Black Cat Weekly #103

By O'Neil De Noux, Shannon Taft, James Holding and 7 more

Our 103rd issue is just one shy of our second anniversary issue, but we still have a whale of an issue for you. Regular readers will notice a new category (“Adventure”) below, which will appear occasionally to fit stories I like that aren’t necessarily mysteries, science fiction, or fantasy. (Well…this one may be fantasy, depending on how you feel about fish!) It’s from a pulp magazine called Mammoth Adventure, a companion to Amazing Stories and Fantastic when they were published by Ziff-Davis. It’s fun.

Working our way through the table of contents, we have a pair of original mysteries by O’Neil De Noux and Shannon Taft, thanks to our hardworking Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman. James Holding has a crime story, and Golden Age British mystery author J.J. Connington adds a terrific novel.

For adventure (and nature) lovers, something’s fishy in “Only a Sucker Bites,” a whopper of a story about lake pike.

On the fantasy end of things, we have a tale of astral projection from Adrian Cole, a vintage zombi (or jumbee) story by Henry S. Whitehead first published in Weird Tales, and a pair of vintage science fiction stories by Arthur Leo Zagat and George O. Smith.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“A Dirty, Dimly Lit Place,” by O’Neil De Noux [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Too Many Suspects,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The End of the Road,” by Shannon Taft [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Reason Enough,” by James Holding [short story]
Murder in the Maze, by J. J. Connington [novel]

Adventure:

“Only a Sucker Bites,” by J. C. Stanley [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“A Smell of Burning,” by Adrian Cole [short story]
“Jumbee,” by Henry S. Whitehead [short story]
“Lost in Time,” by Arthur Leo Zagat [novella]
Dynasty of the Lost, by George O. Smith [novel]

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: Aug 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667661100

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

A DIRTY, DIMLY LIT PLACE, by O’Neil De Noux

TOO MANY SUSPECTS, by Hal Charles

THE END OF THE ROAD, by Shannon Taft

REASON ENOUGH, by James Holding

MURDER IN THE MAZE, by J.J. Connington

CHAPTER

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

ONLY A SUCKER BITES, by J.C. Stanley

JUMBEE, by Henry S. Whitehead

A SMELL OF BURNING, by Adrian Cole

LOST IN TIME, by Arthur Leo Zagat

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

DYNASTY OF THE LOST, by George O. Smith

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

A Dirty, Dimly Lit Place is copyright © 2023 by O’Neil De Noux and appears here for the first time.

Too Many Suspects is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The End of the Road is copyright © 2023 by Shannon Taft and appears here for the first time.

Reason Enough is copyright © 1977 by James Holding. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 1977. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Murder in the Maze, by J.J. Connington, originally appeared in 1927.

Only a Sucker Bites, by J.C. Stanley, was originally published in Mammoth Adventure, July 1947.

A Smell of Burning, is copyright © 2016 by Adrian Cole. Originally published in Tough Guys 2016. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Jumbee, by Henry S. Whitehead, was originally published in Weird Tales, Sept. 1926.

Lost in Time, by Arthur Leo Zagat, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, 1937.

Dynasty of the Lost, by George O. Smith, was originally published in Future, May-June 1950.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This is our 103rd issue (just one shy of our second anniversary issue), but we still have a whale of an issue for you. Regular readers will notice a new category (Adventure) below, which will appear occasionally to fit stories I like that aren’t necessarily mysteries, science fiction, or fantasy. (Well…this one may be fantasy, depending on how you feel about fish!) It’s from a pulp magazine called Mammoth Adventure, a companion to Amazing Stories and Fantastic when they were published by Ziff-Davis. It’s fun.

Working our way through the table of contents, we have a pair of original mysteries by O’Neil De Noux and Shannon Taft, thanks to our hardworking Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman. James Holding has a crime story, and Golden Age British mystery author J.J. Connington has a terrific novel.

For adventure (and nature) lovers, something’s fishy in Only a Sucker Bites, a whopper of a story about lake pike.

