?

"That is the question." Colonel Lyttle looked him square in the eye, concerned father replaced by effective military leader who expected results.

At the clang of a pot lid in the kitchen, St. Killian asked, Who all is in your household? Wife, housekeeper, kids?

Just Ian and Vicki. Vicki is my full-time housekeeper. She’s been with me for three years, ever since Marcia was diagnosed with cancer.

Any trouble with her?

Lyttle expelled an impatient breath. I denied Vicki’s request for a week off. I’m not sure when I might have to go TDY. Ian’s old enough to stay alone, but with the situation in Ukraine, I’d feel better if she stayed.

St. Killian nodded. I’ll start with Ian.

Lyttle pointed out back.

The kid was on the terrace, slowly turning the pedals of a bicycle that rested upside down on a bike stand.

St. Killian slid the glass door open and stepped out.

Ian looked up.

Hi, Ian. I’m Michael St. Killian. With the Base Education Office, he said to break the ice. Any interest in taking a course over the summer?

Ian shook the hair out of his eyes. I’m just a freshman.

So not interested in diving into Palatinate history? Frederick Barbarossa? St. Killian grinned while he said it.

Ian stopped the pedals rotating with the flat of his hand. No.

How are you adjusting to life here in Ramstein? Doing okay in school? He kept his gaze on Ian until the kid blinked and looked back at the bike.

Ian shrugged. It’s okay. I wish we were back in Frankfurt.

Friends? St. Killian asked.

Yes.

Frankfurt is what, an hour, hour and a half away? He’d driven it not too long ago.

Like we’ll ever go back.

Been to the Teen Center yet? You’ll make more friends here.

They’re different from diplomat’s kids.

Probably true since the Lyttles had come from a smaller duty station, the American community centered on the US Consulate in Frankfurt. Even with the other internationals, Ian’s circle of friends would have been much smaller than here. The Kaiserslautern area, which included Ramstein, was home to the largest US community outside the United States.

Nice bike, St. Killian said. Your father showed me the photo.

Ian looked at him blandly.

There’s been a rash of bike thefts across the base over the past few weeks. Know anything about that?

Ian squeezed a bottle of WD-40 Bike Lube onto the bike chain and resumed rotating the pedals. This Specialized flies. What would I want with a Trek?

Kicks. Boredom. I was an Army brat. I know what it’s like to move every few years.

Ian actually looked interested for the first time. Yeah?

I had to watch myself, St. Killian said. That’s the thing about being a brat. Life is complex. He didn’t want to preach. What tactic would get Ian to open up? Your dad told me your mother passed away. That’s rough.

So, what, are you a counselor now?

Might pay more, St. Killian quipped. Seriously, I teach. I suppose elements of counseling bleed over.

Accepting that, Ian shrugged. We’ve got Vicki. She came to my band concert. She’s been great since my mom...

St. Killian picked up a stray pebble from the terrace and threw it into the grass. Someone is watching you pretty closely. Any idea who took the photo?

A guy at school. I wasn’t stealing it. The teen tilted his head, his eyes wary, as if to gauge whether St. Killian would believe him. It has a Shimano geartrain. I’ve been having trouble with mine and was just checking it out. That was last week.

And this guy’s thinking to finger you as the bike thief? Wouldn’t be the first time a new kid got picked on, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Ian shrugged again. "No. I mean, Tony thought I was trying to steal it. He sent the photo to a bunch of the high schoolers. And me. But we’re okay now. Tony’s okay. He knows bikes."

Nodding at the chain that glistened with fresh oil, St. Killian commented, So now you’re friends.

Ian capped the WD-40 squeeze bottle and looked up. Tony didn’t do it. He couldn’t have anyway. He lives off base. Rides the bus.

St. Killian had to agree. Those school bus rides to outlying towns could take an hour. A bus rider wouldn’t have time to wander around the base getting in trouble. At least not on a weekday.

The latest theft was Tuesday night, he said. Your father says you were home then. Were you?

Rolling his eyes, Ian said, How would he know? I was at a band concert at the high school.

St. Killian nodded. His contact said all the stolen bicycles were either Specialized or Cannondales. Not Treks, the bike in the photo.

He took one of his University of Maryland cards out of his wallet. You’ve got a cell phone. If you change your mind about Palatinate History, give me a call.

Inside, he walked into the kitchen. Vicki was at the counter beside the stove, chopping celery with more force than necessary.

