Black Cat Weekly #73

By Laird Long, Nicole Givens Kurtz, Diana Deverell and 6 more

Our 73rd issue is another great one. It features an original mystery story by Laird Long (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Great modern tales from Diana Deverell (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), Nicole Givens Kurtz (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Cynthia Ward), and Richard Wilson (a rare short story that only appeared in a limited edition chapbook). Plus classics from Ray Bradbury, Murray Leinster, Carolyn Wells, George O. Smith, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Quite a list of contributors!

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Murder On My Mind,” by Laird Long [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Play’s the Thing,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“In Plain Sight,” by Diana Deverell [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
The Case of Oscar Slater, by Arthur Conan Doyle [true crime]
Where’s Emily, by Carolyn Wells [Fleming Stone series, novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Pluviophile,” by Nicole Givens Kurtz [Cynthia Ward Presents novelet]
“A Rat for a Friend,” by Richard Wilson [short story]
“Referent,” by Ray Bradbury [short story]
“The Seven Temporary Moons,” by Murray Leinster [novelet]
Hellflower, by George O. Smith [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jan 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667661162

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

MURDER ON MY MIND, by Laird Long

THE PLAY’S THE THING, by Hal Charles

IN PLAIN SIGHT, by Diana Deverell

THE CASE OF OSCAR SLATER, by Arthur Conan Doyle

WHERE’S EMILY? by Carolyn Wells

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

THE PLUVIOPHILE, by Nicole Givens Kurtz

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A RAT FOR A FRIEND, by Richard Wilson

REFERENT, by Ray Bradbury

THE SEVEN TEMPORARY MOONS, by Murray Leinster

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

HELLFLOWER, by George O. Smith

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Murder On My Mind is copyright © 2023 by Laird Long and appears here for the first time.

The Play’s the Thing is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

In Plain Sight is copyright © 2013 by Diana Deverell. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, November 2013. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Case of Oscar Slater, by Arthur Conan Doyle, was originally published in 1912.

Where’s Emily, by Carolyn Wells, was originally published in 1927.

The Pluviophile is copyright © 2019 by Nicole Givens Kurtz. Originally published in Sister of the Wild Sage: A Weird Wetern Collection. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A Rat for a Friend is copyright © 1986 by Richard Wilson. Originally published as a limited edition booklet by Chris Drumm. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Referent, by Ray Bradbury, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, October 1948,

under the pseudonym Brett Sterling.

The Seven Temporary Moons, by Murray Leinster, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, February 1948, as by William Fitzgerald.

Hellflower, by George O. Smith, originally appeared in 1953.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 73rd issue features an original mystery story by Laird Long (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) plus great modern tales from Diana Deverell (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), Nicole Givens Kurtz (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Cynthia Ward), and Richard Wilson (a rare short story that only appeared in a limited edition chapbook). Plus classics from Ray Bradbury, Murray Leinster, Carolyn Wells, George O. Smith, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Quite a list of contributors!

Here’s this issue’s lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Murder On My Mind, by Laird Long [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Play’s the Thing, Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

In Plain Sight, by Diana Deverell [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Case of Oscar Slater, by Arthur Conan Doyle [true crime]

Where’s Emily, by Carolyn Wells [Fleming Stone series, novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Pluviophile, by Nicole Givens Kurtz [Cynthia Ward Presents novelet]

A Rat for a Friend, by Richard Wilson [short story]

Referent, by Ray Bradbury [short story]

The Seven Temporary Moons, by Murray Leinster [novelet]

Hellflower, 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

MURDER ON MY MIND,

by Laird Long

Where to start? I’ve never attempted an article like this before, but they are, the Pre-eminent Organization on Psychic Phenomena Yearning to Clarify Our Clandestine Knowledge (Poppycock, for short), paying me two thousand quid, so I’ll start with my handle. My name is Gaylord Tuttle, and with that sort of tag you’d probably never guess that I was once the stuff of juicy gossip in the Tabs. Now I’m just stuff, like everyone else. Now that I’ve stopped thinking about murder, that is.

Oh, I don’t mean me whacking people with a blunt instrument, far from it. I mean other people killing other people—people just like yourself, for instance, though I’m not accusing anyone. Let me begin at the start and stop at the end.

I was hatched in a log incubator on a frozen loch smack in the icy heart of the Shetland Islands, raised from birth by a troupe of same-sex harbor seals, my only playmates being sea urchins—

Ha, ha! And my wife says I have no sense of humor. Others would concur. But, to be honest, my life had been fairly mundane, dull really, up until my thirtieth birthday. I had a nice, clean job as a systems analyst at a nice, clean computer company, a small bungalow, my health, and a close, though not smothering, circle of friends and family. My life had a comfortable routine that I rather enjoyed, like the spin cycle in your dryer—warm and fuzzy, with just a hint of lint. That all changed, however, when I got the power!

It was on my birthday, my thirtieth birthday, as I said. It was as I was strolling home from my birthday party at my parent’s house that the power first came to me: the power of subconscious perception—in particular, the ability to hear murderous thoughts.

It was around ten in the evening, I believe, and the summer night was pleasant, the soft, warm air embracing me like a long-lost friend who owes a couple of quid, the trees twitching nervously as a breeze blew through them. (My editor suggested I add this atmospheric narrative, rather than having a straight-forward recitation of the facts, as I originally handed in to her, sixteen or seventeen times.)

I was ambling contentedly, sheep-like really, through the little park that lay directly between my parent’s humble abode and my own, and I was puzzling over my father’s obvious discontent during dinner—he had seemed nervous and unusually quiet for a jovial, flamboyant man given to speaking in high-volume soliloquies, a glass of stout customarily occupying his right hand, a cigar his left. He had seemed anxious to talk to me, alone, but never got the chance during the evening, what with all my friends being there, ribbing me unmercifully about the big three-oh. Ah well, I can remember thinking, I’ll see him in church on the day following.