On the fantasy end of things, we have a tale of astral projection from Adrian Cole, a vintage zombi (or jumbee) story by Henry S. Whitehead first published in Weird Tales, and a pair of vintage science fiction stories by Arthur Leo Zagat and George O. Smith.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

A Dirty, Dimly Lit Place, by O’Neil De Noux [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Too Many Suspects, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

The End of the Road, by Shannon Taft [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Reason Enough, by James Holding [short story]

Murder in the Maze, by J. J. Connington [novel]

Adventure:

Only a Sucker Bites, by J. C. Stanley [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

A Smell of Burning, by Adrian Cole [short story]

Jumbee, by Henry S. Whitehead [short story]

Lost in Time, by Arthur Leo Zagat [novella]

Dynasty of the Lost, 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

Enid North

Karl Wurf

A DIRTY, DIMLY LIT PLACE,

by O’Neil De Noux

The woman sat at the last table near the side door where the dull lights in the cantina could not reach her. Even the moonlight outside was blocked by the leaves of the banana trees. She sat quietly and sipped her wine and waited. The bartender, elbows up on the bar, eyes half-closed, had glanced at her when she came in, paid for a glass of madeira, and headed for the table. She knew he didn’t think much of what he saw.

She wore no makeup tonight, her long brown hair unruly and unwashed for three days. The dress she wore was long and baggy, two sizes too large for her, which hid her figure. The thick, black-framed glasses had clear lenses, hid her bright green eyes.

This late at night, the street was empty. An ocean breeze filtered through the banana leaves, rustling them, otherwise it was so quiet the woman could hear her watch ticking when the wind died down. She took a sip of the wine and put it on the dusty table.

The only other occupant of the bar, a young man in a white shirt and dark blue pants turned on his stool at the bar and looked at her through bleary eyes. He raised his empty glass and the bartender refilled it from a bottle of Jack Daniels. The man took a sip, ran his hand through his thick black hair and carefully climbed off the stool, came toward her.

Don’t come close. Don’t look at me.

He stopped on the other side of her small table with his feet spread to balance himself, ran a hand through his hair again, and asked if she would like some company. She shook her head slowly, raised her glass, and sipped the Madeira. She put the glass down before he could see her hand shaking as she looked into his dark brown eyes. She took in a deep breath, tried to fight the hammering of her heart because, up close, this young man reminded her of someone she’d forced from her memory years ago. He smiled, asked why she wore gloves on a warm night but received no answer. The man shrugged, took a sip of his bourbon, and headed back to the bar.

The breeze flowing through the open windows, moving the leaves outside enough to allow the bright moonlight into the cantina as the man moved away from her and the woman felt a tingling on her arms, goose bumps rising on her neck. He moved just like—

She allowed her mind to wander back for a moment, back across the ocean and over hills to a place far away. Her mind flashed snapshots of a handsome, young face. She saw them together as if in a movie, on a beach and in their bedroom and on their bed and dancing at a nightclub with her face against his neck. The old heartache returned, the memory pulled at her, bringing an almost-forgotten sadness to her heart, haunting thoughts of what might have been. If only. It was more than the pain of lost youth. It was a deeper pain.

She watched the young man take two attempts to climb back on his stool. He turned, raised his glass to her, and emptied it. The bartender refilled it and the young man turned his back to her. The breeze returned and a tall man in a black suit stepped into the bar, which had no door as it never closed. He looked around the bar and she looked back at him for a moment, making sure it was him. She looked down at her drink.

The tall man stepped to the bar, ordered a drink and took a table next to the bar, his back to her. The woman finished her madeira, opened her purse and put the glass inside, pulled out the twenty-two caliber revolver. She paused a moment, hardening herself, felt her heart calming. She rose and moved straight to the tall man in the black suit, raised the pistol and shot him in the back of the head, twice.

The bartender whimpered, covered his head with his arms, face down on the bar. The woman moved to the bar, saw pictures behind it. Pictures of the bartender with a woman, pictures of the woman and two children who looked like the bartender. She raised the twenty-two and shot the bartender in the head, twice.

The young man’s head also lay on the bar, his eyes closed, a thin sliver of spittle rolling from his lips and for a moment she let herself go back again, back to those steamy nights so long ago. She stepped to the man. Two bullets left. She raised the pistol, cocked the hammer, pointed it at his forehead.

She felt her heartbeat again. Thump. Thump. Thump. She took in a deep breath, lowered the pistol. She turned and moved to the open door, looked out at the empty street, the trees beyond and the glimmering sea. Another breeze brought the scent of bananas. A movement to her right drew her to a white cat stepping into the cantina. The cat seemed to glow in the moonlight and it looked up at her with bright blue eyes.

