Black Cat Weekly #83

By Bruce D. Arthurs, Phyllis Ann Karr, Nancy Novick and 7 more

Black Cat Weekly #83 has something for everyone -- modern and classic mysteries? Check! Science fiction? Check! Fantasy? Check! Even a crime tale set in the Old West! Novels, short stories, series tales featuring such great characters as master detective Nick Carter, western hero Hashknife Hartley, and sword & sorcery team Frostflower and Thorn are ien this issue. One of our best!

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Lucky Day” by Bruce D. Arthurs [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Grand Larceny at the Grand Prix” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“How Does He Die This Time?,” by Nancy Novick [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Blood Will Tell, by Nicholas Carter [Nick Carter series, novel]

Hidden Blood, by W.C. Tuttle [Hashknife Hartley series, novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Truth About the Lady of the Lake,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [Frostflower & Thorn series, short story]

“Time for Survival,” by George O. Smith [short story]

“Nobody Saw the Ship” by Murray Leinster [short story]

“Momentum,” by Charles Dye [short story]

Convoy to Atlantis, by William P. McGivern [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667681856

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

LUCKY DAY, by Bruce Arthurs

GRAND LARCENY AT THE GRAND PRIX, by Hal Charles

HOW DOES HE DIE THIS TIME?, by Nancy Novick

BLOOD WILL TELL, by Nicholas Carter

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

HIDDEN BLOOD, by W.C. Tuttle

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

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE LADY OF THE LAKE, by Phyllis Ann Karr

TIME FOR SURVIVAL, by George O. Smith

NOBODY SAW THE SHIP, by Murray Leinster

MOMENTUM, by Charles Dye

CONVOY TO ATLANTIS, by William P. McGivern

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Lucky Day is copyright © 2023 by Bruce D. Arthurs and appears here for the first time.

Grand Larceny at the Grand Prix is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

How Does He Die This Time is copyright © 2018 by Nancy Novick. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Sept./Oct, 2018. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Blood Will Tell, by Nicholas Carter, was originally published in Nick Carter Stories #156, September 4, 1915.

Hidden Blood, by W.C. Tuttle, was originally published in 1925.

The Truth About the Lady of the Lake is copyright © 1990 by Phyllis Ann Karr. First published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Issue 9, Summer 1990. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Time for Survival, by George O. Smith, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, March 1960.

Momentum, Charles Dye, was originally published in Future, July 1951.

Convoy to Atlantis, by William P. McGivern, was originally published in Amazing Stories, November 1941.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

In our 83rd issue, we have the last Barb Goffman Presents story in inventory, as Barb takes a 2-month leave to work on her fiction and other projects. Her talents have been recognized, and she is in high demand elsewhere. We will miss her always-great story acquisitions…until her return! In the meantime, we will have a surprise temp filling in for her starting next issue. Luckily, our acquiring science fiction & fantasy editor, Cynthia Ward, will be returning shortly. She has already begun scouting out new stories. And Michael Bracken is still chugging along, continuing his string of original story choices in this issue with Bruce Arthur’s Lucky Day. (Don’t worry, Michael has many more selections in the pipeline!)

On the mystery front, we also have a great tale by Nancy Novel, plus a pair of novels—one is a Nick Carter mystery, the other a Hashknife Hartley western (which all seem to involve crime).

On the science fiction & fantasy front, we have our last Frostflower & Thorn tale (till she writes more…we hope!) from Phyllis Ann Karr, a tale of the Mary Celeste by George O. Smith, classic science fiction from Murray Leinster and Charles Dye, and a novel featuring Nazis and Atlantis from William P. McGivern. Many hours of great reading.

On another note, if you’re going to be in Texas at the end of April, don’t miss Robert E. Howard Days. This celebration of fantasy and the creator of Conan (and so many other classic characters) takes place in his hometown April 28-29 this year. I will be guest of honor, and I hope to meet many friends new and old.

