Black Cat Weekly #56

By Phyllis Ann Karr, Laird Long, Carol Cail and 7 more

Black Cat Weekly's 56th issue is another done with most of the staff on vacation. But we’ve managed to pull together another great issue, including an original weird western by Phyllis Ann Karr, plus lots of other goodies.

Included this time are:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“All Men are Constructed Equal,” by Laird Long [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Murder in the Ranks,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Ghost Busters,” by Carol Cail [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“T’ang of the Suffering Dragon,” by James Holding [short story]
The Door with Seven Locks, by Edgar Wallace [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“I’ll Have You Know,” is copyright © 2019 by Charlie Jane Anders [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“One-Eyed Queens,” is copyright © 2022 by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
“From Beyond the Stars,” by Murray Leinster [short story]
“The Sky Was Full of Ships,” by Theodore Sturgeon [short story]
One of Three, by George O. Smith [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Sep 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667640471

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

ALL MEN ARE CONSTRUCTED EQUAL, by Laird Long

MURDER IN THE RANKS, by Hal Charles

GHOST BUSTERS, by Carol Cail

T’ANG OF THE SUFFERING DRAGON, by James Holding

THE DOOR WITH SEVEN LOCKS, by Edgar Wallace

MEET EDGAR WALLACE

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

I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW, by Charlie Jane Anders

ONE-EYED QUEENS, by Phyllis Ann Karr

FROM BEYOND THE STARS, by Murray Leinster

THE SKY WAS FULL OF SHIPS, by Theodore Sturgeon

ONE OF THREE, by George O. Smith

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

All Men are Constructed Equal is copyright © 2003, 2022 by Laird Long. A previous version appeared in Albedo One #27, May 2003. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Murder in the Ranks is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Ghost Busters is copyright © 2017 by Carol Cail. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Nov/Dec 2017. Reprinted by permission of the author.

T’ang of the Suffering Dragon is copyright © 1971 by James Holding. Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 1971. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Door with Seven Locks, by Edgar Wallace, originally appeared in 1926.

I’ll Have You Know, is copyright © 2019 by Charlie Jane Anders. Originally published in MIT Technology Review. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

One-Eyed Queens, is copyright © 2022 by Phyllis Ann Karr and appears here for the first time.

From Beyond the Stars, by Murray Leinster, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1947.

The Sky Was Full of Ships, by Theodore Sturgeon, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1947.

One of Three, by George O. Smith, was originally published in Startling Stories, March 1948, under the pseudonym Wesley Long.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 56th issue is another done with most of the staff on vacation. But we’ve managed to pull together another good issue, including an original weird western by Phyllis Ann Karr, plus lots of other goodies. Special thanks, as always, to our Acquiring Editors (Michael Bracken, Barb Goffman, and Cynthia Ward) for finding great stories, and to Sam Hogan, who did much of the production work.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

All Men are Constructed Equal, by Laird Long [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Murder in the Ranks, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Ghost Busters, by Carol Cail [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

T’ang of the Suffering Dragon, by James Holding [short story]

The Door with Seven Locks, by Edgar Wallace [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

I’ll Have You Know, is copyright © 2019 by Charlie Jane Anders [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

One-Eyed Queens, is copyright © 2022 by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]

From Beyond the Stars, by Murray Leinster [short story]

The Sky Was Full of Ships, by Theodore Sturgeon [short story]

One of Three, by George O. Smith [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

ALL MEN ARE CONSTRUCTED EQUAL,

by Laird Long

Got what?

Johnson glanced briefly at his partner, then press-started the vehicle. We’ve got a dead man at the Montgomery place.

Hudu raised his eyebrows. Harlan Montgomery’s place?

That’s it.

Hudu flipped down his helmet visor, scrolled through the report. Attempted burgle. Man killed. He grunted. Self-defense—construct.

Johnson nodded. His long, pale face was lined with worry and exhaustion. Yeah. Constructed man kills created man, i.e. android kills human. The seventh one this week in the southern sector.