She’d heard white cats with blue eyes were often deaf. The cat moved past her and into the cantina to a bowl just inside, to the left of the bar. There was dried cat food inside and the cat began to eat. The woman watched for a few seconds, eased past the cat, and went back and put the last two bullets into the young man’s head.

The woman left the cantina, the cat still eating, and crossed the dirt road to the trees and stepped to the small bridge to throw the revolver into the sea. She moved away from the dirty cantina and the three bodies, away from the heartache and the memory of the steamy nights.

There was money waiting and a long vacation in a clean, sunlit place.

She took what she had left—the heartless precision of her work.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

O’Neil De Noux (oneildenoux.com) is a retired police officer, a former homicide detective, with 47 books published, more than 400 short story sales and a screenplay produced in 2000. His writing has garnered a number of awards, including the Shamus Award (twice), the Derringer Award, and Police Book of the Year (awarded by PoliceWriters.com). Two of his stories have been featured in The Best American Mystery Stories (2003 and 2013). He is a past Vice-President of the Private Eye Writers of America.

TOO MANY SUSPECTS,

by Hal Charles

No sooner had state police detective Kelly Stonebreaker been allowed entry into the Clement County Fieldhouse than she was accosted by local deputy Rick Peters.

So what’s the emergency you called about, Rick? she said loudly above the teeming throng inside. Need someone to present the trophy to the winner of the annual 10K race?

Actually, he said, we haven’t even started the race yet. In fact, I’m not letting any of the three-hundred runners out until we nab the culprit.

It’s my fault, Detective, interrupted Jenny Styles, head of the town’s Parks and Rec, pushing through some stretching runners and handing Kelly a plastic bottle of water. As this is the sixtieth running of the famed Clement County 10K, I took a cue from my parents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary and promoted the race as a diamond event.

Not to be confused with baseball, interjected Deputy Peters.

Kelly shook her head at the deputy’s attempt to infuse some humor in the critical situation. Good idea, she said to Jenny.

Thought so at the time, responded the head of Parks and Rec. I even contacted one of our eminent locals, former Governor Gifford. He and his wife, Carol, are renowned for their massive diamond collection, and they put it on display this morning right where we are standing.

Kelly Stonebreaker looked around. Sorry. I don’t see it.

Exactly. This morning, as it was raining, we brought everyone in this fieldhouse to register for the noon start. With so many people milling around, Carol got nervous about the vulnerability of the collection and had it immediately packed up. No sooner had they finished than I saw Carol and the governor with panicked looks on their faces.

Why? said Kelly.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the DeClareville Diamonds, said Jenny. The governor and Carol were missing ten of the world’s most perfect diamonds of the same approximate size and shape.

The crowning jewels of their collection, added Deputy Peters. Anyway, as I was in charge of security, I immediately locked all the doors to the fieldhouse, stationed deputies at the exits as extra security, and called you.

From the moment the diamond exhibition started till it was shut down, I assure you no one left the fieldhouse, chimed in Jenny.

So the jewels have to still be with the perpetrators, concluded Kelly.

That’s the point in a nutshell, said Peters. We have too many suspects, three-hundred, to be exact.

Three hundred and five, corrected Jenny, if we count the Governor, his wife, Deputy Peters, me, and you.

And we need to do something fast, said Peters. Three hundred people in a closed facility will start to—

I get the picture, said the state police detective surveying the sweating crowd of men and women, stretching, running in place, and hydrating.

Are you going to search every one of them? asked Jenny.

As difficult as that may be, I don’t think we have any choice in the matter, said the state police detective.

All the diamonds could be on one person, said Peters, or the criminals, being a clever lot, could have parceled the jewels out to say ten thieves."

Two hours later with the crowd clamoring for the race to start, Kelly Stonebreaker was back to square one. Every person had been thoroughly searched from their hats down to their expensive shoes, and every piece of gear in their backpacks and duffel bags had been scrutinized. Nothing. Carol sat in the corner crying as the governor tried to console her.

Pulling out the water bottle Jenny had given her on her arrival, Kelly took the last swig and suddenly announced, I know where the diamonds are.

SOLUTION

As she held her water bottle up for the final drink, Kelly looked through it and realized what the thieves had done. On taking the jewels, they realized they had to stash them somewhere inconspicuous, yet in a place they could take out of the fieldhouse. Sure enough, the missing ten diamonds were discovered in the only two full water bottles in the fieldhouse. The thieves, a couple, had figured out that diamonds are invisible in water.