Here’s this issue’s complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Lucky Day by Bruce D. Arthurs [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Grand Larceny at the Grand Prix by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

How Does He Die This Time?, by Nancy Novick [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Blood Will Tell, by Nicholas Carter [Nick Carter series, novel]

Hidden Blood, by W.C. Tuttle [Hashknife Hartley series, novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Truth About the Lady of the Lake, by Phyllis Ann Karr [Frostflower & Thorn series, short story]

Time for Survival, by George O. Smith [short story]

Nobody Saw the Ship by Murray Leinster [short story]

Momentum, by Charles Dye [short story]

Convoy to Atlantis, by William P. McGivern [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

Enid North

Karl Wurf

LUCKY DAY,

by Bruce Arthurs

Hunter looked through the pickup’s windshield and saw the white sedan, beige-streaked with road dust, stopped over at the county road’s edge.

Low wire fencing stretched on each side of the dirt two-lane road; tall grasses and an occasional scant burst of wildflowers, persistent against the summer heat, grew in the narrow space between compacted dirt and fence. Beyond the fencing, sere brown hills, marked with clumps of scrub pine, rose toward the mountains where big pines grew and hidden creeks coursed.

A woman stood by the rear of the sedan. She stared down at the listing corner of the vehicle and ran her hands up through shoulder-length black hair.

Hair like Blair’s.

But Blair was dead, and Hunter was not a man who felt any obligation to help strangers.

Still.

He pulled his pickup over and stopped about twenty yards behind the sedan. The fishing gear and cooler in the truck bed slid forward with a hissing sound as he braked, banging into the back of the cabin before he came to a stop. The woman turned towards Hunter as he climbed out, and the resemblance to Blair dropped away. She was nice-looking enough, with a decent figure in gray slacks and a pale blue blouse, but she lacked Blair’s striking cheekbones or full lips.

And Blair would have smiled as Hunter approached. Most women with a breakdown on a lonely road might have been wary of a stranger’s approach, but hopeful for aid as well.

The woman with the dirty white sedan wasn’t hopeful.

Hunter knew what fear looked like.

He slowed his approach. His size and looks intimidated many people—still did, even at his current age, with hair gone white and face deeply lined—and that had worked to his advantage many times. This didn’t need to be one of them. He spoke, trying to put a smoother tone on a rough voice weathered further by too many years of tobacco and whiskey.

Morning. Need some help with that? He nodded towards the sedan. He was close enough to see the tire’s lower portion squashed against the ground, flatter than hell.

The woman’s mouth gaped open, closed, gaped again like a goldfish. Struggling for words, not finding any.

There’s something wrong here, Hunter thought. He stopped and stood still, several yards away from the woman and the car. He tried again: I can change that tire for you, if you have a spare and a jack in the trunk.

The woman trembled. She took a step back.

Very wrong. And that was when Hunter caught it.

Beneath the scent of dust and grass and distant scrub pine, the hot-metal odors from the sedan and pickup’s engines, there was another odor, something faint but noticeable.

Something from the sedan.

Something from the rear of the sedan.

Something from the trunk of the sedan.

Hunter knew what death smelled like.

He looked over at the trunk, then back at the woman. They stared at each other for several seconds.

Who’s in the trunk? he asked.

The woman whirled and dashed towards the open driver’s door, lunged inside, grabbing for something. A pistol rose in her hand as she turned back toward Hunter.

But he was already there, the yards between them gone, closing the last few inches between them, slapping the pistol from her hand with a sound like a bat smacking a fastball. He pushed her back, hard, her head cracking against the door frame. She cried out and sagged, sliding down the car door until the seat of her slacks thumped against the dust and gravel of the road. She moaned, then began to weep.

It’s…it’s over. So stupid, I was so fucking stupid…

Hunter leaned over her and pressed the Unlock button on the inside of the car door. The sedan’s other doors and trunk unlocked with a *thunk*.