Smells good, he said, inhaling a whiff of garlic in olive oil.

She turned. Colonel Lyttle is in the living room.

I’ve got a few questions, he said. The envelope you gave Colonel Lyttle yesterday. Where did you find it?

Pursing her lips, she slid the cut celery into the olive oil. It was in the mailbox when I came home from the commissary. I thought it was a flyer for a neighborhood sale.

What was on the envelope?

Just his name.

The colonel says Ian was home Tuesday night. Can you back that up?

She blew out a puff of air. Colonel Lyttle wasn’t home. Ian was at Ramstein High School for the band concert. I saw him with my own eyes. She glared at him. He’s a good kid. He didn’t steal any bicycle.

So, she’d seen the photo as well. Something she could use to express her displeasure at being denied a trip back home?

You recently PCS’d here, didn’t you?

We’ve been here six months. She selected an onion from a Majolica bowl on the counter.

And in Frankfurt before that. A long time since she’d lived in the States. Getting out to see the sights? Neuschwanstein Castle is beautiful this time of year. Rothenburg is one city you don’t want to miss.

Vicki sliced through the ends of the onion and discarded the peel. I’ve seen them both. If I went anywhere, I’d go to my sister’s. My nephew is graduating this month. But that’s not going to happen. She gave the onion a few swift cuts then turned it and gave it a few more.

If the way she attacked the vegetables was any indication, she might have sent the photo out of anger.

Some might opt to quit to solve that problem, he prompted.

After sliding the onion into the pan, Vicki picked up a wooden spoon and stirred vigorously.

He watched until her hand, and the spoon, slowed to steady, calm, circles.

No, she said, I’ll be fine. I’ll visit later in the summer. Ian might come with me.

So, you and he get along.

She smiled. We do.

He left her there in her domain, then returned to the living room and shook his head at Lyttle’s inquiring glance.

Ian wasn’t home on Tuesday, but that’s not a problem, he said.

A flicker of surprise lit the colonel’s eyes.

Vicki confirmed he was at the high school, at a band concert, St. Killian said. She’s adapted, made other arrangements. Doesn’t seem like she’s harboring any ill will. None that couldn’t be expressed by her cooking.

And? Lyttle demanded.

The bike stolen on Tuesday was a Specialized. The one in the photo is a Trek. All of the stolen bicycles have been either Specialized or Cannondales. Ian had nothing to do with the thefts. An older kid at the school took the photo.

Lyttle was all action with an identifiable enemy. Did you find out who it is? We’ll nip this in the bud.

It’s not that simple, St. Killian said. The kid didn’t drop the photo in your mailbox. And the photo has been circulating around the high school. Which means parents could have seen it.

Lyttle’s face fell. It could be anyone on base.

We can narrow it down. Ian’s been cleared of the thefts, so if the point of the photo was to cause him trouble, the incident is over. The bad news is that trouble for Ian, by extension, means trouble for you. Without any demands, we don’t know what the sender’s intention is. Anyone who might want to send you a veiled threat? Anyone with a reason to pressure you? Embarrass you?

Lyttle set down his empty beer bottle. Not pressure. Embarrass? Maybe a few. Not everyone appreciated my willingness to help the Russians out of a jam.

The tricky situation, St. Killian thought, his glance going momentarily to the beer stein.

Why wait until now, if that’s the case, and why use your son? he asked.

Good point. There are others who’d enjoy my discomfort.

Names?

Colonel Kathleen Hill, Lyttle said. She wanted my position, but they brought me in from the consulate in Frankfurt instead.

If you were transferred, the position would be open again. A second chance for her.

Lyttle shook his head. I can’t believe she’d stoop to petty blackmail. Then there is my aide. He’s made it clear he’s not satisfied where he is. Captain C.J. Flint. He’d prefer to work with someone who keeps a higher profile. A position that will assist him in moving up the chain. Any official embarrassment for me gives him an excuse to request a transfer.

Next on the books, Colonel Hill, who resented Lyttle getting the job. Badly enough to stoop to blackmail? That remained to be seen.

* * * *

St. Killian caught Colonel Kathleen Hill just outside of USAFE HQ. She was all business, her bright brown hair tucked up under her cap according to regs. After returning the salute of a passing airman, she cocked her head in St. Killian’s direction.

It could be because he waited near her car, a sensible Toyota Avalon.

Are you looking for me? She stopped, standing as still and straight as if she were at attention.