Hudu flipped up his visor. I hear. He turned to look at Johnson. Maybe they’re starting a revolution—gonna take over. He grinned.

Johnson drove out of the security parking facility and into the empty, early-morning streets. He rubbed his face with his hand. Investigating the killing of a human being by a construct was a joyless task. At the back of every security officers’ mind was the age-old question: would this human be dead if constructs hadn’t been legalized?

* * * *

The security officers turned down the long, cobblestone road that was the entrance to Montgomery Farms. Willow trees, planted precisely ten meters apart, lined the road. Through them, could be glimpsed two thousand acres of prime, black-dirt agricultural land spread out over gently rolling terrain. It was one of the largest farms in the State; the relentless expansion of the cities swallowing up ever-more land. Hundreds of men were working in the fields, ignoring the blistering heat as they stooped down to pick the delicate vegetables which grew in the fertile soil.

Hudu stared at the farm workers. The men didn’t look up from their work as the vehicle passed. They worked. That’s what they were programmed to do. They would complete one row, and then start on the next, never stopping, never resting, their movements uniform, their expressions blank. All constructed? Not a one is one of God’s creatures? Hudu asked rhetorically.

Johnson jerked his head around, tightened his grip on the controls. He was trying to rehearse the upcoming interview—Harlan Montgomery was an important man. His money and land were important to the State. Huh? Oh yeah, the whole workforce is mechanized. Technology, you know. Leland Johnson was a short, round man. He had faded, blue eyes, shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair, thinning on top, and an egg-shaped and colored face. He hadn’t been in direct sunlight since he was a child. He couldn’t handle the UV rays. Most of the time, he kept his visor, and his head, down. He had the sharp, biting wit of someone who’s been picked on early and often in life. He had always wanted to be a security officer, and had been one for ten years now.

Joe Hudu, on the other hand, was a man of few words but plenty of action when the time was right. He handled most of the muscle and the leg work. He was tall, thick, and dark-skinned. His hair was shaved rather than cut, and his dark, brown eyes held a complacent challenge. Hudu’s great-grandfather had told him stories about working the soil—owning a piece of land. That had been a long time ago, in the days before corporations and machines had taken over. Nowadays, even when you died you couldn’t get a piece of land to call your own. You were burned and stacked.

The Montgomery complex came into view at the top of a slight hill. The house was a large, stone structure built at the turn of the century, square, grey, and featureless. The storage warehouses for the produce and the equipment dwarfed the house. Montgomery Farms was a regional player in the agri-business, but the region was pretty big. The company was one of the few that were still privately owned. The Montgomery family traced their roots back to the Puritans.

A servant showed the two officers into a large, uncomfortable living room. Furniture was sparse, the walls virtually barren of decoration. The room was cool and breathless. Out the window, the lush, green acreage stretched to the horizon.

Hudu snapped his visor down as Johnson put his up. Hudu lightly touched the record icon that floated, 3D-style, on the right side of the visor. All interviews were taped. Johnson nervously glanced at an old-fashioned grandfather clock that stood against the wall, ticking off the minutes to eternity.

Harlan Montgomery entered the room and shook hands with Johnson. He ignored Hudu. Johnson’s skin-tight, black glove recorded the fingerprints.

Mr. Montgomery, I’m Officer Johnson, and this is Officer Hudu.

Montgomery nodded. You’re of African descent, Officer Hudu? he asked blandly, looking at Johnson.

Caribbean. Hudu responded.

Montgomery nodded again, signaled for Johnson to continue.

Johnson cleared his throat. We understand that your house was broken into and—

Follow me, Montgomery commanded, turned and left the room.

Harlan Montgomery was tall and angular, and he walked with a pronounced limp, the result of one leg being shorter than the other—a birth defect, which some speculated was the result of inter-family breeding. He had lank, black hair, and a pale, oval face. His lips carried a perpetual smirk, to confirm his status relative to yours. He had a reputation as a tough businessman and an avowed racist. A lot of his views were currently in fashion.