Hunter picked up the woman’s gun and put it inside the back of his pants. He moved to the rear of the sedan and opened the trunk. Hunter looked inside for a moment. He came back around the car and looked down at the woman.

This is the first time you’ve killed anyone, isn’t it?

The woman blinked. What?

Hunter sighed. He should just get back in his truck and drive away. You wrapped the body in a blanket. The blanket got saturated, and now you have blood smears in the trunk of your car. A plastic tarp or a few rolls of kitchen wrap might have prevented that. And helped keep in the smell when the body’s sphincter relaxed.

I panicked, the woman said. I had to get him…it…out of the house.

Where were you taking it?

The woman’s eyes brimmed. I didn’t have a plan. I just…drove. The highway, at first, out of the city. Then state roads. Then smaller roads. Then this road. I’m…I’m not even sure where I am. I drove most of the night. She ran her hands through her hair again. "God, I’m so tired."

Hunter looked down at the woman. He jerked his head back towards the trunk. Did he deserve it?

She looked back, then stood, slowly, as if bearing a great weight. You tell me. Her hands reached up and began to unbutton her blouse.

Hunter’s eyes narrowed. A come on? But there was no sense of anything sexual when she pulled one side of the blouse away, then used her other hand to lift a bra cup and pull the bottom edge up partway.

The scars on the underside of the breast were the size of a cigarette tip. Some were older than the others.

You should have run after the first time.

He’d have found me if I ran. I tried, once. She shuddered, then rearranged her bra and buttoned her blouse.

Hunter realized what he had to do. Give me your purse.

She hesitated, then reached over to the car seat. Hunter took the purse, found a wallet inside, and searched through it, examining what he found. He put the wallet back.

Your name is Julie, he said. "All right, Julie, this is what we’re going to do.

First, we’ll change the tire. Then you’ll follow my truck about three miles down the road. There’s a shaded spot to pull off. About a hundred yards down the hill from there is a larger group of scrub. We’ll drag the body there and cover it with any loose brush we can find.

She stared at him. Why are you helping me? she asked.

Hunter stood silent for a moment before he answered. You reminded me of someone I cared about.

My…my lucky day, then.

If you say so.

The woman’s face relaxed a fraction, then tightened again. What if we’re seen?

This road gets maybe a half-dozen vehicles a day. It’s a pretty small risk. It was a plan. The plan was crappy, but it was a plan, and it made the woman heave a deep sigh of relief.

I need you to do something for me, Julie, he said, and watched a measure of fear climb back onto her face. A different type of fear. Not that. After we dump your little problem and part ways, if you still end up ever being questioned about this guy’s disappearance, I need your word you’ll never mention meeting another person on the road, what he looked like, what his truck looked like, or that any person gave you help. Can I trust your word on that, Julie?

You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You…you’re a professional.

Not anymore. I retired. I was heading to the mountains for some fishing. There’s a little creek with big trout up there almost no one knows about. But my face and prints are in some police files, so I don’t do well interacting with cops. I need your word, Julie.

Yes. Yes! You have my word. My promise. We’ve never met, never talked.

All right, he said. One more thing. Hunter held up her purse. I’m going to put this in my truck. I’ll give it back at the pullout. You need to do what I tell you. No change of mind, no thoughts that turning yourself in might be the best course. You got out of one bad situation; prison is just another. Worse, in some ways. Do you understand?

I…I understand.

Okay.

Hunter took Julie’s purse to his truck and came back, pulling on a pair of work gloves. He leaned into the trunk and shifted the body around, grunting.

Did you get him in by yourself? No one helped you?

It took a long time. I almost gave up. I thought I might have to…cut him up, but I guess thinking about that gave me the strength to finally get him up and in. She let out a bark of laughter, then clapped her hands over her mouth.

I’m sorry, she said. I just thought, that’s why they call it ‘dead weight’.

You should have left the body and ran. Saved having to deal with all this. I think we can get the spare out now.

The blanket-wrapped corpse now rested at the back of the trunk space. In the trunk’s floor, a panel covered the recess where the spare tire and jack were kept; the panel had an opening to insert a hand and lift.