It was as I was leisurely sojourning through the park, with the air embracing me while the trees twitched nervously at the sight, pondering life’s mysteries—i.e. pork or steak & kidney pies, which were more cracking?—when my head suddenly exploded with the thought of murder! Bloody murder! My mind was suddenly consumed with thoughts of killing—violent, ugly thoughts that viciously elbowed pork and steak & kidney pies out of the way.

I stopped dead in my tracks and tried to listen to what my mind had to say: I’m going to kill you!, I’m going to cut your throat!, were the terrifying thoughts that reverberated throughout the sloshing cups inside my skull. As I stood there, I realized that I was thinking someone else’s thoughts! Or was I? My brain seemed to be overwhelmed by someone else’s monstrous musings, like a two-story tall, ice-cold, rolling ocean breaker overwhelms a hapless swimmer (another editorial edit): Tonight you die, baby! You’ll never cheat on me again, you bitch!

I didn’t think these were my own thoughts, because I would never have used language like that—I would have thought you gaudy tramp, or you pasty-faced harlot; something a little more literate, you see. And as I stood there, stock-still, my mind engulfed by this enveloping evil, I began to fear for my life. Even though I had never been called a bitch before, I was conscious of the fact that I was wearing a truly spanking pair of skin-tight cords, and who knows what perverted thoughts go through the mind of a murderer; except for me it seemed.

It was like I was listening to someone very close to me; someone in the park! Right, someone in that park was going to kill me! Or I was going to kill myself, or someone else!

I was riveted to the spot, terrified and confused. My body started to shake in a dead man’s lambada, and sweat filled my twitching hands. My mouth went as dry as my home-cooked meatloaf.

I heard a bush rustle! I nervously glanced in that direction. And saw, very indistinctly, a large shadow in the dark, a shadow that was slowly moving towards a park bench about a hundred feet in front of me. I stood there in the dark, like a trembling aspen rooted to the spot, watering itself. I thought I saw the glint of metal. Then, as luck would have it, the moon briefly poked its glowing orb from behind a cloud.

The whole ghastly scene lit up, like a stage when the houselights go on. A large man with a large knife (O.J., I thought to myself hysterically), was advancing with definite bad intentions upon a couple who were busily snogging on one of the park benches that lined the cedar chip path. The couple was too otherwise engaged to take heed of the evil shadow stealthily moving towards them like the angel of death. The shadow’s thoughts, for I realized now it was from him that my mental emanations were coming, filled my head, louder now as he got primed for the kill: You *%$#*#@ bitch! You’ve cheated on me for the last time!

The would-be killer had moved to a position six feet behind the amorous couple and was raising the ten inch cold-steel blade in his paw, cutting a deadly arc through the night air, which had become decidedly chill when I leapt into action. I accelerated down the path, piercing the sound barrier in the process, and administered a series of devastating head and body blows of the Aikido variety, with a little bareknuckles Jem Mace thrown in, all of which combined to render the monster comatose!

Okay, okay—that’s when I screamed.

As I screamed my high-pitched warning to the couple on the bench, pricking the ears of the local canine population in the process, they spun around and viewed the knife-wielder frozen behind them. All his deathly thoughts vanished from my mind as he realized the precarious predicament he was now in—the element of surprise was gone! He turned and fled, thoughtlessly littering the park with his instrument of havoc (the knife).

Well, as you have no doubt read about in the national fishwraps, or heard about on the telly, if the Royals haven’t already supplanted me in everyone’s short-term consciousness, I became something of a celebrity that frightening evening. The potential victims warmly thanked me, as did the police. While the would-be assassin, easily identified by his signature fingerprints on the knife, and the eyewitness identification at the scene by his adulterous wife, cursed me and vowed revenge. Not to worry, though, because he got seven years in the kip and a court order prohibiting him from using anything but plastic utensils in the future.

After I recounted my story to the police, I did what I now consider to be a terrible mistake, and that was recounting my story to a newspaper reporter who materialized on the scene so quickly it seemed he arrived via transporter beam. The next day I had been dubbed the Psychic Sleuth, the Thought Policeman, and the Cranium Cop, among other handles, and was well on my way to becoming a fifteen minute throw-away celebrity along the lines of Koo Stark and the guy who swam the Chunnel in a swimming pool carried on the back of a lorry.

The next day I also received a visit from my dad.

Son, he said, as he nervously stood on my stoop at ten a.m. the next morning, we have to talk.

Over a couple of steaming hot cups of tea and a fistful of stale scones, and with the phone off the rocker (it’d been jingling non-stop since my cerebral revelations of the previous evening), he recounted the amazing story of the stupendous mental powers of the man-Tuttles.

Son, he started, I don’t know whether to call it a blessing or a curse, or maybe a ‘blurse,’—we laughed at that one—Dad, because of his flat feet, had done a lot of stand-up comedy during the war, when all the really funny people had been sent to the front lines to entertain the troops—but every Tuttle man since the dawn of time, and before, has had the prickly power of mental insight—the ability to telepathically hear the thoughts of others. Not all their thoughts, mind, only certain specific thoughts that are being thunk by a person at the specific time a Tuttle happens to be in the immediate area.

As I heard the murderous thoughts of that scoundrel in the park last night!?

Precisely! Dad responded excitedly, scone shrapnel exploding out of his maw and peppering my nose. Sorry, Son. He picked the errant pieces of pastry off the floor and popped them into his mouth. Thus fortified, he continued, If that dirty bugger had been thinking those same thoughts in another area of town, or another neighborhood, or had been wearing a lead cap—just kidding—you wouldn’t have heard them. The Tuttle thought-perception radius, you see, is only about a hundred yards, otherwise our noggins would be inundated with conflicting thoughts from over all over the place. For example, if you went to Detroit or Washington, DC, or any major city in the former colonies for that matter, you’d never have an original thought; the way they kill each other over there. By Gor, you’d have one whopper of a headache, my boy!