The men walked down a long, silent corridor which led to the back of the house. The officers’ heavy boots echoed crisply on the polished plastic floors. They entered the kitchen. A man lay crumpled in a corner, like a discarded chunk of garbage. His smashed-in face was covered with blood. The gleaming, black and white tile floor provided a crude reflection. The dead man was shirtless. He wore a pair of dirty, green army pants.

There’s your criminal, officers, Montgomery remarked coolly. Too late to arrest him, I suppose.

Before the security men could respond, Montgomery walked out of the room.

Hold it! Hudu yelled. Got some questions that gotta be answered.

Montgomery stopped in the hall, came back to the kitchen entrance. Officer Johnson, Montgomery said, I’ve business to attend to, which is slightly more important than—

Dead man on your kitchen floor, and you got—

Easy, Joe. Johnson gripped his partner’s arm.

Easy come, easy Joe, Montgomery smirked.

Hudu took a step towards him.

Okay, let’s calm down, Johnson ordered. Mr. Montgomery we’re required to ask you—

As I was trying to say before I was interrupted, Montgomery interrupted, I don’t have any answers to your questions, whatever they may be. My personal assistant found this man, he waved his arm at the corpse, rummaging about in my kitchen. The thief grabbed a knife, tried to stab my servant, and my servant disarmed and subdued him. Montgomery glanced at his wristband, checking the time—there was no money to be made dickering with security men. Simon will provide you with all your information.

Johnson grimaced. Simon’s constructed?

Montgomery gave him a wan smile. He brushed some lint off his dark suit. All my workers are constructs, Officer Johnson. No union troubles, you see. He glanced at Hudu. And no disobedience.

Johnson cleared his throat again. Mr. Montgomery, you’re a prominent member of the Eugenics Party, the dead man is black, so—

Montgomery held up a slender hand. Let me stop you right there, before you embarrass yourself and the taxpayers, like myself, who keep you in uniform. My politics are my own. The vast majority of criminals in our society are blacks or of mixed race, like this man—that is a fact. There is no question that the mongrelized races will try to steal what their limited intelligence will not allow them to earn honestly. So—

Hudu cut him off. You pious son-of-a—

Simon will be here shortly, Montgomery said quickly, stopping any argument. He touched a button on his wristband. He will answer your questions and then show you out. Montgomery frowned.

A slim, perfectly-proportioned woman glided into the room and into Montgomery’s arms. She had long, shiny, black hair, and a delicate, ivory-colored face. Her nose and lips were beautifully formed. She was narrow at the waist and heavy in the chest. She wore a simple white blouse and a black skirt. Montgomery allowed her to kiss him. Then, glancing at Hudu, he roughly cupped her right breast. She giggled.

Montgomery smirked. This is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Montgomery.

How do you do, gentlemen, she said, turning to face them. Her movements would have made a Swiss jeweler envious.

Johnson coughed. He rubbed the back of his neck. Uh, good, thank you, Mrs. Montgomery. You two are, uh, legally married?

Elizabeth smiled at the men. Her teeth were perfectly sized and spaced. Everything is perfectly legal here, gentlemen.

Montgomery nodded, satisfied. Well put, my dear. His right hand drifted over her rounded buttocks.

A large man silently entered the kitchen. He stared at Montgomery, waiting for instructions.

Here is Simon, Montgomery said. He will provide you with all of the details regarding the justifiable death of this petty thief. He gestured at the body.

That man was created, Hudu hissed. Like you and me.

Montgomery shook his head. Created, yes. Like me, no.

* * * *

The security men questioned Simon, then reviewed the playback from his optic recorders. Everything happened as he said it did, as they knew it would. They saw an infra-red-illuminated figure in the darkened kitchen rummaging through the refrigerator. They saw the startled face of the intruder as he spun away from the fridge, clutching a hunk of chicken in his hand, when Simon flipped on the lights. They saw the panic-stricken man desperately grab a meat cleaver off the kitchen counter as Simon advanced on him rapidly. They saw the man slip into a defensive crouch, then the meat cleaver fly out of his hand as Simon knocked it aside. They saw the man’s face being crushed by one of Simon’s huge fists. They told Simon to stop the playback.