Hunter pulled up on the panel. The front edge came up partway; the corpse still covered part of the panel’s far side, weighing it down. Spare and jack were visible in the recess, but the opening didn’t look large enough to pull them out. Hunter let the cover drop shut.

I’ll need some help for this. When I lift, you reach inside and try to pull the tire out.

Julie moved to stand close by Hunter’s side. When Hunter pulled up the cover again, she bent into the trunk space. Oh, God, I smell it.

Hunter heaved up with another grunt. The recess cover bowed, expanding the opening several inches. Julie reached in, took out the jack, and dropped it on the ground beside her. The tire was heavier and more awkward. She grappled with both hands and tugged until the spare moved enough to rest at an angle on the edge of the storage recess.

Any time, Hunter said, his voice strained.

I’m trying. She pulled again, grunting herself now. Another inch of movement rewarded her effort. With more tugging, the spare shifted further, enough to rest its edge on the trunk’s lip.

That’s enough for the moment. Hunter lowered the recess cover down to rest on the spare. Quick break. Both of them panted as they leaned against the rear of the sedan. Hunter felt annoyed with himself; twenty years younger, even ten, and the task would have been easy for him. He hated weakness in others, and it was frustrating to recognize it taking root in himself.

The sun was warm and growing warmer. After a moment, Hunter spoke. The longer we take, the more likely another car will come. Let’s get this done.

The last part went more easily. Julie slid the spare up over the trunk’s lip and out as Hunter held the recess cover up again. Hunter let the cover drop shut, then closed the trunk.

Changing the tire took less than ten minutes. Hunter loosened the lug nuts in a quick staggered pattern, jacked the car up, then twisted the nuts off with spins of the tire iron. Julie held the lug nuts while Hunter set the flat aside, centered the spare on the axle, and went through the process in reverse.

They looked at the damaged tire on the ground, glanced at the closed trunk.

Behind the driver’s seat?

Good idea. Tire and jack went into the car. Julie closed the passenger door.

They looked at each other. Julie was waiting for Hunter to tell her what to do next. That was good.

Remember the plan. Follow my truck. Three miles. A pullout under some trees. Dump the body.

What then?

We’ll talk about it there. He turned and walked towards his truck.

Wait.

He stopped and turned around.

I…I don’t even know your name. You probably don’t want me to know it. I understand that. I understand why. But I can’t just keep thinking of you as the stranger who helped me. So…even a made-up name?

Hunter looked at her for a long moment before he spoke. Hobbes.

Just Hobbes? No first name?

Hobbes is enough.

All right. Well, I’m very glad you stopped to help me. Mr. Hobbes.

Don’t mention it.

But I—

No, don’t mention it once we’ve gone separate ways. You gave your word, remember?

Oh. Right. Of course. Just for now, then.

Right. Let’s finish this.

Hunter’s truck led as the two vehicles drove down the road, dust rising in their wakes. He monitored his rearview mirror; the white sedan followed several hundred feet behind, avoiding the worst of the dust rising behind Hunter’s truck.

As Hunter drove, he thought about the next steps, endless scenarios of what might go wrong, about what to do if that happened. That had been his talent during a long career in the business. He planned jobs thoroughly but left room to change those plans or improvise if things went south. Sometimes that meant just walking away. Sometimes it hadn’t been that simple; old scars and bullet fragments still ached during some of his long nights trying to sleep.

The pullout was ahead. He pulled in, stopped, got out, walked toward the sedan as it pulled up a few lengths behind the truck, holding Julie’s purse in one hand. Julie swung her driver’s door open, but Hunter stepped in close before she could get out. He crouched to speak face to face, setting the open purse on the ground beside him.

Julie, after we’re done here, I want you to go to Los Angeles. I’m going to give you a phone number to call. Ask to speak to a man named Harold. He knows me by the name of Fairweather. Remind him who dragged his bleeding ass out of the Farmington mess and got him patched up. He can get you a new driver’s license, birth certificate, and other ID. If he balks, tell him I’ll be in touch to make sure he repaid the favor.