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.

THE END OF THE ROAD,

by Shannon Taft

You promised me a morning in the woods, Mike, not a suicide mission, Lissa joked as I drove our Prius into yet another pothole on Trabuco Creek Road.

The dirt lane hadn’t been too bad at the start, but with each passing mile, it had become worse, and now it seemed there were more holes than actual road. The dust-dry path had gotten so narrow that I couldn’t imagine things working out well if a car came at us from the other direction.

It’s only a little farther to the trailhead, I assured her. Ed says that Holy Jim Falls is a great hike. He does this trip all the time. I decided it would be best not to mention that my former coworker had a Land Rover SUV for getting himself there.

Lissa sighed. Sorry to complain. I just really need to pee, and all this bouncing around isn’t helping.

I picked up a little speed after she said that. I had some great news to share with her and had even hidden a bottle of champagne in the cooler in the trunk to celebrate after the hike. But if she peed her pants, it would probably put a damper on the day.

I was going less than ten miles per hour when I swerved to the right to avoid a particularly enormous pothole. As I tried to swing back, one of my tires hit a different hole. I overcorrected and ran the Prius off the road. If it had happened in a hundred other places on the wretched byway, everything would’ve been fine. Instead, I drove smack into a small boulder the size of a picnic hamper.

The impact jerked me forward in my seat, but we’d been going so slow that the airbags didn’t deploy.

I turned to Lissa. You okay?

Yup. She added a grin. At least now I can go pee in the woods while you check out the damage on the car.

We’d been married less than a year, and this was one of the things I loved most about her. She was a firm believer that if life sends you lemons, you should make a Lemon Drop Martini. When I’d gotten laid off a few weeks earlier, she hadn’t issued a word of complaint that she might be the only one bringing in an income for a while. Instead, she’d told me, I never liked your boss. Now you can find one who appreciates you more.

I watched as Lissa unfastened her seatbelt and pushed her way out of the car. She left her door ajar in her rush to dash off into scrubby brush that lined the road. The growth was only about waist-high, so the risk of getting lost seemed slim, but I hollered after her, Don’t go too far.

Barely twenty feet away, she waved a hand behind her as she ran, as if to say she’d heard me. A second later, she stumbled and fell.

Then she screamed—a sound of raw, animalistic horror.

Lissa? I roared.

I was in such a panic to get out of the car and reach her that I failed to unlock my seatbelt. By the time I’d fumbled my way free and made it to the side of the road, she’d risen to her feet and turned toward me to say in a trembling voice, Mike. Don’t move.

What? Confusion made me instinctively halt. Is there a rattlesnake, baby?

She shook her head. Corpse. Call the cops.

* * * *

I had only one bar of reception on my phone, but managed to get through to 911 and explain the situation. The operator’s voice cut in and out as she said that there would be a bit of a wait for officers to come, since my description of our location indicated that we were now in the Cleveland National Forest, which meant that they had to deal with some jurisdictional complications. Stay where you are until law enforcement officers arrive, she said just before the call dropped.

I explained to Lissa that we wouldn’t be leaving this spot anytime soon. She nodded glumly and went to take care of her bladder’s requirements in the chaparral-looking scrub on the opposite side of the road from the dead body. Meanwhile, I checked on the damage to the Prius. It seemed drivable, but the front bumper was a mess. I winced at the thought of the repair bill.

I heard the crush of dry dirt beneath hiking boots and turned to see that Lissa had finished her business and was headed for the car’s trunk. She opened it up, grabbed two bottles of water from the cooler we’d packed, and slammed the hatch shut with a thunk.

She brought one icy bottle to me. We strolled twenty feet away to stand under the shade of an oak tree to escape the sun, which was getting stronger as it rose in the sky.

Why is there champagne in the cooler? she asked.

I’d briefly managed to forget about that. Long story.

Not something to discuss right after finding a dead body?

I’d rather not.

Five inches shorter than me, Lissa got up on her tiptoes to give me a kiss. Whatever it is, I promise we’ll celebrate it, Mike. Whenever you want.

I wrapped her in a tight hug, then we sat down to wait.

It felt like forever before two SUVs made their way down the road toward us, forming a tiny caravan, kicking up the beige dust of the road behind them.