I’d still better stay out of the Middle East.

Got that right.

But how did the Tuttilians get this gift of psychic insight?

Right, good question, son. And I truly wish I had a good answer. We only know that it’s hereditary—like your big nose, weak eyes, and, uh, rather small endowment,—I blushed at the thought of the small parcel of land in the Hebrides that was my inheritance—but we don’t really know for sure how the first Tuttle man originally obtained the gift. Just a quirk of nature, I suppose, like Elton John.

We exchanged solemn nods. I jammed some scone and crammed it into my mouth. Dad duplicated the procedure.

But, laddy, he continued, after a goodly swack of boisterous chewing, I must warn you. And here his voice assumed a tone of grave concern. I must warn you, as my father warned me, that this gift only lasts a short while, and you can’t let it get the better of you.

How do you mean?

I mean, you can’t let it overwhelm you; let it take over your life. You can’t try to track down every potential killer and prevent every potential murder in town, for example. You must let it come naturally. You’re given the gift on your thirtieth birthday, and it’ll only be with you for a year or so. Thus, I wanted to warn you last night, before something happened and you started flapping your gums. The gift is something to be treasured, not to be broadcast—to abuse the power for personal gain is to run the risk of personal disaster.

Too late, I observed sadly.

Aye. Could you scare up another cuppa?

I poured from the pot, all the while asking, And what was your psychic ability?

Dad ruminated. Then answered, I had the power to perceive thoughts of love. That’s how I met your mother. That’s why I’m a florist.

That’s beautiful, I said.

We both slurped our tea and tucked into the remaining scones, tears staining our respective flushed cheeks.

And the other Tuttles? I asked, once the gastric noise level had stopped shaking the walls.

Dad unhitched his belt a notch and responded, Well, my father had the ability to hear thoughts of sadness—that’s why he was such a successful undertaker. Grandpa Tuttle had the ability to hear thoughts of happiness. Thus, he worked for a greeting card company. Grandpa Tuttle’s ‘pater’ could hear thoughts of anger. He was a great diplomat, as you know. Other Tuttle men could hear thoughts of pain (doctor), thoughts of greed (lawyer), thoughts of lust (advisor to the Royal family), thoughts of boredom (accountant) and, perhaps strangest of all, thoughts of thoughts—that Tuttle was a poet, as well as a deaf-mute.

Does this mean that because I can perceive thoughts of murder that I’m going to become a famous detective?

Or a boxing referee, or Speaker of the House of Commons, it’s hard to say for sure. If it happens, it just happens naturally.

At the conclusion of these words of wisdom, which, of course, I promptly proceeded to ignore, Dad scarfed down some cheese and crackers and headed home for lunch, his generational mission, and duty, fulfilled. He was proud of me, and the important thought-skill I now possessed. There was always the fear, he said, that the amazing male Tuttle gift wouldn’t be passed along to the next generation; that it would die out, like the British Empire, or the Two Ronnies.

As I stated, I ignored Dad’s advice. As you might recollect, I was on every TV talk show and talk-radio show in this country, and on the Continent, for that matter. I even got to know Dame Edna before the make-up went on—that’s the kind of in-the-know celebrity I became.

I roamed the streets day and night, intercepting murderous thoughts, preventing deaths and dismemberings. The police gave me pepper spray and a cell phone, and they hired me on as a consultant. They assigned a pretty policewoman, Isabelle, to supervise my activities.

I liked that, and I liked the fact that I was famous and getting oodles of attention. There were movie-of-the-week deals in the hopper, book deals, advert deals, and psychic hotline deals. I corresponded regularly with Nancy Reagan, I dined with the slightly weird hoity-toity; I did everything the one-hit wonder is supposed to do (following in the slippersteps of Boy George basically, but without the boys, of course).

All much to the chagrin of my dear old dad. Don’t abuse the power, son, he continually warned, like Obi-Wan Kenobi with a Cockney accent.

But I did. And I paid for it. After only a couple of months of decadence, I lost the power. My mind went empty of murderous thoughts. I dropped from the jaded public eye.

Do you think your power is gone forever? Isabelle inquired sweetly one evening.

I expect so. Dad said it would last a year or so, but I’ve been using it a lot—maybe I’ve run out sooner than most.

Yes, you may be right. But you’ve single-handedly foiled ten attempted murders. She smiled at me. We’ll always have those psychos.

We embraced. Eleven, I corrected, if you count that young lad with the incontinent hamster.

Oh, indeed, I was thinking strictly in human terms.

So am I, I purred. I touched her soft, warm hand, gazed myopically into her strong, clear, blue eyes. Mustn’t grumble, though. I would’ve never met you if it wasn’t for the power.

You should be very happy, she breathed, the aroma of her athletic rub and leather tunic filling my over-excited nostrils. She bent down to kiss me (she’s about four inches taller than me in her police-issue steel-toes).

I am, I murmured happily, accepting her moist mouth as it arrested my trembling lips.

And I was. Until my last experience with the Tuttle magic.

I was escorting Isabelle home one night from the theatre, about three months after my last murderous thought, when my mind was suddenly, and unexpectedly, tweaked by the hatred of someone’s thoughts of death. My powers were obviously dull, and fading, because I couldn’t immediately pinpoint the exact location of the evil brainwaves. It had to be close, though, very close!

We were trotting along the cobbled sidewalk next to a row of row houses that resembled something right off Coronation Street, Isabelle’s favorite television show. I stopped dead in my tracks to better listen to my convoluted thoughts. It was hard to focus, however, as the thoughts were vague and indistinct, fading in and out like the far-off sound of traffic. I strained to hear.

Where? Isabelle whispered anxiously. She knew what I was thinking.

I stood there like a bloodhound sniffing the air, trying to pick up a scent, when suddenly my head was blasted with psychic noise: I can’t take it anymore! I’m taking everyone with me!

Quick, ’Belle, we have to search these houses!