You’d do that for me? After all—She waved a hand.—"this? This is my lucky day. She stared at him for a moment. You said you stopped to help me because I reminded you of someone you cared about. She paused again. You must have cared for her very much."

I— He hesitated and began again. I cared for her more than I thought possible for someone like me to care for another person. Then he twisted his head left, alert, looking through the windshield towards where the road was visible beyond the pickup. Is that a car coming?

Julie turned her own head towards the windshield. Wh—? she began, but by then Hunter had reached into the purse, brought the pistol up under her chin, and pulled the trigger.

Hunter retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his prints from the gun. He used the cloth to cover his own hand while he placed the pistol in Julie’s and arranged her to make it look right. He wiped down every place he had touched, then got back in his pickup and drove away.

A cut-and-dried story would be in the papers for a day. A woman had killed her boyfriend or husband or whatever the man in the trunk had been to her. She’d tried to dispose of the body but realized she couldn’t escape the consequences and killed herself on a lonely road.

The woman had been a walking disaster. Everything she had done had been the wrong thing to do, from hooking up with the guy in her trunk in the first place to asking Hunter to give her his name. An amateur who’d seen too many movies and television shows.

She wouldn’t have lasted more than a few days on the lam. Her wallet had held less than a hundred in cash. There had been a credit card, but with a man’s name on it, probably the trunk guy’s. If she was able to use it at all, it would have provided police a map of her movements once someone reported the dead guy as missing.

And she would have talked, once police caught up with her. Of course, she would have talked. She’d been weak, and impulsive, and foolish. Eventually, she’d have told them about the old man with the faded blue pickup who’d helped her, and the police would have looked for him. Might even have found him.

That would have been bad. There was a cold case in another state with a dead cop involved, and a suspect description matching a younger version of Hunter. So Hunter avoided cops.

Still, he’d fed Julie the bullshit about Harold in LA and seen the hope in her eyes at his words. Julie had died with hope in her heart.

Blair would have approved of that part at least.

But Blair had been one of a kind, a woman good for Hunter. She’d taken him fishing for the first time, and he’d found a surprising peace in the hours spent with rod and reel at quiet streams and lakes, hours when the churning in his head would calm, when he didn’t have to plan, when he didn’t have to be ready for anyone and anything to go wrong. And the fishing had helped after Blair’s death.

Hunter pressed harder on the pickup’s gas pedal. It was another hour’s drive, and a hike down a rough forest trail at the end, to reach the little creek with the big trout. He had time to make up, and the warm day might make the fish sluggish. But he had a feeling today would be a lucky day.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bruce Arthurs has been writing occasional stories since 1975, with over two dozen published over the years. In the 1990s, he also edited two anthologies and wrote an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation (Clues, Season 4, 1991). He lives in Arizona with his wife Hilde, several housemates, and a small mob of cats.

GRAND LARCENY AT THE GRAND PRIX,

by Hal Charles

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.

HOW DOES HE DIE THIS TIME?,

by Nancy Novick

Ellen was sipping from her Librarians Do it By the Book mug when Charlie came downstairs nursing a slight but nagging headache.

Hello, she said and put her hand briefly over his as he sat down beside her at their kitchen counter. That was fun last night, wasn’t it?

He nodded, though he wasn’t sure he meant it. The party had been a great success for Ellen. Her editor, a tall woman with hennaed hair and black nail polish, was in from New York, and their friends had turned out in force. Even the rain held off until well after twilight, so the guests were able to spill outside onto the patio. If it had gone on a little later than Charlie would have liked, he understood. It was Ellen’s night.