Lissa and I hastened over to our Prius while the newcomers parked behind it. The first vehicle had markings for the Orange County Sheriff’s Department, while the second was from the US Forest Service. Each SUV had only one occupant. The men climbed out of their cars and came over to us. Both officers looked to be in their thirties and deeply tanned, as if they spent a lot of time outdoors.

You’re the couple that called about finding a body? the guy from the first SUV asked.

Yes, I said.

I’m Deputy Fernandez, Orange County Sheriff’s Department. He pointed to his companion. This is Ranger Smitts from the US Forest Service.

Smitts offered us a silent nod of acknowledgment and kept an eye on us as Fernandez walked around to the front of the Prius. The deputy examined the damage for a minute, then asked for our IDs. It made me wonder if I was about to be ticketed for hitting a government-owned rock with my car.

As we gave him our licenses, it occurred to me that I ought to pray that this man did believe I’d hit the stone. The other possible conclusion might be that I’d killed somebody with my car, moved the corpse to hide that I’d been responsible, then faked the rock accident to explain the damage to my Prius.

I tried to keep my hand steady when Fernandez gave us back our licenses. He went to look again at the stone and bumper before returning to stand next to me, his hands on his hips just above his service belt. Tell me what happened.

I began the tale by explaining how I’d accidentally driven our Prius into the stone. When I got to the part about Lissa needing to pee, she looked down for a second, as if embarrassed, but lifted her head again and gamely told her part of the story. She pointed off to the south, toward the body, as she told the officers about tripping over it.

Deputy Fernandez appeared to be paying close attention to us, but the Forest Service ranger was gazing around in all directions, eyeing everything from the pothole that had started the mess to the layer of dust on our car. He seemed particularly interested in the outside of our trunk, where Lisa had disturbed the grime while getting our drinks.

Did either of you touch the body? Fernandez asked.

Only to trip over it, Lissa said. I think the tip of my hiking boot got caught on something like his ankle or foot. I thought it must’ve been a tree root, but when I looked… Lissa shuddered.

Fernandez sounded sympathetic as he said, I understand. Just wait here.

Smitts stood with us while Fernandez went off to check out the corpse. The deputy disappeared from sight for a moment as he lowered himself into a squat next to the body, but he soon straightened back up and returned to the cars. Definitely dead, he announced to the ranger. Hasn’t been here long enough for the animals to get to him, though.

Smitts nodded silently, and I began to wonder if this guy was deliberately being mute in order to seem more intimidating—not that he needed the help.

Fernandez pulled a radio from his belt and requested that the person on the other end send someone from the Coroner Division. Then he added, The decedent still had his wallet in his back pocket, complete with fifty bucks in cash. The name on the license is Brad Hiller. Might want to track down the contact info for the next of kin so we’ll be ready as soon as the coroner confirms the ID.

Brad Hiller? My mouth gaped in disbelief as I turned to Lissa, hoping she would tell me that the deputy had gotten it wrong.

I… He was face down, she said, staring back at me.

Fernandez must’ve noticed our reactions, because he abruptly terminated his radio conversation and asked us, Did you know Mr. Hiller?

I had no idea what to say. Lying to a cop seemed like a very bad idea, and it wasn’t as if they wouldn’t learn the truth eventually. He was my boss, I admitted. I got laid off last month.

He fired you? Fernandez asked, his voice as hard as the packed dirt of the road.

I shook my head for barely a second, then stopped and said, Well, sort of. But he gave me a really nice severance package.

I’m sure it was a standard amount set by human resources, Lissa said, a bite in her tone. She softened it when she added, Although, I must admit, it was pretty generous.

How generous? the deputy demanded.

Six months salary, I said.

The ranger spoke for the first time. Six months of pay? How long had you worked there?

Four years. It was my first job after I got my CPA license.

CPA, Fernandez repeated slowly.

Certified public accountant, I explained.

He rolled his eyes. I know what it means, sir. But I’m in county government, and this guy is a federal employee. He used a thumb to point to the ranger. If we get laid off, neither one of us gets a month-and-a half of severance for each year of work.

I’d get one week’s pay for each year of service, Smitts said, his eyes assessing me. More after ten years. But sure as shi—um, sure as green apples, neither one of us would get anything close to what you got. Is that amount normal for you private-sector CPAs?

I don’t know what constitutes normal. This was my first time being laid off. I hope it will be the last.

The deputy leaned against the front of his SUV, seeming to ponder the question.

Can I get you a drink? Lissa asked, looking from the deputy to the ranger and back again.