Colonel Hill? he asked, though he could read her nametag and saw the birds on the epaulets of her blue uniform.

Yes?

She looked impatient. Probably got her fair share of men waylaying her. Under the hat brim, intelligent brown eyes took his measure. Had her looks been a disadvantage, causing higher ups to dismiss her? Maybe once too often, and this last time she’d given in to venting her frustration.

I’m Michael St. Killian. Used to be with OSI here on base. Now I do PI work. He flipped open his ID wallet, showing his PI license opposite his retired military ID.

She read it carefully, her curiosity engaged. Yes?

I’d like to talk to you about Colonel Lyttle.

She pursed her lips. Yes?

Not very talkative, but she could make that one word bend to her will. Being blunt wasn’t going to work if she’d gotten vindictive over not landing the position. He wished he could lean against her car, have a more casual conversation, but her steely stare told him that wouldn’t go over well.

Are you familiar with his son, Ian?

Kathleen Hill relaxed a fraction. Yes.

Someone sent a photo of the kid to the colonel.

Alarm showed in her eyes.

Are you married? Do you have teenagers of your own? he asked.

No.

That didn’t mean she hadn’t seen the photo. Any of her coworkers could have kids at the high school and shared the incriminating photo.

Look, he said, can I buy you a drink at the O’ Club, ask a few more questions?

She glanced at her wristwatch. Yes, a watch. Quicker to ascertain the time on a watch than it was a cell phone, particularly a cell phone that was most certainly locked with a password.

She looked him up and down. All right, Mr. St. Killian. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I take my scotch on the rocks.

He drove across base to the Officers and Civilians Club. Now that he was employed as a civilian, he had access. Before he’d retired from the Air Force, it had been the NCO Club for him.

He ordered two scotches and took them to a quiet table, away from the bar where a crop of new pilots in flight suits clustered, loud and brash, letting off steam. They all looked like college kids.

Colonel Hill entered, her hat tucked under her arm. She ignored the men at the bar who sent her admiring glances. Those the female pilots sent her way showed respect for her rank.

The Colonel sat, pulling her chair closer to the black cloth-covered table.

What was in the photo? she asked.

Nothing major, he replied. Know anyone who would want to embarrass Colonel Lyttle?

She savored a sip of her scotch. "Do you mean would I want to embarrass Larry? No."

He’s picked up on the fact that you resent his getting the Squadron Commander position.

A flush rose to her cheeks.

St. Killian pressed his advantage. If Colonel Lyttle was assigned elsewhere, his spot as commander would open up. You’d have another shot. This photo of Ian could prove an embarrassment to the Colonel. Especially if it were shared on social media.

Colonel Hill knocked her scotch back, then set the glass down carefully. I would never use anyone’s family to get ahead professionally. Certainly not by posting on social media. If you want to investigate the Lyttles, start with Larry. Standing up, she tucked her hat beneath her bent arm. A little indiscretion by his son is nothing. You might ask who Larry’s been meeting with after hours.

How did Hill know Lyttle was meeting anyone? She was assigned to a different squadron altogether.

St. Killian finished his scotch at a more relaxed pace than Kathleen Hill had. Colonel Hill didn’t strike him as the type to be ignored by her commanding officers. Or underestimated. He had to agree with Lyttle. Colonel Kathleen Hill wasn’t one to resort to blackmail to get what she wanted.

So, what had she meant about those Lyttle met with?

Captain Flint was the person to ask. A task for the morning.

* * * *

St. Killian showed up at Colonel Lyttle’s office at 7:30am. As he’d suspected, the Colonel was at the Wing Commander’s briefing, but Flint was there.

He showed his credentials again. Can I ask a few questions? I’m looking into a situation that involves Colonel Lyttle’s son.

A glittering glimmer flamed up in the captain’s eyes, only to be firmly tamped down. Coffee? Have a seat. He gestured with his cup to a metal-framed leather chair against the wall.

St. Killian helped himself to an overturned cup on the tray near the office coffee pot and poured.

Someone delivered a troubling photo to the colonel. Any ideas who that could be?

Of Ian? The captain leaned back in his chair, rocking while he considered. He’s a good kid.

St. Killian cocked his head to the left. Someone’s trying to make it look like he’s not.

A little smile played on Flint’s lips. The Command won’t like to hear about that.

Any idea who would want to make trouble for Colonel Lyttle? Besides you, St. Killian thought.