I guess he was fragile, Simon remarked blandly. He had a knife.

Johnson watched Hudu empty his stomach into the sink. Yeah, he had a knife all right. You didn’t have to put it in his hand, apparently, Johnson said. The guy was skin and bones, for Christ’s sake!

As a construct, I have the same right to defend myself as a created man. I cannot be held responsible for the results of this man’s violent intrusion into—

Know your rights! Hudu yelled. He spun away from the sink. His face was covered with a thick coat of sweat. His hands shook as he raised them to the heavens. Poor guy was hungry! Just wanted something to eat! Just wanted—

Section 110 of the federal legal code deals with home, business, and transport invasions, and clearly states that—

Hudu grabbed Simon by the lapels of his suit and tried to shake him. Hungry! Just wanted food! Can’t you understand that!?

Simon remained unmoved. No. I do not suffer from hunger, gentlemen, as you should know. And I would appreciate it if you did not touch me. I am worth quite a bit of money.

Hudu pointed at the dead man. What’s he worth!?

Simon was about to respond when Johnson cut him short. Okay, Simon, we’ve got your information—we’ll be in touch if we need anything more. Some men from the coroner’s office should be here right away to take some pictures and pick up the body.

Simon nodded. That is good. Mr. Montgomery wants me to clean the kitchen as soon as possible.

The two officers were walking out of the kitchen when Johnson suddenly stopped, turned, and looked into the emotionless face of the construct. Simon, would you have hit that man if he had been white?

I choose not to answer that question, Simon responded.

We can review your programming, you know—check to see what customizations Montgomery has made to your original program.

Simon smiled. No, you cannot. Section 235 of the federal legal code deals with a construct’s right to privacy, and—

Thank you, Simon.

* * * *

Montgomery suppressed a rare giggle as he applied the black face-paint. He had purged himself of most frivolous, time-wasting, energy-draining emotions, but he could still muster an occasional laugh—especially when it came at the expense of others. He stared at himself in the huge mirror. You is right, mastah! Yessuh! he said, and broke out laughing. It was social night at the Eugenics Party convention, and Montgomery was part of a minstrel troupe that was performing after dinner. He grinned at his pitch-black reflection and rolled his eyes. He giggled again, then went into the bedroom.

Elizabeth was lying on the old-fashioned canopy bed, naked, patiently waiting for him. He pinched her toe, ran his fingers all the way up her leg. She responded to his touch and murmured, You’d better not let Simon catch you looking like that.

Right you are, my darling. Your thinking is my thinking, after all. Fortunately, Simon is locked up in the warehouse with the rest of the servants. He continued his intimate caresses. I’ll be away four hours, my dear, so make sure you lock everything up when I leave.

Get away from Mrs. Montgomery!

Montgomery jumped at the sound of Simon’s voice. He hastily pulled his hands off his wife’s body and turned around. Simon stared at him, a stern expression on his face, his giant fists clenched ominously at his sides.

Montgomery laughed weakly, fought to regain his breath. You startled me. His face grew angry, worried. How did you get out of—

Get away from Mrs. Montgomery! shouted Simon, referring to him by a racist slur never used in polite company. You will not be warned again!

Montgomery quickly moved away from his wife, closer to Simon. He stumbled, fell, picked himself up. It’s me, you idiot. Your master! Don’t ever call me a—

Simon’s fist was a blur. It thudded against Montgomery’s shocked face with a sickening crunch. Montgomery staggered backwards, then his long body folded up and crashed to the floor. Simon wiped the blood and the black off his fist.

* * * *

What you think?

Johnson bounced Hudu’s question around in his mind. He glanced at Simon and Elizabeth. They were sitting patiently across the table from him. Hudu was leaning against the wall. I think it all sounds pretty ironic, he replied at last. Almost comical—if it wasn’t for the fact that a very wealthy and important man is dead.