Huh? Fernandez said.

The frown on Smitts’s face silently communicated similar confusion.

We have some cold waters, Lissa explained, swatting at an insect flying a few inches away from her face. Would either of you like one?

Everyone stared at her, including me.

After a few seconds, she said defensively, Well, forgive me for trying to be a good hostess.

The ranger snorted. We’re on Forest Service land. That makes Uncle Sam the host for this little soiree, ma’am.

Perhaps we can get back to the subject of the dead Mister Hiller, Fernandez suggested wryly. He cocked his head and asked my wife, Why did you credit HR for the size of the severance package?

She gave an awkward shrug. I think Brad wanted to get rid of Mike because Mike is—or was—too good at his job. It made the other accountants look bad when clients would ask for Mike by name and not them. A boss who fires someone for that isn’t gonna worry about being fair with the severance payment.

Fernandez turned to me and asked, You were better than the rest?

I guess, I admitted, uncomfortable with tooting my own horn. A few weeks before the layoff, I did some work for one client, Jake Keppler. He owns a couple of small businesses as well as being the primary shareholder for Loughton Industries. He liked the work I did for his chain of ice cream stores and asked that I be put on the team for the Loughton annual audit. I was about to explain more, but stopped when the deputy and ranger exchanged a look.

What? Lissa asked them.

You said your husband was good at his job, the deputy told her. Too good. Any chance that his boss was worried he’d find something in that Loughton audit?

While I pondered the possibility, Lissa squinted as if thinking too hard, although it might just have been the bright sun glinting off the cars. We thought it was favoritism, she finally said. Isn’t that still more likely?

Favoritism? Fernandez asked.

She nodded. Two years ago, Brad hired Ed, an old college buddy. Ed was newer, but it was Mike who got laid off. Mike and I assumed that Brad was watching out for his friend at Mike’s expense.

A pit formed in my stomach as I put the pieces together. Ed was the guy who would’ve been taken off the Loughton Industries account in order to put me on it. I thought I was pushed out to protect…

The other guy’s job, Fernandez finished for me. So why don’t you look like you think that now?

I swallowed through my dry throat and desperately wished for one of the waters Lissa had been offering a few minutes before. This trail. I mean, this road to the trailhead. We’re only here because Ed recommended it. He knows this road. He takes it all the time to go to Holy Jim Falls. Ed called me yesterday to ask how I was doing. He said I should come out here for a hike. Today. Everyone else would be at work, and I could have the trail to myself. It’s pure chance that Lissa took a day off to come with me.

The deputy looked at my dust-covered Prius. This Ed guy, did he know you drove a car that would have a crap time making it down this road?

Yeah, I said. We parked near each other at work all the time. He drives a Range Rover SUV. Really nice. Got it a few months ago.

I thought it was called a Land Rover, Lissa said, tilting her head.

Land Rover is the model, I told her.

Wait, the park ranger said, putting up one hand as if stopping traffic. "He’s got a Land Rover?"

Yes. I couldn’t imagine why the ranger cared.

Do you know what trim he bought?

Um… I closed my eyes and tried to picture the vehicle in my mind. I think there’s a silver ‘SV’ inside a circle on the back. I looked at Smitts once more. Does it matter?

That depends, Smitts said, focusing his gaze on my economical Prius. If you both did the same job, should your coworker be able to afford a car that starts at well over a hundred grand?

He has a nice house too, Lissa chirped eagerly. We went there to drop off some work stuff one time. How many people do you know who can afford to buy a house near the Upper Oso Reservoir these days?

He said that was because he inherited some money from a rich aunt, I reminded her.

If so, there’s an awful lot of people dying around this guy, Lissa noted. And if the aunt did exist, I hope somebody gave her a really thorough autopsy.

The park ranger broke into a grin. Ma’am, I like how your mind works.

What’s Ed’s last name? Fernandez asked.

Walker. Ed Walker, I replied.

Do you recall the address for that fancy house your wife was talking about? the deputy asked.

I should still have it on my phone. I pulled the device from my pocket and scrolled through old text messages until I found the right one.

As soon as I read off the address, the deputy rounded his SUV and hopped inside. He began to do something with a computer that was on a stand to the right of the driver’s seat.

While we waited for him to return, the park ranger gave us some tips on good hikes and specified which trailheads we shouldn’t try to reach in a Prius. In comparison to his stony silence when he’d arrived, the man had become downright chatty.

