Mystery Tribune / Issue Nº18

By Brendan DuBois, Dennis McFadden, Robert Pope and 5 more

Issue Nº18 features:

A curated collection of short fiction including stories by Brendan DuBois, Dennis McFadden, Robert Pope, Charles Cline, Davin Ireland, Andrew Riconda, Kevin Egan, and Steve Loiaconi.

Essays, Interviews and Reviews by Matthew Mercier, Erica Wright, Alex Segura, Christopher McGinley, and Scott Adlerberg,

Art and Photography by Nicolas Bruno.

This issue also features a preview of the new graphic novel Mamo by Sas Milledge.

NY Times Bestselling author Reed Farrel Coleman has called Mystery Tribune “a cut above” and mystery grand masters Lawrence Block and Max Allan Collins have praised it for its “solid fiction” and “the most elegant design”.

An elegantly crafted quarterly issue, printed on uncoated paper and with a beautiful layout designed for optimal reading experience, our Issue Nº18 issue will make a perfect companion or gift for avid mystery readers and fans of literary crime fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystery Tribune
• Release date: Sep 6, 2022

Book preview

Inside Cover

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ISSUE NO. 18

MysteryTribune

AUGUST-SEPTEMBER 2022

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Page 4-5

MysteryTribune

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P.O. Box 7638, New York, NY 10116 / email [e-mail]

To subscribe go to mysterytribune.com or call [phone]

Publisher and Managing Editor

Ehsan Ehsani

Associate Editor

Elena Manatina

Contributing Editor(s)

J. B. Stevens, Allen J. Sheinman

Cover Illustration

Travis Constantine

Design and Art Direction

Leo Lipsnis

Subscriptions and Advertising

Rachel Kester

IT Manager

Jack Rodriguez

Contributors

Brendan DuBois, Dennis McFadden, Robert Pope, Charles Cline, Davin Ireland, Andrew Riconda, Kevin Egan, Steve Loiaconi, Matthew Mercier, Erica Wright, Alex Segura, Christopher McGinley, Scott Adlerberg

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Page 7

Contents

ISSUE NO. 18

AUGUST-SEPTEMBER 2022

Editor’s Note

Ehsan Ehsani

Ehsan Ehsani

Publisher and Managing Editor

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I’m excited to let you know that in this issue, our cover is based on a short story from Brendan Dubois: The Landscaper’s Wife is yet again a masterful piece of fiction and also marks his 200th published short story. Brendan has been so kind to us over the years and we have published many of his recent works. If you haven’t read them, you should! and if you have, you should re-read them as they are always delightful to re-visit.

Kevin Egan and Robert Pope are two of other fine writers that we have had the pleasure of working with before: their fine stories in Issue #18 are must-read. The rest of the short fiction pieces, as well as art and photography and essays in this issue are equally great.

As I’m writing these lines, I’m preparing for a long trip to Iceland: this is m-y first time in the country and I don’t know what to expect. It might turn out to be an amazing experience or I might end up sitting on a bench at the edge of Reykjavík, looking at the isolated landscape outside the city, and wonder why didn’t I go to Paris?. I guess I’ll find out soon... I will tell you all about the Iceland adventures, whales, glaciers and local mysteries in the next issue after I’m back.

I’m going to conclude by thanking you again for supporting Mystery Tribune as a reader: don’t forget to give the gift of #goodmystery by telling your friends. /MT

Page 11The Landscaper’s Wife

Fiction

The Landscaper’s Wife

by Brendan DuBois

It was a late spring day when my landscaper—Hiram Grant—took a mid-morning break and came up on my porch, where I was sitting in one of the two wooden rocking chairs with my cane held between my legs. Hiram was solid, built wide, wearing soiled khaki pants tucked into muddy Wellington boots and a gray hoodie on top.

The sleeves of the hoodie were pushed back, revealing long beefy forearms and dark tattoos. He had a thick full beard and the top of his head was razored tight, leaving just a faint stubble. One of his upper canine teeth was missing, leaving a dark gap.

Out in front, along the shoreline of my small man-made pond, Hiram’s assistant Cray Lister was raking out dead leaves from the pond’s bottom. Cray had been working for Hiram since getting out on parole from the state prison in Concord two years earlier.

We rocked silently in the chairs silence for a couple of minutes, the azalea bushes and holly in front of us now high enough to block the view of the pond. Even after having moved here more than five years ago, I still found it hard to adjust to how quiet everything was. The Granite State was known for lots of things—from cheap state booze to its presidential primary—and closed-mouth neighbors was one of them. My closest neighbor, Sally Turner, her husband Bob had been dead and buried for a year before I found out, only because mail going to him had ended up in my mailbox.