He was pleasantly surprised now to find that the dishwasher was humming with the first load of dishes, though she tended to oversoap. Ellen handed him a cup of coffee from the fresh pot. She looked rested and pleased, her dark blond hair, streaked with silver now, was pulled back from her face. Ellen looked good, Charlie thought with satisfaction. She was one of those few fortunate women who got more appealing with age and had, in recent years, acquired a scrubbed-clean look, as if, now that the primary responsibilities of mothering were finished, she had shed a psychic weight. Ellen’s recent success, rather than overstimulating her, seemed to relax her.

Yes, It would be wrong, he thought, to begrudge her this moment. She had worked hard, and she deserved it. And he certainly benefited from her achievements. The house, freshly painted and brightened by the recent purchases of a new sofa and curtains, had never looked better. They had indulged in some luxuries, a pool table for him, the new table lamps and a whimsical iron coat rack with arms like tree branches. That last choice a little over the top, but he had agreed to it with an uneasy feeling that it was her money in play. Still, it was odd that most of their guests now came to see Ellen, not Ellen and Charlie.

They had been celebrating the publication of Ellen’s fifth book. Deepest Sympathy was another mystery, this one set in Oregon, where they had spent six months, thirty years earlier. I’m worried it might be a little dated, she told him when the idea first occurred to her, one of the few details she revealed about her project. But when he suggested a trip out west for research—he had lots of time on his hands these days—she had demurred. I can probably find everything I need on the internet.

He would like to travel though, to go someplace new, take the kind of vacation she used to bring up. Something with the university maybe, with a theme or even lectures to satisfy her academic side. There was one in Greece she had mentioned at least a few times, even if they couldn’t go this year. The publication of a new book would mean a tour and appearances, a remarkable vote of confidence in these days of limited marketing resources, but Ellen’s publishers, delighted with her success and the appeal of her small-town persona, were happy to support their golden goose. Well, maybe next year. In the meantime, he would think more about how he would spend his time while she was away.

When the first book was published, he had enjoyed being on his own. He played golf often, went to bed early, and relished the orderliness of a house with no other occupants. Apart from their nightly phone call and the visit from their daughters, he savored the silence of his bachelor life. It was only toward the end of the tours that he would get lonely, even missing what otherwise bothered him, the damp bath towels left draped over a bedroom chair, or her habit of leaving her overflowing tote bag near the front door when she came back from running errands or her now part-time job.

Charlie watched Ellen now as she wiped the counter carelessly, with a not entirely clean dish towel. When she finished, a ring from the water pitcher remained on the shining granite surface. He held his tongue.

Outside, Razzie, the neighbors’ German Shepherd was barking in loud insistent bursts. Charlie’s head began to throb.

God, I wish that dog would give it a rest, he snapped.

Oh, she’ll quiet down in a minute, Ellen answered soothingly. The Allens were nice enough to keep her in last night anyway.

Charlie reached past her for his plastic pill container. It held only two pills, both of which kept his blood pressure in check, and a couple of vitamins that his doctor had assured him would keep him feeling good and out on the links for a long time to come. But he resented the little routine of morning and evening pills, nostalgic for the time when he freely ate what he wanted and slept like a baby. Ellen had dripped some soapy water from the sponge onto the container, which slipped from his hand to the floor. He pressed his lips together in irritation as he reached down for it.

* * * *

All that morning he was out of sorts. He found a smeared, crusty spot on the new sofa, where someone had spilled some food the night before and then tried, ineffectually, to rub it off with a napkin.

He suffered from that vague and frustrating feeling of wanting something, but not knowing exactly what it was. It happened fairly often now that he was retired, or semi-retired, as he liked to tell his friends, thinking that it made him sound less obsolete. The firm that had recruited Charlie right out of graduate school continued to send some consulting jobs his way, and he wrote the occasional article for an industry magazine. Civil engineering is valuable work. Lives depend on it, he would tell the children back when they were young. Recently he had started serving on the town council—not really a job if truth be told, but he preferred to think of it that way. Though others clearly didn’t.