Several minutes passed before Deputy Fernandez climbed out of his SUV and rejoined us.

Well? the park ranger asked.

Fernandez smirked. Ed Walker bought his house last year for two-point-six million dollars. Our friend lying over in the chaparral bought a place for three million dollars only a month before Mr. Walker did.

That’s either a lot of dead aunts or they’re crooks, my wife said.

I rather thought she had a point.

Fernandez turned to me. Were people at work under the impression that Ed was a CPA?

Of course he’s a CPA. A second later I realized what the question had implied. Oh. Well, he said he was one. The clients certainly thought he was.

He was at one time, Fernandez said. But according to the California Board of Accountancy, Edward Walker had his license revoked three years ago for fraud and gross negligence. Thirty seconds with a laptop and your boss could’ve known about the license getting yanked. There was a criminal charge too, but Mr. Walker took a plea bargain and served only thirty days in jail.

Lissa’s eyes went wide, and she turned to me. Do you think that Brad knew?

He had to, I croaked through my tightening throat. At least about the license. And if Brad was willing to put a guy like that on the Loughton audit… The only reason to do that is if someone at Loughton Industries was up to no good and bribed Brad to help him hide it.

But why kill Brad if they were all allies? she asked.

Guilt pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. The champagne in our trunk was to celebrate that I got a new job. I’m supposed to start at Loughton Industries in three weeks. Jake Keppler recommended me for the spot. I would’ve been helping to assemble the audit data on the corporate side. That must be what triggered Brad’s death—my new job.

Lissa put her hand on my arm and gave it a soft stroke.

You know the players, Fernandez said. Who do you think was the killer—Ed Walker or the person at Loughton Industries?

Ed, I said, certain of it. He’s the one who told me to come out here. The one familiar with this road. Nausea made the water in my stomach threaten to revisit my mouth. Ed had killed Brad because of me. Because the truth was going to come out. But one piece didn’t make sense to me. Why kill Brad? Why not kill me?

You were supposed to come out here alone? the park ranger asked, tension rising in his voice. To hike the falls trail?

Yeah. Why does that—

I broke off as Lissa’s soothing caress stopped and she dug her nails through the thin fabric of my hiking shirt. Her eyes were wide with horror. It wasn’t hard for me to figure out why.

I turned back to the officers. Did Ed want it to look like I murdered Brad and then committed suicide?

Deputy Fernandez craned his neck to look up the road, although only fifteen yards could be seen before the dirt byway curved. He said with slow deliberation, When my backup arrives, we’d better go check the trail to see if your friend is waiting for you. His tone grew more urgent when he added, In the meantime, I want you guys safely out of here. Smitts, can you escort them until they’re back on the main roads—just in case?

We’ll come back and do Holy Jim Trail some other time, I promised Lissa.

Don’t forget to do West Horsethief too, the park ranger called out as Lissa and I hastened toward our car doors. It’s another moderate trail at the end of this road.

My wife paused to turn back and give the ranger a polite smile and a nod. It wasn’t until we were driving back to the main road that she muttered with disgust, Horsethief. End of the road.

What? I asked.

I’ve already seen one thief hit the end of the road around here, she said acidly. I don’t need to see another. And I certainly don’t want to visit the falls trail where someone planned to make me a widow.

I rather saw her point. Agreed. Next time I want to celebrate something, we’ll go to the beach.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An attorney from Washington, DC, Shannon Taft enjoys writing fantasy and crime fiction. Her most recent short works include The Perfect House in the Restless Spirits anthology, Research in Hook, Line, and Sinker, Monster in Reckless in Texas, and The Codicil in Fantastic Detectives. Her speculative-fiction short mystery Bone Deep is scheduled to appear in the September issue of parABnormal Magazine.

REASON ENOUGH,

by James Holding

The one with the big smile and the no-color eyes came into the diner first. He took his time about ordering ham and eggs, toast and coffee. He looked as though he needed the big breakfast: he was as thin as a wire coat-hanger and wore a beat-up checked wool hat pushed back on his head.

I called his order through the serving window to Jerry in the kitchen. And when I turned back to the counter, the fat one was sliding onto the next stool. He had hair long enough to cover his ears and a diamond stickpin, of all things, in his green-and-yellow-striped necktie. Maybe the stickpin was a piece of glass—I don’t know—but it sparkled pretty good in the diner’s overhead lights. It was an overcast day and