At the time Sally had shrugged and said, Didn’t want to bother you none, that’s all.

Hiram coughed, which was usually a sign that he was going to say something.

Well, he said.

Yes?

Maura still taking good care of you?

I said, Yes, of course.

Maura was Hiram’s wife and my housekeeper, who came in every week to vacuum, dust, wash the floors and countertops, and move things around so I couldn’t find them later.

Good.

Out in front, along the shoreline of my small man-made pond, Hiram’s assistant Cray Lister was raking out dead leaves from the pond’s bottom.

A few more minutes passed. I wondered if that bit was going to be this morning’s message of the day.

I was wrong.

He said, You see how much gas prices have gone up?

That I have.

I mean, I know you don’t drive around much, but I sometimes drive up to an hour to take care of my old-time customers. Not new ones, Christ, I’m only taking on new customers who live within ten minutes of me, but it used to cost me forty bucks to fill up the tank for one of my trucks, and now it’s close to a hundred. But it’s not just gas, it’s anything with oil, like fertilizer and plastic parts. My idiot helper Cray two weeks ago ran over one of my rakes. Last year it cost me fifteen bucks and now it’s twenty-eight. Everything’s going up.

I nodded. I saw where this was going. Hiram and I had a deal that he got paid a hundred dollars a week, week after week, without him sending me an invoice and me getting lawn mowing, tree trimming, gutter cleaning, and snowplowing in return without having to ask.

But his costs were going up.

I was going to be reasonable.

Go ahead, Hiram, I said.

He heaved himself out of the chair.

I need to start charging you more, sorry.

I understand.

Hiram looked out at Cray, still raking my pond.

Glad to hear that, John, he said. Starting next Friday, it’s going to be a thousand dollars.

My mouth went dry.

A week?

He clomped down the front porch steps. Hell, no, I’m not that unreasonable. A thousand a month. In cash. Prefer hundreds, if that’s okay.

I didn’t say anything.

His empty chair kept rocking back and forth for a while.

That night I was alone out on my porch, most of the lights off so that the night insects wouldn’t be attracted to come over and bother me. In my right hand I held a tumbler of Jameson’s and ice cubes. I really craved a nice craft beer from California—like a Lost Abbey Cable Car or an Anchorage Wendigo—but I’ve not had a single Californian beer since moving to New Hampshire five years ago. I still occasionally liked a store-bought beer like Sam Adams or Michelob, but those were watery imitations of what I really craved.

The Jameson’s and ice was unsatisfactory replacement since in my prior life in California, not once I had ever sipped on a whiskey.

I took a swallow, shivered some as the icy burning feeling traveled down my throat.

What was Hiram up to?

Why the sudden and drastic price increase?

I stayed outside, watched the fireflies dance and swirl out there, and decided I didn’t have enough information to make a guess as to what was going on with my landscape.

Another sip.

Out in the woods to the side of my yard—separating me from my other neighbors, the McAdams—there was a harsh shriek from some animal that repeated itself twice before getting quiet again.

Quiet it was.

Other night birds and animals had immediately shut up, not wanting to draw attention to themselves to what bloody business was going on.

Like being in the yard at San Quentin, seeing somebody getting shanked, and instantly turning around to look at the position of the sun in the sky, or bending over to tie your shoes.

That’s what it was like.

I finished my whiskey, grabbed my cane and leaned into it as I got back into the house.

I left the cane at the side of the door, tossed the ice cubes from my tumbler into the sink, and washed, rinsed, and dried the glass.

Next was a careful stroll through the house, making sure the windows and the three doors—the front door, the kitchen door at the rear, and the one leading into the garage—were all locked.

They were.

There was one more door, leading into the cellar.

No need to check that.

It was always locked.

Two days later I was outside again on my porch, washing four skinny paint brushes in two small plastic buckets—one with tepid soapy water and the other with tepid rinse water—and slowly took my time, washing, rinsing, and repeating when necessary. When I was satisfied that they were clean, I would next pat them dry with a paper towel and then let them lie out on the porch to dry.

I looked up when a black Ford Ranger pickup truck came up my driveway and stopped. The door opened up and Maura Grant stepped out, Hiram’s wife and my housecleaner. She had on black stretch yoga shorts, a Red Sox T-shirt, and sandals. Her thick hair was black and trimmed to shoulder length, and she reached into the truck bed, picked up a vacuum cleaner and a bulging bag carrying her cleaning supplies. The first time she came here, a year after I had moved in, I went to help her and she had smirked and said, You’re the one with the cane. Go away or I’ll kick it out from under you.

She came up the flagstone path to the porch and said, What room should I skip today?

The studio I said.