How is it, being a kept man? Al Kinney had asked after their last council meeting. Al still worked in the city, though as a senior partner he was able to make his own schedule. The two were in the parking lot walking toward their cars. Can’t beat it, Charlie had replied, smiling, aware that condescension weighed more heavily than envy in Al’s tone.

* * * *

Ellen’s writing had started as a hobby, something to fill her time when Tara, their youngest, had left for Oberlin. In a way, it was surprising that she hadn’t tried it before. With her years of experience as the children’s librarian at the town’s only branch, he had assumed she was working on a picture book, something about woodland animals or an eccentric child with a special talent. When her manuscript turned out to be a mystery, he recalled that Ellen had been in the habit of bringing home volumes of Agatha Christie and P. D. James, and then a writer named Patricia Highsmith. More than once he had found her in the kitchen reading with such rapt absorption that he’d had to speak to her twice before he could get her attention.

He must have encouraged her along the way, but it was difficult to remember how. Ellen’s writing initially seemed to have been like the hobbies she had adopted when their other two children had gone to college. Decoupage when Eliot left for Kent State, beading with Carrie’s departure for Vassar, and now this.

He had noticed how committed she was to her writing, sticking to a daily schedule of two hours every evening after dinner and Sunday afternoons. It had worked well for both of them. Charlie had spent many happy afternoons undisturbed watching golf without the little shade of guilt he had occasionally felt in the past, that his attention was being sought elsewhere.

Shortly before Tara was due to come home for her summer vacation, Ellen announced that she was taking a break for a few months and Charlie assumed she was finished with writing for good. The manuscript pages would be placed in a box in the attic, beside the table with the garish decoupage top gone wrong, once destined for their enclosed porch. He would not prod her to clear either one out. Watching the children leave had to have been harder for her than for him. She had spent so many hours with them, wiping noses, making doctors’ appointments, and responding to their emotional crises once they entered their teens. She had been the receiver of their confidences too. Their marriage had been traditional in that way. But he hadn’t shirked his responsibilities, he thought. He had tried to be close to the children, to explain practical things to them: how to change the oil in the car, how to manage their money, and choose a college. But they seemed to prefer the company of their mother, who was admittedly more patient.

He knew they thought them old-fashioned. Carrie, especially, who had always been the most observant of the three; he remembered her as a baby sitting in her bouncy seat, gazing at him seriously for minutes at a time. She had even said as much during her summer break after her sophomore year.

Don’t get me wrong, she had said. I’m glad Mom was always there for us. But didn’t you two ever think of mixing it up a little?

It works for us, Charlie had told her, shrugging, and Carrie hadn’t pursued the conversation, although later the same year she started telling him he should check his privilege. Whatever the hell that meant.

* * * *

The review of Ellen’s first book in the Clarkstown Gazette was practically a love letter. Ellen Porter has produced a work worthy of serious attention. Could the next heir to Ruth Rendell live right here in town? But the critic was a friend from church who liked to drop literary names and was seldom known to take a harsh view of any creative endeavor in her circle. This review notwithstanding, it came as a not altogether pleasant shock to Charlie when the same novel was praised by the Plain Dealer as a remarkable debut, a slice of small-town Americana with a dark underbelly. Charlie had made a bad joke about his own underbelly, and Ellen had paused and given him an indecipherable look before offering up a perfunctory chuckle.

Apart from Ellen’s editor, no one had read the new book yet. Not even Charlie. Ellen was superstitious that way. She had kept the first book a secret too, up until the day the Book Nook had it in stock and she’d brought him in triumphantly to see the display the staff had created for their local author. Charlie was surprised to find that he was a little hurt, but was mollified after she told him I wanted it to be a wonderful surprise. I wanted to make you and the kids proud.

He even played along.

Can you believe it? he asked the Johnsons at a dinner party they threw to celebrate. Our Ellen. And she didn’t tell a soul! That’s not like her.

Ellen’s face was flushed. It must have been the wine, which she seldom drank. He put his arm around her waist with what must have been a little too much enthusiasm, because