We sprang into action. Isabelle roughly kicked open the door of 208, while I gently opened the door of 210. The houses were old, and the paint-chipped, red door squeaked on its rusty hinges as I slowly pushed it open. I clasped the canister of pepper spray in my clammy palms. The evil thoughts had cleared when I noisily gained entry. My mind was empty. I was in trouble!

Then, just barely, I heard the thought: Bang, bang, you’re dead! I raced through the house, to the source of the fast-fading mental emanation. It was like following a vapor trail; I was right in the middle of it, but I couldn’t see where it was coming from.

I stumbled into the living room of the modest abode, just in time to witness a toddler of not more than three years of age point a toy gun at the back of his older sister’s head. What younger brother hasn’t done that to their older, know-it-all sister, and wished their gun had been real? The girl was in a hypnotic trance brought about by Robbie Williams gyrating vivaciously on the tube, and, therefore, oblivious to the little tyke’s game. No wonder I had such a hard time focusing on the thoughts—a young mind isn’t a very powerful transceiver.

I stepped into the living room, greatly relieved. A loose floorboard caused the children to jump and swivel their heads in my direction.

Sorry, kids, I apologized for disturbing their evening. I thought this was my house. I was red-faced and damp, and tried to laugh it off—to reassure them it was all a mistake.

The result was quite the opposite, however. Their young faces wore expressions of grave terror.

Easy now, kids, I’m not going to hurt anybody.

The young girl screamed. She was staring, horrified, at something directly behind me.

But I am, a chilling voice came from over my shoulder.

My blood went cold. The girl screamed again.

I heard a solid thunk (my thick head meeting an equally thick weapon), and then the picture faded to black.

I woke up in Isabelle’s arms, just as I always hoped I would (minus the splitting headache). I blinked the film from my eyes and groggily peered about. We were in an ambulance, traveling at an extremely fast clip, the siren wailing.

W-what happened? I mumbled to my precious. Pain shot down my neck in an electrified current of woe.

Oh, darling! Isabelle had tears in her eyes. That brute in the house crowned you with a cricket mallet. He was the estranged father of those children. He was going to kill them, and his ex-wife, and then kill himself, the cowardly blighter. Until you intervened! I subdued him just after he hit you. Thank goodness you’re all right! She kissed me.

Not to worry, I humbly mumbled. I love a woman in uniform.

Well, there you have it. You’ve heard my song, so to speak. I’ve lost the power. I can’t hear thoughts of murder anymore (or the ringing in my ears from the blow to the skull). Isabelle and I are married, and we now both work for the police force full-time, although Isabelle will soon be taking a fortnight of well-earned maternity leave, what with a tiny Tuttle pupating in the cocoon.

I hope it’s a lad. If it is, he’ll have plenty to think about.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Long pounds out fiction in all genres. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include: Blue Murder Magazine, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, and stories in the anthologies The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, Moon Shots, and New Canadian Noir.

THE PLAY’S THE THING,

by Hal Charles

Judith spotted her niece as soon as she entered the stately Victorian mansion that would serve as the venue for the performance of the Thespians, the town’s popular reader’s theatre troupe. Instead of beaming with excitement over her role as the lead in Ibsen’s classic Hedda Gabler, Sandy’s face was streaked with tears.

Aunt Judith, said Sandy, as her aunt approached, I can’t believe what’s happened. This was supposed to be my night, and now everything’s ruined.

What’s wrong? said Judith, offering the trembling young woman a tissue.

We go on in less than an hour, Sandy blurted out, and somebody’s taken my playbook.

Why are you so upset? said Judith calmly. I’m sure you can find a substitute book.

You don’t understand. My playbook has all my notes. Reader’s theatre demands more than simply spitting out lines by rote. I have directions for volume, inflections—everything to make the part my own.

Seeing that her niece was frantic, Judith said, Where did you last see the playbook?

In the study next to the ballroom where we’ll be performing, or should I say where they’ll be performing?

As they walked down the carpeted hallway toward the study, Judith said, How can the play go on without you?

With a sniffle, Sandy said, Oh, Gwen will be all too ready to step in. She’s my understudy and has made it pretty apparent that she thinks the part should be hers.

Off to the right, Judith spotted a portly man in what looked like a 19th-Century frockcoat. He was fiddling with a bushy beard that kept slipping off his chin.

Noticing her aunt’s puzzled look, Sandy said, That’s Jed Kirkland. He takes his roles very seriously, Even though it’s reader’s theatre, he always rents costumes and wears stage makeup. He’s reading Judge Brack tonight, and during rehearsals he’s been constantly adding lines to his part, claiming that he knows Brack better than Ibsen and that the judge is the play’s real star.

The study was empty when they entered. Who had access to the room after you left?

I slipped into the room earlier to run through a few lines. I was sitting in the big chair in the corner when I decided I would get a soda. Since nobody was here, I left my playbook on the table next to the chair, and when I returned, it was gone.

So you didn’t see anybody in the hallway outside the study? said Judith.

Sandy thought for a second then said, Well, I did see Kevin Simpson at the end of the hall.

Who’s he?

Sandy blushed. Kevin’s sort of a super-fan. He never misses a performance, and he’s always wanting me to autograph something. You know, a program or a Thespian poster.

Are you absolutely sure you left the playbook here in the study? said Judith. You had to be at least a little nervous with the performance coming up. Could you have carried the playbook out of the room and left it somewhere else?

No, said Sandy defensively. I left it on the table, and now it’s gone.

Scanning the room filled with ornate furnishings, Judith said, You don’t think Gwen could have slipped in here, seen the playbook, and snatched it so she could take over your role?

I wouldn’t put it past her, said Sandy, but I met her at the refreshment booth right before I returned to the study.

Judith was considering the possibility that Kevin could have watched Sandy leave the study without her playbook and ducked into the room to secure the ultimate souvenir when she noticed a white splotch on the table where Sandy had left her playbook. Running her finger over the sticky blob, she said with a smile, I think the show will go on—with you as the star.