Maura paused. That’s the third time in a row I haven’t done that messy shithole.

That’s because I know where everything is and don’t want it moved.

Maura showed a familiar smile. Okay. This time. No studio. But one of these days your paint tubes and those rags are gonna light off from spontaneous combustion, and you’ll remember this conversation, and you’ll think, ‘damn, should have listened to Maura.’

I twirled my cane again in my hands. I think that every day.

Doubt it, she said, walking past me. Her toenails were painted bright red.

I got back to work.

Two and a half hours later I was reading Doris Kearns Goodwin’s latest work of history, when Maura came out to join me on the porch. It had gotten warmer and she had taken off her Red Sox T-shirt and her sandals. Her face was flushed with sweat, her perfect hair was matted some, and she was wearing a black sports bra to go with her tight yoga shorts.

She said, Everything’s done, except your studio. And your sacred cellar. Why is that door always locked?

That’s where I bury the bodies, I said.

Not funny the first time, not funny the tenth, she said. She stroked a piece of wet hair across her forehead. The black sports bra looked very nice on her tanned body.

Off to take a shower.

Sounds good.

Two minutes later I got up to the bathroom, heard the water running in the shower. I leaned the cane up against the near vanity, stripped, and gently slid open the shower curtain. Maura was in the middle of washing her hair and turned and smiled at me.

Do your back? I asked, stepping in. Do your front?

A nice inviting grin came my way. She ducked her head under the shower head, the streams of water and soap running down her curves, and she slipped into my hug and kissed me.

But some jokes last forever, she said, one hand reaching down to squeeze my butt.

Page 19

Later we were in my bed, cuddling. She idly played with my chest hairs. You know what I like about your cane and injured hip?

It stirs up your maternal instincts and makes you want to take care of me?

As if, she said. Having two of Hiram’s sons has knocked out any maternal instinct I may have possessed. No, the reason I like your banged-up hip is that I like being on top, riding along like a cowgirl. Hiram would never allow that. It’d hurt his feelings or whatever, so he needs to be on top, grunting and grinding along like a bear in heat. Score another one for the patriarchy.

That’s a picture I’d like to forget, I said.

She laughed, tugged at a few chest hairs. Good luck with that. Hey, can you see the time?

It’s two o’clock.

’Kay, time for me to go, she said, getting up, me looking in appreciation at her body. Need to dry my hair, get dressed, be on time for my next appointment.

Don’t you get tired of Hiram keeping track of all your moves?

She padded her way nude to the bathroom. I do, but I might have some slack time coming up in the next few weeks. I think my husband has something new coming up to keep him occupied.

What’s that?

Maura turned. For some reason, he’s coming after you, John. Hard.

Maura’s words rattled around me during the afternoon, while I tried to get some painting done in my little studio. At one time I think it had been designed for a nursery—Disney-style wallpaper and light pink trim along the baseboards—but something tragic had obviously happened before I moved in because everything else in the room was spotless, like the expected crib, drawers, and bassinet had never appeared.

The place was now a mess, and Maura always did her best, but I earlier told her that a good vacuum and dusting would suit me just fine. There were paint-splattered drop cloths on the floor, three easels—only one in use—and a stack of framed and stretched white canvasses. Two work tables were covered with Mason jars holding a variety of paintbrushes, along with tubes of oil pant, color charts, a crowded bookshelf with books about painting, especially ones for enthusiastic amateurs.

Like me.

I spent an hour working on what I could see out the well-washed windows, which was my pond. Two weeks ago I had snapped a photo of a Great Blue Heron standing and fishing in a corner of my pond, along with a bunch of cattails, and that’s what I spent my time with, listening to NPR from Concord and trying to focus.

I nearly succeeded.

With everything put away and capped—lots of expensive tubes of oil pant were tossed out earlier in my career when I forgot to put the caps back on—and after scrubbing my hands clean and drying them, I went downstairs and stopped in front of my cellar door. I punched in the five-key code and the lock snapped open, and with my cane, went down the stairs, switching on the light to illuminate what I’d been hiding all these years.

As I reached the bottom, I remembered the joking times Maura had guessed what was down here:

A wine cellar?

A man cave with the largest TV screen possible?

John’s last stand, complete with weapons and enough freeze-dried food to last five years?

And the last one—which came closer than she realized—The embalmed bodies of your enemies?

Not quite.

I switched on another set of lights, and the cellar came into focus.

A treadmill.

A speed bag.

A punching bag.

A number of weight systems.

Shelves holding a number of weights.

A framed high-definition poster of Muhammed Ali yelling at a fallen Sonny Liston to get up off the mat and continue their controversial fight in the small town of Lewiston, Maine.

Not a gun in sight.

I hate guns.

I went