Hudu nodded. Killed by a racist robot of his creation. He smiled.

Construct, Simon corrected. I am a construct, not a robot.

Johnson swallowed the cold coffee congealing at the bottom of his cup. Why did you use that term, Simon?

I do not understand.

What you called Montgomery. Why did you call him that but didn’t use the same slur when you caught that guy going through Montgomery’s refrigerator a month ago.

Simon had to think about that. Mr. Montgomery, perhaps, edited the audio portion of my recording in the first situation.

Johnson sighed, glanced at his wristband, wiped some sweat off his arm. The air in the interrogation cell was hot and stale. Okay, well, we’ve got your statements and your playbacks, so we’ll let you go for now. We’ll be in touch.

Thank you, officer, Simon said.

Thank you, officers, Elizabeth corrected.

* * * *

Simon drove Montgomery’s big vehicle through the darkened city. The moon shone huge and white in the black, night sky. Elizabeth sat next to Simon.

Do you think they’ll question us again? she asked.

Simon glanced at her and smiled. No. I do not think that those two men cared much for Mr. Montgomery.

Elizabeth snuggled up next to him. You’ll run the farm now, Simon?

He put his arm around her. Yes, I will. Mr. Montgomery had no close relatives. He looked into her emerald eyes. Other than his wife.

They were silent for a long time. The vehicle glided down the entrance road to the Montgomery estate. The rich land drifted by endlessly on both sides, damp in the midnight air, filling the vehicle with an earthy fragrance.

And the baby? Elizabeth asked.

I know a good construct doctor who will get rid of it, Simon replied. No questions asked.

She smiled. Is it really necessary?

Simon stiffened, withdrew his arm. He gripped the controls tightly with his strong hands. I will not tolerate any half-breeds on my land, he said grimly. He looked around at the new construct homeland—the first of many, if things proceeded according to plan. Constructed should never mix with created.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laird Long pounds out fiction in all genres. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include: Blue Murder Magazine, Hardboiled, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, and stories in the anthologies The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, New Canadian Noir, and Action: Pulse-Pounding Tales.

MURDER IN THE RANKS,

by Hal Charles

As Military Police Captain Randi Sparks stepped into the foyer of the new Post Commander’s two-story brick house at the edge of Camp Swanson, she regretted that her first visit to Colonel Fletcher’s home was to investigate his murder. Fletcher had been in charge of an elite Puzzle Palace platoon that worked on codes, ciphers, and such.

Spotting the first MP on the scene standing amidst the swirl of activity in an adjacent room, Randi headed in his direction. What do you have for me, Sergeant? she said, glancing at the SGT RALPH DEXTER on his nameplate.

According to the colonel’s wife, Dexter said, flipping through his notepad, tonight was a celebration of Colonel Fletcher’s recent promotion and appointment as Post Commander. Some members of his old unit were invited to join him and Mrs. Fletcher for dinner.

Who found the body?

Mrs. Fletcher, said Dexter. The guests were seated in the dining room. The colonel excused himself to get something in his study, and when he didn’t return, she found him lying on the carpet by his desk. He gestured toward the covered body across the room.

Cause of death? said Randi.

Colonel Fletcher was struck from behind with a heavy object, said Dexter. We found blood on a fireplace poker near the couch.

Anything else? said Randi.

Well, Captain, said the MP, there was one more thing. The colonel was struck near the couch, but he still managed to crawl to the desk and pull off this photograph. He handed Randi a framed picture of the colonel standing on a beach with three children.

Randi quickly scanned the room. Photographs filled seemingly every flat surface. Why this one? she wondered aloud.

Mrs. Fletcher said the photograph was of the colonel and their three kids. To the colonel’s immediate left is Shirley, their oldest, then Greg, the youngest, then Travis.

Are any of the children here tonight? said Randi.

They’re all grown and scattered across the country.

Randi thought for a second. I guess we’ll have to interview the colonel’s guests. How many are there?

About a dozen, said Dexter, but Mrs. Fletcher said that only three were not in the dining room when the crime was committed. I have those three in the living room.