Solution

When Judith ran her finger over the sticky substance, she remembered seeing Jed Kirkland fooling with his fake beard that was coming loose. She reasoned that as he removed the playbook from the table, he left some of the spirit gum adhesive from his fingers on the table’s surface. Confronted, Kirkland admitted that he had taken the book to ensure that Gwen, a weak reader, would step into Hedda’s part, further elevating him to the starring role as the judge.

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.

IN PLAIN SIGHT,

by Diana Deverell

FBI Special Agent Dawna Shepherd balanced the basketball on her left hip and swiped the back of her right hand across her forehead. A lone palm tree cast meager shade at her end of Pinecraft Park’s outdoor court. Heat radiated off the greenish concrete surface.

Dressed in only a sleeveless gray workout top, black Lycra shorts, and an Ace bandage, she was too hot. Two o’clock was the worst time of day in Gulf Coast Florida to be shooting threes under a blazing February sun. But when you’re the cheese in a trap set to catch a bail-jumping rat, you go for maximum visibility.

For three afternoons in a row, she’d performed in her cover role of benched professional ballplayer getting back in shape after surgery to repair a torn lateral meniscus cartilage in her left knee. Her audience had grown each day. This Wednesday, thirty bystanders crowded the patch of straggly brown grass separating the basketball court from the adjacent sandy area reserved for volleyball. The onlookers had turned their backs on the ferocious shuffleboard matches on the other side of the park. Instead, they watched Jacob Zook, a young roofer from Pennsylvania, do his best to stop Dawna from scoring. She cut him no slack, sinking every basket. Essential to attract a crook interested only in winners.

Thanks for letting me try. Jacob snagged his wide-brimmed straw hat from the grass, clamped it over brown hair as curly as the beard edging his jawline. Always wanted to.

You’re a natural. She grinned up at him from where she sat on the concrete, carefully removing her treasured Air Zooms. Can’t believe you never played before.

She stowed the basketball shoes in her sports bag and slipped on her sandals. As she got to her feet, she dusted sand off the seat of her shorts and slapped her palms together to brush away the last grains.

Same time tomorrow? she asked Jacob.

He nodded, and she tossed him a wave goodbye and headed for the private home she’d rented for her weeklong stay. She casually eyed the bystanders as she strolled from the park. Bearded men in denim overalls and stiff black hats rubbed shoulders with bare-cheeked boys in shorts and flip-flops. Pinafored women with neatly pressed pleats in their white bonnets brushed their long skirts against the bare legs of girls in tank tops and cut-off jeans. Most smelled of textiles washed in harsh soap and line-dried in fresh air, but she also picked up the odor of coconut-tinged suntan oil and a musky male Ralph Lauren scent.

Pinecraft, on the outskirts of Sarasota, had been a destination for Amish and Mennonite vacationers since 1925. During the winter lull in farm work and the building trades, five thousand members of the plain sects from all over the US and Canada arrived annually to enjoy the gentle climate and the whitest beaches on earth.

Some visitors chose to dress and behave differently than they did at home. Others stuck to traditional ways. The result was a large community of strangers who tolerated wide variation in behavior and didn’t probe into one another’s backgrounds.

Which made Pinecraft an ideal hideout for the indicted Ponzi-schemer Paul Winslow.

Again today, Dawna hadn’t drawn her target into the open. She’d attracted one man’s interest, but the guy trailing her for the past four blocks was too tall to be Winslow. Glancing into the variety-store window to study the reflected scene, she confirmed he was narrowing the gap between them. She squinted. Why did he seem familiar? To her surprise, his name came to her instantly. Tommy O’Brien.

She’d met him only once, years ago on a dark night in Texas. Then, he’d had an extension baton tucked in his belt and worn the fingerless leather gloves preferred by serious shooters. Never mind that today this bounty hunter was pretending to be a bus driver, dressed in heavy-duty gray-blue slacks and a matching short-sleeve shirt with a pocket logo.

Tommy O’Brien had to be in Pinecraft for the same reason she was. She couldn’t risk him blowing her cover. She lingered at the window, ready to spit out a terse get lost when he reached her. But he sauntered by, executing a smooth no-look feed as he slipped a stiff paper rectangle into the outside pocket of her bag.

She stepped into the air-conditioned chill of the old-fashioned five-and-dime and pretended to admire a display of cheap sunglasses while she studied what turned out to be a business card with the Florida Suncoast State University logo. The clear-eyed brunette pictured on it was another O’Brien—Ryane O’Brien—and her job title was assistant coach in the Women’s Basketball Program with an office on the second floor of Suncoast Arena in Sarasota. The name must have been included in Dawna’s case file, which accounted for her brain’s ready identification of Tommy O’Brien. Her subconscious had registered what she’d forgotten.

Ryane was the bounty hunter’s niece—the reason he’d gotten interested in women’s hoops. Watching Ryane play a pre-season game in New York City had prompted Tommy to travel to Dawna’s hometown of Amity, Texas, in search of a long-missing fugitive. That’s where they met. Clutching the card, she pushed back onto the sidewalk and wove between idling vacationers, eager to get onto the quieter side street leading toward home.

Of course, basketball was key once again to O’Brien’s successful tracking of a bail-jumper, just as Dawna’s playing experience was the reason she’d been recruited for this FBI operation. Ponzi-schemer Winslow had been an ardent financial supporter of Suncoast women’s basketball.

The former Sarasota resident had owned Winslow European Holdings, promoting sham high yield/prime bank note programs. He promised to hold his investors’ principal untouched in a Danish escrow account while paying three hundred percent returns. Winslow’s too-good-to-be-true pitch netted him more than $45 million. He returned a fraction to investors to convince them they were profiting. The rest he spent lavishly on his own hobby and pleasures.