Using his son? No.

Colonel Hill? She seems concerned with someone who Colonel Lyttle has been meeting.

The glimmer flashed in Flint’s eyes again. I wouldn’t pay attention to anything Colonel Hill says on that front. She’d like it to be her that he was meeting with.

The flush that had risen in Kathleen’s cheeks.

So, Tuesday night. Who did he meet with?

Flint looked him over, then stood up, all courtesy gone. Whatever Colonel Lyttle was doing Tuesday night, it wasn’t on official business. I can’t help you with the photo of Ian Lyttle.

* * * *

Back at the Education Office, St. Killian picked up the Stars and Stripes newspaper from Talia’s inbox and dropped it on his desk. Rose was there, with a brand-new potted plant on her desk. An odd thing to add if she was putting in her notice.

Nice plant, Rose, he said.

Behind Rose’s head, Talia mimed for him to zip his lips, shaking her head frantically. She stopped abruptly when Rose turned to look.

It’s an airplane plant. Before too long, it should sprout babies. I’ll repot them and you can both have one for your desks, too, Rose said.

What’s that take, a few months? St. Killian grabbed his coffee cup, enjoying Talia’s efforts to look busy.

At least. Maybe a year. We’ll see.

So Rose wasn’t leaving her husband and returning to the States. Gossip. Half-truths interpreted for a moment’s entertainment. No telling where Talia heard that. He wasn’t going to ask.

After filling his cup, he returned to the desk. Someone wanted Colonel Lyttle under their thumb. The problem was, there were plenty of motives to go around, and not one of them overly compelling. Vicki, the housekeeper, disgruntled at missing her nephew’s graduation, but planning to visit during the summer. With Ian. Ian himself, angry about the PCS move away from friends, a typical teenage attitude, but one that usually worked itself out when new friends were made. He’d befriended Tony, who’d taken the photo. Captain Flint relished Lyttle’s predicament, but quickly rallied at any question of the Colonel’s behavior.

And Colonel Hill? Resentful that Lyttle had gotten the job she’d hoped for. Ian making a name as a troublemaker might get Lyttle quietly reassigned elsewhere, giving her another go at Squadron Commander. But colonels were a dime a dozen on Ramstein. That was a long shot at best, and with Lyttle’s experience at the Frankfurt Consulate, it was unlikely a son’s indiscretion would convince USAFE to part with him. He was valuable in the multi-national NATO community at Ramstein.

Leaving the problem to percolate, St. Killian perused the paper. Russians were protesting Putin’s invasion of the Ukraine. Not that any protests would be heeded by the top man in Moscow. Colonel Lyttle might know something about that, St. Killian thought, remembering the Ukrainian flag on the beer stein.

Talia interrupted his musings. Got two more lined up for your class. They needed electives so I talked you up. You owe me.

I do, St. Killian said. I’ll treat you to dinner tonight.

Rain check. Joe and I are going to the club with Sarah and her husband. Getting away from the kids for a night, in case the guys get deployed.

The invasion of Ukraine was on everyone’s mind, a tension so thick it permeated the air, sharp and acrid as a forest fire. It showed in the nervous energy of the pilots at the O’ Club, in Colonel Lyttle’s concern over a photo that could be explained away.

St. Killian flipped to page two of the paper. More on Russia. No surprise there. His gaze stopped on a photo of the Russian ambassador to Germany. It wasn’t the ambassador he focused on, but a woman behind him on the steps of the Russian Embassy.

The caption identified her the Russian Consul in Frankfurt. Someone Colonel Lawrence Lyttle might have helped out in a tricky situation. St. Killian flipped back to the front page and the article on Russian protests against Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. It wasn’t only the Americans who were tense. Hell, all of Europe and the world was tense. And the colonel was known for turning around a bad situation. Could the Russian Consul be returning his favor?

Tall, with short blond hair that came to her chin, dressed in a red suit, both professional and stylish. A woman who might inspire jealousy.

He folded the newspaper and took a last gulp of coffee. I’ll be back, he told Talia.

Hey, don’t take the paper, I haven’t read it yet!

Catch it online, he called over his shoulder.

Lyttle was occupied, so he went to Hill’s office. She was less than happy at his appearance.

Yes, what is it?

He closed the door and held out the newspaper, folded so that only the blond Consul’s photo was displayed. Is this who you saw Colonel Lyttle with?

He saw the recognition in her eyes, and her