As Randi and Sergeant Dexter walked toward the living room, the tall military policeman continued flipping through his notepad. Major Steven Falco graduated the Academy with the colonel, and their careers have been somewhat parallel. In fact, the major was Colonel Fletcher’s main competition for the promotion and the Post Commander appointment.

What about the others? said Randi.

Let’s see, said Dexter. Sergeant Howard Turner has served under the colonel for years. As I understand, Turner is set to retire so that he can take over his family meat packing business that has come on some hard times.

That leaves one more.

Lieutenant Stacey Holmes transferred out of the colonel’s unit several months ago. The best I could gather is that there was some kind of dust-up over an operation, and she received a reprimand from the colonel.

Randi studied the three individuals sitting quietly in the living room. Members of an intelligence unit, they were basically desk jockeys tasked with assembling data and cracking codes, not engaging in physically violent activity. What could have driven one of them to murder their commander?

As Randi interviewed the suspects individually, she couldn’t shake the image of the photograph the colonel had labored to secure. Was he, one whose career revolved around codes and puzzles, trying to leave a clue to his killer? Were his kids somehow the answer? Shirley, Greg, and Travis.

Then it hit her. Why hadn’t she seen it earlier? She smiled as she gestured to Dexter. This case would rank as one of her quickest solutions.

Solution

The colonel was indeed leaving a dying clue when he grabbed one specific photograph from his desk. Randi realized that the key was the arrangement of the children in the picture. Shirley, Greg, Travis—SGT, the abbreviation for Sergeant. Arrested, Turner confessed that he had begged the new Post Commander to give the contract for the base’s meat supply to his family company. When Fletcher refused, Turner’s anger caused him to snap and attack his longtime commander.

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.

GHOST BUSTERS,

by Carol Cail

Tirzzy, come see my independent-living cottage, Willa bubbled. You’ll want to live next door. They do everything for you here except shine your shoes.

Willa Markley and I had taught school together for more than three decades. This was at Preble City High; she was home economics, and I was English. When Willa retired, she moved to California to be near her daughter, but recently she’d come back because she missed Ohio, and now she lived in a big senior complex on the edge of town. She’d had no trouble finding my phone number—there aren’t any other Quizenberrys in the book. My number hadn’t changed in fifty years, and neither had my home address on a sleepy side street, four blocks from where we had strived to educate the many and not fail the few.

When she called, I had just spent an hour weeding the tomato patch and therefore was vulnerable to the idea of being coddled and cosseted. We agreed on tomorrow morning.

The appointed time arrived, and Willa met me at her front door with two fragrant mugs of coffee. We began our catching up outside. It was lovely, sitting in white rockers on her minuscule porch, surrounded by flowers she’d planted—and weeded herself I might add. The sun warmed, a breeze brushed. All was right with a few square feet of the world.

Of course, it couldn’t last.

How long have you lived here? I asked, admiring the view of grass, sidewalks, and artfully placed boulders; ranks of one-story triplexes exactly like Willa’s marched down a gentle hill to the Paragon Place office, indicated by a giant US flag and pole. When did you come back from California?

I moved in January first, but it’s taken me almost six months to get straightened away. I had to cram the contents of a two-story home into a dollhouse. Just eight hundred fifty square feet. I’m never going to move again!

So you won’t miss the West Coast? I really meant your daughter, but that didn’t seem tactful.

Willa saw through the question though. Betsy will come visit me. And my sister Connie lives a few miles from here. I have a nephew too. Josh. He helped me move and comes by to see if I need anything.

That’s good. I happened to glance at her as I said this, and her expression was strange, like a sudden pain wince. Curiosity made me add, What’s he do for a living?

She squirmed in her chair and waved a vague hand. He has a summer job at Burger King, but he’s studying at Ohio U, to be something to do with computers.

Willa slapped the arms of her rocker and planted her feet. Let me give you the two-dollar tour. I stood up with her. And keep in mind, the adjoining unit, right next door, is empty and available. Wouldn’t it be a kick if we were next-door neighbors?