When the financial crisis hit in 2009, his suddenly broke clients wanted their original investments back. Winslow failed to repay, they blew the whistle, and he was indicted in US District Court for investment fraud. Winslow posted a million-dollars bail, laid a trail to Rio de Janeiro that proved false, and vanished with a large chunk of stolen money.

Half a dozen other financial criminals exposed at the same time also chose to flee. The FBI successfully located and arrested those mini-Madoffs when they attempted new fraudulent activities to fund high-roller lifestyles in locations from Sri Lanka to Monte Carlo.

Winslow, however, did not resume any of his old bad habits. He’d evaded bureau notice until the first week of the current year. His bad luck that Kevin Quincy, an FBI financial analyst in Tampa Division, had not only immersed himself in the Winslow case but also had a taste for shoofly pie. Trying to decide from which Pinecraft vendor to order the Pennsylvania Dutch specialty, Kevin had consulted an online blog by a local resident and recognized Winslow in a crowd shot of the local farmers’ market.

Instantly, Kevin realized Winslow was a whole lot smarter than most crooks. The man was hiding only a few miles from his former home—a move so unlikely, the bureau made only routine checks for him in the area.

Winslow knew the territory, and by growing a traditional Amish beard and donning a black felt hat, he’d become unrecognizable to any acquaintance who might wander into Pinecraft and cross his path. He probably couldn’t have pulled off the impersonation in a tight-knit religious community in Ohio, but rules were looser in the Amish Las Vegas. For sure, nobody would report Winslow to the FBI.

Which, of course, was what the man counted on.

It had been Winslow’s facial expression online that caught Kevin’s eye. Every month for the past four years he’d glared at the PR shots in Winslow’s outstanding case file. The man’s I’ve-got-it-made grin in the blog photo was a perfect match.

As Kevin told Dawna in her briefing, he was certain he’d found Winslow, though he’d turned up no leads when searching his databases for a Pinecraft resident or visitor using any variation of the man’s name or initials. Winslow appeared to have altered every identifier and behavior previously associated with him.

But had he killed his passion for women’s basketball?

Before his indictment, Winslow’s generous donations had enabled Suncoast to recruit a larger and more skillful coaching staff and talented players. With him as a major booster, the school moved from NCAA Division Two to One. This year, the Suncoast Stingrayettes had quickly clinched a conference slot and expected to make it to the Big Dance in New Orleans.

Suspecting that Winslow was in Pinecraft to enjoy his favorite team’s winning season, Kevin ordered FBI surveillance on Stingrayette home games and practices. He got no results. Apparently, Winslow didn’t venture out of Pinecraft.

Kevin’s last hope was that the man would be unable to resist getting close to a real player on his home court. Which was why Kevin had summoned Dawna to Florida.

A very long shot, she’d thought, and had suggested a few tweaks to Kevin’s plan that might improve her chances of attracting Winslow. But Kevin wasn’t interested in her ideas. His op, he said. He’d run it his way.

She shut up. His op, he’d take the blame for scoring zip. She convinced herself to enjoy her paid vacation in Florida and not give a damn about the results.

Almost.

Now, she turned onto her street. The pavement between her and her rented bungalow was deserted. She lifted the business card to eye level and flipped it over. The male scrawl on the back read, You need to talk to me today. Ryane’s office. 1700.

She sniffed. As if a bounty hunter could teach her criminal apprehension.

An image of Tommy O’Brien formed in her brain. Taller than she was. His torso as solid as she remembered, no flesh bulging over the waistband of those bus-driver trousers. Muscular forearms, the rampant dark hairs a match for the thick thatch on his head. Nothing stupid about the man’s looks. He might have a good idea.

Maybe she should listen to him. She hated going scoreless regardless of who got blamed for the loss.

Glancing at her watch, she saw it was five minutes past three o’clock. Enough time to review the case file, map out the best route to drive her rental car to the university, and shower and change before meeting Tommy. She stepped up her pace, trying to remember which clothes she’d packed for this trip.

The university carillon was chiming for the fifth time when Dawna stepped into the spacious office Ryane O’Brien shared with two other female assistant coaches. A view of fronds topping the palm trees along the outfield fence of the baseball stadium filled the two windows in the far wall. Tommy lounged against a teak desk centered between them. Matching desks were pushed against each of the two sidewalls. The floral scents of the coaches’ colognes mingled with the basketball program’s standard odors of liniment, old sneakers, and girl sweat.

Tommy unfolded his arms and trained his deep-set Irish-blue eyes on her, apparently taking in her halter-top sundress, bare legs, and the platform heels on her best sandals. His mouth curved into an appreciative smile.

Nice to see you again, Special Agent Shepherd, he said.

An unexpected pleasure, Fugitive Team Leader O’Brien. Pointedly, Dawna gave him an equally thorough once-over. He’d changed into a plaid sport shirt and Dockers, sockless in deck shoes. Damn, he looked good! She forced herself to concentrate on the business between them. Where’s your niece?

Tied up in a meeting. She’ll join us soon as they’re finished. Thought it best we come to terms in private. Got some trust issues to work out after last time.

Dawna was in no hurry to revisit their past encounter. She waved her hand to take in the room. Both Ryane’s job and her office had been funded by Paul Winslow’s donations.

I can guess how you got interested in apprehending Winslow, she said. But why do you think he’s in Pinecraft?

I know he’s in Pinecraft, Tommy corrected. And not only because you’re here.

Dawna rolled a desk chair to face him and sat, crossing her legs. She noted that Tommy’s gaze followed the action.

What, did your niece spot him in town? she asked.

She wouldn’t recognize Winslow. He vanished before she was hired. Tommy moved the chair from the desk behind him and sat facing her. But you’re right that she pestered me into going after him. So, like you, I set out some bait.

Dawna caught a second whiff of the Ralph Lauren cologne she’d smelled earlier. She didn’t let the alluring scent affect her game face.

Bait? she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Bought a ticket for the finals in New Orleans. Private entrance, valet parking, personal skybox with smoked windows. A famous person can slip in and out without being seen.