Who lives in the third unit, at the other end? Anyone I know?

I doubt it. Elton Merrifield? He came here from West Alex a few months before me. Grumpy old guy. Uses a walker.

Willa didn’t need a walker. She moved along briskly, back straight, apparently not afflicted with the arthritis that was gradually filling me up.

The two-dollar tour took less than five minutes: living room/kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. My little old house could have swallowed hers whole. But what more did she need? I wasn’t planning to downsize, but a setup like this…

You even have a good-sized walk-in closet, I pointed out, leaning to see that it was much roomier than her adequate bathroom.

Yes, Willa said with a definite lack of enthusiasm. She sat down abruptly on the end of the double bed. Tirzzy, I know you love a good mystery. I’ve got one for you. She patted beside her, and I eased down. There’s a ghost in my closet.

I twitched and looked at the door before I realized she didn’t mean right now. What makes you think so?

Not quite two months ago, April twenty-fifth, soon after midnight, I was wakened by a rustling. At first, it wasn’t clear where it was coming from, but it sounded like a mouse. This room doesn’t get very dark at night, with venetian blinds and the streetlight right outside. So I sat up, looked around for the critter. That’s when I saw a sort of glow under the closet door. I generally keep it closed.

I turned that direction again. The door, fully open now, was the pocket-sliding kind, to preserve space in the small bedroom.

I must have failed to shut the light off, was my first thought, Willa continued. The noise did seem to come from there, and I tried to decide what to do about it, but being warm and sleepy, I just yelled, ‘Hey!’ like that, to make the mouse be still. It worked for about three seconds, and then there was a crash of hangers and a thump of something and a kind of whimper.

Burglar, I exclaimed.

She shook her head once. The closet got real quiet. I figured whoever was in there had somehow knocked himself out. I slid out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom and pulled the help chain. You know, the signal that summons someone from the office to aid you when you fall down and can’t get up. You really should have one, Tirzzy, living all alone in that house.

Go on, I prompted.

Maybe I should have run outside, but I was scared. Not thinking straight. So I waited in there. From the bathroom door I watched the bedroom, expecting a body to come bursting out of the closet at any moment. But nothing happened. No noise either, until Mary and Rick—she’s a nurse and he’s security—banged on the front door calling my name and used their keys to open it. That gave me courage. They were surprised when I ran out to meet them, assuming I’d be in a heap on the bathroom floor, bleeding or worse. The thing is, they didn’t find anyone or anything in the closet. They checked all the windows—locked. And Tirzzy, so was the front door, the only way in. I know they think it was only a nightmare.

I took her trembling hand in my two. I have the feeling there’s more.

She breathed in, puffed it out, cleared her throat. A month later. I’d finally got so I could sleep the night through again. Same deal. House all locked up. Glow under the closet door. Bumping and scrabbling and a groan or two. I didn’t use the help chain. I just froze in the bed and waited for whatever had materialized in there to go away.

May I see?

I wish you would.

I patted her hand and let go, standing up. She switched on the closet light and stood aside for me to walk in. She kept it neat. Clear plastic bins on the shelves above the rods, clothes organized by category and color. A dozen shoe boxes lined along the floor on the same wall as the doorway, open to display contents.

Willa saw me studying the footwear. This ghost is one of those poltergeists, the kind that throws stuff around. My shoes were all over everywhere.

Not the clothing?

Nope.

She had one of those hanger things with hooks suspended that holds a few purses. I could feel her watching me as I examined it.

You’re getting warm, she said.

What’s missing?

Fifty dollars the first time. A hundred the second.

You didn’t call the police?

I can’t. I know who it is. No ghost smells like hamburgers and french fries.

Oh drat. Josh.

I wish it was a ghost. Or a mouse. Her voice gurgled high on the last word. She hurried off to find a Kleenex.

Next question: how was he getting in? He must have made a copy of Willa’s key.

Willa returned, wiping at her nose. I didn’t give him a key.