Or an infamous fraudster, Dawna added approvingly.

Soon as the game sold out, I put the ticket up on Craigslist and started taking bids. Came up with a short list of four males using bogus IDs. Focused on the one using a forwarding service in Los Angeles. A helpful clerk told me he was sending the guy’s mail on to a PO box in Pinecraft.

Dawna translated helpful to bribe-able. O’Brien had invested serious coin in his search. And he’d learned not only Winslow’s whereabouts but also what the man was calling himself. Her smile widened. You sent him the ticket?

Sure. The Stingrayettes make it to New Orleans, I’ll know in which seat to find him.

Big if. I take it you hope to nail him sooner.

Hoped. Tommy shrugged. Till I saw the local PO.

Dawna laughed. Pinecraft’s post office was owned and operated by year-round Amish residents, who contracted with the US Postal Service to provide mail services. The plain sects enjoyed peaceful coexistence with English law, but preferred to abide by their own values. The local clerk was not likely to be helpful to a stranger asking about a box renter.

Tommy’s alternative was to stake out the PO Box where his ticket landed. Unfortunately, the four hundred boxes were accessed from outside the tiny seventy-year-old building. He couldn’t linger in the miniature parking lot observing the one rented by Winslow without calling attention to himself.

His rueful laugh echoed hers. Did my best. But I spotted no likely five-foot-ten-inch fifty-seven-year-old male nearby. And I can’t see inside the box. For all I know, my envelope’s still sitting in it.

Dawna shrugged. Or Winslow has someone else pick up his mail.

Dead end either way. Figured I’d do better by checking out your spectators. Saw a couple of guys who might be Winslow, but they came and went too fast for me to be certain. I don’t want to turn up again tomorrow. Might spook him. How long you plan to keep this up?

Through the weekend. Such a long shot, the bureau refused to commit more resources to it.

Tommy chuckled. Improbable as I find it, you don’t seem to be sufficiently enticing bait to make Winslow stick around and watch. Not even wearing your signature shoes.

Dawna blushed. Man was sharp. Of course, he’d guess she enjoyed pretending the Air Zoom S5 had been designed for her instead of for a pro with a similar name.

Not my signature, she corrected with what she hoped was becoming modesty.

Tommy scoffed. Should’ve been. You’re as good as Dawn Staley ever was.

He’d taken his flattery way over the top, equating her with the Olympic gold medalist and seven-year WNBA veteran. Dawna shook her head. Her vibrating curly mane undercut her intended dismissive effect. Quickly, she added, I can tell you want something bad. Let me guess: a current photo of Paul Winslow?

Sure, he drawled. But not as bad as you want his alias. You’ll have to give me more than a snapshot to get that.

Dawna’s spine stiffened. Such as?

Upgrade your show on Sunday to an exhibition match with Ryane and one of her girls. Get that Amish kid you’ve been training with— He broke off and frowned at her. Who is he anyway?

Jacob Zook, she replied. Roofer from Pennsylvania. Wants to learn the game.

So ask Jacob Zook from PA to partner with you. Get him to post a notice on all the bulletin boards. I’ll bust Winslow when he shows up.

Dawna snorted. Too complicated. You give me the alias, the bureau will tell me where he’s living twenty minutes later. I’ll make sure you get credit so you can collect your ten percent from the bondsman.

Tommy was on his feet. He paced to the window, peered out.

She was pleased to get a rear view. As impressive as the front.

He turned, silhouetted against the evening light. I doubt the bureau can access any more data warehouses than I can. Man’s residential address isn’t in the system.

She translated again. Access meant hack into. Was it worth Kevin’s time to search?

As if he’d heard her unvoiced question, Tommy shook his head in a vigorous negative. Guy running your op gets that name, he’ll flood the town with agents doing door-to-doors. Winslow will vanish before they get near him.

Dawna chewed the inside of her cheek. She agreed with Tommy’s assessment. He’d gained a better understanding of Winslow than Kevin ever would.

Suppose we draw a couple hundred spectators? she said. You’re only one man. How can you hope to find Winslow in a crowd that size?

True, I might not spot him watching you and Jacob go up against Ryane and her partner. But I know where to find him when you four finish the match.

Dawna larded her response with skepticism. What, you’re clairvoyant?

Tommy made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth, a woeful sound. Somebody’s background information is incomplete. You obviously don’t know a crucial detail—Winslow is a betting man. He paid his way through college running a book for his frat bros. He was at the University of Tennessee from 1973 through 1977.

Tommy paused, waiting for Dawna to make the connection.

Tennessee? So he had a front row seat when Pat Summitt took over coaching the Lady Vols, Dawna said, remembering. Under Summitt’s leadership, the teams became national contenders for the next thirty years. Man got hooked on women’s hoops.

And addicted to betting their games. Guy like him doesn’t stop. When he was living in Sarasota, he laid down money every time the Stingrayettes played. I’m sure he’s still at it, but he’s too smart to bet online. Has to be doing it locally. And the sole man taking action in Pinecraft deals only in person and in cash, and he keeps all the bets in his head.

Dawna wasn’t surprised to learn a bookie could earn a living off Pinecraft gamblers. Financial need led to aberrant behaviors even among the plain-living Amish. She’d heard of some being busted up north for selling cocaine and home-grown and -cured tobacco, others implicated in puppy-mill scandals, where house pets were raised and traded like livestock.

The local bookie’s low-tech approach was like that of the Pinecraft postal clerk who totaled customer expenditures on an old-fashioned adding machine and accepted no credit cards. Economic choices sometimes forced rule-breaking and compromise.

Tommy watched her work out the implications. You’re smart and you have excellent instincts. His smile widened. You see how our teaming up is the best way to catch the dude.

Has potential, Dawna admitted.

Tommy was damn smart himself, understanding she’d be predisposed to believe a man who praised her mind, admired her ballplaying, and appreciated her appearance—and managed to come across as sincere while doing it.