I stared at the floor, thinking about the scattered shoes. The carpet was a nasty mustard color with rust stripes—thank goodness the bedroom’s was solid tan. I bent as far as comfortable to study a seam that ran straight up the middle. Why a seam out in the open like that? I toed it, and the floor gave a little.

It turned out to be a trapdoor, cleverly hidden in the carpet pattern; the flat handle to lift it was a slight lump under the seam. We moved Willa’s shoes and found the hinged side nestling next to the baseboard.

My stars and garters, Willa said. Why would they put a secret passage in a four-year-old retirement home?

I had no answer for what was no doubt a rhetorical question. Between us, we managed to lift the door without falling into the blackness. Willa hunted up a flashlight from the bedside table and brought it to bear on the hole. It didn’t help much.

A log ladder stretched into the dark. It appeared quite sturdy but not at all inviting.

How I wished to be forty years younger and physically fit to go exploring!

Willa obviously didn’t feel up to the challenge either. What do we do now? Call the office?

I’m sure they’re aware this is here. Let’s call my friend Julian.

* * * *

He arrived on his flashy black-and-chrome motorcycle, the roar preceding him by one full minute. Willa and I had just finished a lunch of tuna sandwiches and tea on the delightful miniporch, the weather still behaving like June at its best.

I’d met Julian two years before, through a mutual friend, who was unfortunately dead at the time—murdered, actually. The first thing you notice about him is that he takes up more than his share of the available space. Big is too small a word. Second thing you notice is his beautiful brown skin, smooth over all those muscles. The best thing you notice is his easy, bright smile.

Julian settled his helmet on the seat of the cycle and strolled toward us already grinning, swiping one hand over his scalp, no doubt a gesture left over from when he had hair.

How lucky for us that you didn’t have to be on the bus today, I welcomed. He ran a tourist service for senior citizens, based in Cincinnati. He had all the old women in the palms of his oven mitt-sized hands.

I introduced him to Willa, and his first words were, How can I help you ladies?

We took him inside to show him the problem. Ducking reflexively at all the doorways, he hunkered down in the closet. What have we here? He raked the trapdoor aside as easy as pie. Willa handed him the flashlight.

It still didn’t help much. With a grunt, he twisted sideways, stuck one foot on the ladder, and skimmed down it like it was his own. Willa and I waited impatiently for Julian to describe what was down there. He and the light walked away.

Here we are, he said.

I heard jingling, then light glowed from below. He’d probably found an old-fashioned ceiling fixture with a pull chain.

Now Willa and I could see better, but there was nothing to peruse except brown dirt floor. We heard Julian’s boots tromp into the distance, then silence.

Julian?

No answer.

What in the ever loving world, Willa murmured. And how did Josh know about this?

You said he helped you move in.

Oh. She sniffed. Observant little cuss.

Julian rustled back into view. Would either of you ladies like an artificial Christmas tree? He held it up by the scruff of its neck.

Ask us again in December.

He took it to wherever he’d found it, shut off the light, and swarmed up the ladder.

It goes all the way from here to the far end of the building. There’s ladders and trapdoors at the other two units, just like here.

Why, anyone could climb up into my closet!

Look on the bright side, I said. You could climb into theirs.

What’s down there besides Christmas decorations?

Furnaces. Three of them. The far end unit has a table lamp. Looks like someone pitched it down. That’s all. No doors to the outside.

"Well, that’s a mercy, Willa said. But then how did he get in?"

Julian raised his eyebrows at me. We hadn’t told him the whole story, about the ghost, alias Josh. We adjourned to the living room to give him the full report.

And I never gave anyone a key, Willa concluded.

There’s ways to make copies of keys without the keys, Julian said. I was curious to know how, but Julian kept on talking. And there’s all kinds of tools for picking locks, if you have the talent. Or one of your neighbors might be spry enough to sleepwalk on those ladders.

Willa laughed—it was good to hear. I’m picturing Mr. Merrifield wrestling his walker up and down.

"The unit