We might be able to work together, she said.

Which brings us back to the trust issue. Tommy reclaimed the chair facing her. Elbows on his knees, he leaned closer. I figured out why you excluded me from the bust last time. I’ll let that go. But I want your promise that I’m the one brings Winslow in.

Dawna knew Kevin wouldn’t approve that deal. But Kevin would never capture Winslow with his half-baked op. She’d have a much better chance of success working with Tommy.

This time she wouldn’t be trying to save her daddy’s ass. She’d be appreciating Tommy’s.

Her gaze locked onto his. I’m in.

They were grinning at each other when a freckle-faced young woman bounded into the room, reddish-brown hair snagged back into a ponytail. Her hazel eyes glowed, and her right hand shot toward Dawna. Wow, you showed up!

Dawna recognized Stingrayette Assistant Coach Ryane O’Brien from her business card photo. The former point guard had been known for her reckless abandon as a college player.

Standing to greet her, Dawna recalled that the scar above Ryane’s left eye had resulted from a head-on collision with a Fordham player. Her hustling style came across in her vigorous handshake. Relaxing her own equally firm grip, Dawna said, Your uncle’s pretty persuasive.

Lucky for me, Ryane retorted. With your help, Uncle Tommy will capture Paul Winslow. It’s totally wrong the man isn’t in prison. He stole all that money from people who’ve never gotten a dime back. I’d like to return every cent he pumped into our program. But they tell me we spent it all. So next best thing is to get him behind bars. Make him give whatever he has left to his victims.

Noble sentiment. Tommy’s effort to temper Ryane’s enthusiasm with old-guy cynicism was overpowered by audible fondness. You find a partner who’ll make this exhibition irresistible to him? he asked.

Carlie says she’ll play with me. Ryane beamed at Dawna. Winslow won’t be able to stay away.

Excellent choice, Dawna agreed.

She knew that Carlie George had been ranked among the top twenty players in the nation during her senior year at a Florida high school. Her choice of the basketball program at scrappy up-and-coming Suncoast over the longer-established and better-known University of Florida Gators had garnered so much media attention, Dawna couldn’t have missed it.

Winslow would also have heard of the hottest new Stingrayette recruit. He’d be eager to see Carlie George in action on Sunday.

Tommy glanced at his watch. I promised Ryane I’d grill steaks for us tonight. She lives on the other side of Sarasota from Pinecraft. Has a very private backyard. No risk we’ll be seen together. You meet us there, and I’ll fire up the barbecue. We can work out the details over dinner.

Sounds good, Dawna agreed.

From the corner of her eye, she picked up movement, Ryane bending over her desk, turning her face away from her uncle. Dawna caught a glimpse of a satisfied smile, the same expression she’d seen on coaches’ faces when their game plans were being executed perfectly.

Why was Ryane so happy?

Driving to the woman’s apartment, Dawna ordered herself to watch for any additional hints of what Ryane might be thinking. She’d evaluate her information later, when no hunky dude was taking her attention off business. After pausing at a liquor store to pick up a fifth of Walker Black, she reached her destination as said dude was tossing a match to his starter-soaked charcoal.

For the next three hours, she focused on the pleasures of their temporary partnership. The immediate one being that Tommy knew how to feed a big girl. Perfectly broiled T-bones with grilled peppers, mushrooms, and onions on the side, plus a pint of high-fat sour cream for the huge potatoes Ryane baked as accompaniment. All served in a perfect tropical setting.

Bougainvillea draped the six-foot-high fence, its fragrance blending with the faint grassy odor of the lush, well-watered lawn and the scent of charring beef and peppers. The balmy evening air caressed Dawna’s bare back and arms, and she felt sexy as hell.

She ate enthusiastically as they worked out how to stage an exciting four-player exhibition match using only one hoop and discussed the best way to publicize it. At intervals, Tommy and Ryane tried to top each other as amusing hosts, interjecting anecdotes from bounty hunting and assistant coaching that were more entertaining than relevant.

By the time Dawna’s plate was empty, their plan was ready to go live on Sunday at 1400. That settled, Ryane insisted on handling dishwashing and kitchen cleanup by herself. Neither Tommy nor Dawna objected. He was apparently as pleased to be alone with Dawna as Ryane seemed to be arranging the twosome.

Hunched companionably over their drinks, Tommy revealed the alias Winslow was using. Aaron Martin, a common name among the plain folk.

Dawna passed him a blowup of the farmers’ market shot in which Winslow, aka Martin, appeared.

Hard for me to see any difference between him and at least six other guys, she said. He blends into the crowd so well, you won’t be certain you’ve got the right man.

Tommy grunted in disagreement.

A snapshot is misleading, he said. You can’t see if Winslow was in motion when it was taken. And he had to have been. We know he trusts no one. He won’t linger in one place for idle chitchat or to make a friendly comment. I’ll be looking for a restless guy who interacts with nobody but the bookie.

Winslow won’t get much of a thrill betting on our match, Dawna said. Be obvious to him and most everyone else that Ryane teamed up with Carlie will cream me and Jacob.

Not when Winslow sees how you’re training Jacob to play. Tommy lowered his left shoulder meaningfully by way of explanation.

He was telling her to teach Jacob to use his tough male body against the young women. Carlie had played few regulation minutes her freshman season. She’d had little experience with the aggressive tactics of college ball. A few heavy body blocks and well-placed elbows would rattle the woman, and she’d have trouble scoring despite her height advantage.

Winslow will think he’s got insider knowledge, Dawna said. He’ll believe he can do a better job of predicting the final score. Give him an edge over the bookie.

Irresistible advantage for a gambler, Tommy said. I watch the bettors, I’ll find him. Shoes are bound to give him away.

Dawna made a scoffing noise. He’s a detail man. He’ll have on the same type shoes as everyone else.

"But he doesn’t slip on his dress