Black Cat Weekly #105

By Steve Liskow, Stephen D. Rogers, Adrian Cole and 7 more

   Our 105th issue features a pair of original mystery stories, one by Steve Liskow (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and one by the late Henry T. Parry (revised and completed by me). Parry published more than two dozen mystery stories from the late 1960s through the early 1980s, and his daughter was kind enough to pass on his unfinished and unpublished work, which will be appearing in BCW in future issues. We also have a mystery tale by Stephen D. Rogers (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman) and a suspense novel, The Horror Expert—a foray into crime noir by noted fantasist Frank Belknap Long. I suspect there are more than a few autobiographical elements! And, of course, we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from the mighty pen (or word processor) of Hal Charles.

   On the science fiction side of things, we have a classic novel by British writer J.J. Connington, best known for his mysteries. (I thought it made a nice counterpoint to Long’s crime novel.) It chronicles one man’s attempt to stop a plague from destroying humanity. Plus fantasies by Adrian Cole and Joseph Payne Brennan, and SF shorts by Robert Silverberg and Lin Carter. Quite a fun issue.

   Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“This Year’s Model,” by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Jellybean Justice,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Stagnant,” by Stephen D. Rogers [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Best-Laid Plans,” by Henry T. Parry and John Gregory Betancourt
The Horror Expert, by Frank Belknap Long [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Broken Billy,” by Adrian Cole
“Age of Anxiety,” by Robert Silverberg [short story]
“The Man Who Feared Masks,” by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]
“Owlstone,” by Lin Carter [short story]
Nordenholt’s Million, by J. J. Connington [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Sep 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667661230

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THIS YEAR’S MODEL, by Steve Liskow

JELLYBEAN JUSTICE, by Hal Charles

STAGNANT, by Stephen D. Rogers

BEST-LAID PLANS, by Henry T. Parry and John Gregory Betancourt

THE HORROR EXPERT, by Frank Belknap Long

PROLOG

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

BROKEN BILLY, by Adrian Cole

AGE OF ANXIETY, by Robert Silverberg

THE MAN WHO FEARED MASKS, by Joseph Payne Brennan

OWLSTONE, by Lin Carter

NORDENHOLT’S MILLION, by J. J. Connington

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

This Year’s Model is copyright © 2023 by Steve Liskow and appears here for the first time.

Jellybean Justice is copyright © 2023 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Stagnant" is copyright © 2007 by Stephen D. Rogers. Originally published in Still Waters: Crime Stories by New England Writers. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Best-Laid Plans, by Henry T. Parry and John Gregory Betancourt, is copyright © 2023 by John Gregory Betancourt and appears here for the first time.

The Horror Expert, by Frank Belknap Long, was originally published in 1961. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Broken Billy is copyright © 2018 by Adrian Cole. Originally published in The Alchemy Press Book of Horrors. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Age of Anxiety," by Robert Silverberg, was originally published in Infinity, June 1957.

The Man Who Feared Masks, is copyright © 1963 by Joseph Payne Brennan. Originally published in Scream at Midnight.

Owlstone is copyright © 1969 by Lin Carter and first appeared in the collection Beyond the Gates of Dream. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Nordenholt’s Million, by J. J. Connington, was originally published in 1923.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 105th issue features a pair of original mystery stories, one by Steve Liskow (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and one by the late Henry T. Parry (revised and completed by me). Parry published more than two dozen mystery stories from the late 1960s through the early 1980s, and his daughter was kind enough to pass on his unfinished and unpublished work, which will be appearing in BCW in future issues. We also have a mystery tale by Stephen D. Rogers (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman) and a suspense novel, The Horror Expert—a foray into crime noir by noted fantasist Frank Belknap Long. I suspect there are more than a few autobiographical elements! And, of course, we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from the mighty pen (or word processor) of Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side of things, we have a classic novel by British writer J.J. Connington, best known for his mysteries. (I thought it made a nice counterpoint to Long’s crime novel.) It chronicles one man’s attempt to stop a plague from destroying humanity. Plus fantasies by Adrian Cole and Joseph Payne Brennan, and SF shorts by Robert Silverberg and Lin Carter. Quite a fun issue.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

This Year’s Model, by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Jellybean Justice, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Stagnant, by Stephen D. Rogers [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Best-Laid Plans, by Henry T. Parry and John Gregory Betancourt

The Horror Expert, by Frank Belknap Long [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Broken Billy, by Adrian Cole

Age of Anxiety, by Robert Silverberg [short story]

The Man Who Feared Masks, by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]

Owlstone, by Lin Carter [short story]

Nordenholt’s Million, by J. J. Connington [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

THIS YEAR’S MODEL,

by Steve Liskow

Emma Holiday wears a turquoise blazer over a black Northern Connecticut State University tee, her faded jeans and sneakers worn to the color of pavement. She still looks ready for the Senior Prom.

I don’t know how to start, she says. I mean, I feel like such an idiot.

Take your time. Zach Barnes is used to her discomfort. Nobody ever hires a private investigator because their life is perfect.

Emma sits next to her mother, who wears a suit that belongs in a high-priced law firm. The older woman gives off a vibe that makes Barnes think of a chain saw. He doesn’t take it personally. She’s probably like this with everyone. He suspects her regular diet includes jugular veins.

Why don’t we start with the basics: age, contact info, stuff like that.

He’s offered them coffee and tea and the mother looked at his selections with such scorn he would have withered and died if he were a decent person.

Barnes nods at Emma’s tee. I don’t know much about Northern, but I guess you go there, don’t you?

She nods. I’m a junior.

That would make you…twenty?

She nods again. Her eyes are a dark blue, making her hair look even blonder. Her cheeks hold the last remnants of a healthy summer tan. Her voice is soft, but crisp consonants make it carry across the room over the sound of the traffic on the Berlin Turnpike beyond the parking lot.

This demands absolute discretion, the mother says. If a syllable of this gets out...

Ms. Holiday, why don’t you walk up the road to the Dunkin’ Donuts and get your tea. Or maybe a smoothie.

I simply want you to understand...

Barnes holds up a hand.

I’m an investigator. And I’m a former police officer. Your daughter wouldn’t come here for make-up tips. I understand that.

The woman sits even more erect, and Barnes almost sees a helmet and breastplate materialize. He decides her name is Brunhilda. Before, he suspected Lucretia.

Well, I never...

I hope not. Barnes points up the road, beyond the package store, Pronto Printer, and a Wendy’s. Burger King, Subway, and Joey Garlic lie in the other direction, and McDonalds and a Mexican restaurant stare at him from across the boulevard. The woman frowns long enough that he can tell she can’t find a withering comeback before she picks up her purse and stalks to the door. She frowns back at Barnes, who waves at her. When she closes the door behind her, he turns back to her daughter.

I’m sorry, they say, almost in harmony.

Can I get you anything now? Barnes asks again.

Um, maybe decaf?

Coming right up. He keeps his eyes on the filter, spoon, coffee, and water while he talks. Sometimes it’s easier for people if they think he’s not paying attention. Does this have something to do with school, or family, or job, or am I not even close?

Um, school. I’m a theater major. Well, for now.

Does that mean you might change? Barnes knows the University of Connecticut has a good theater program. So do Yale and Wesleyan, but he’s never heard anyone mention Northern.

Well, I’m not...

Emma stops and when he looks back, tears roll down both cheeks and her lip wobbles.

He grabs a tissue, and she blows her nose delicately. He goes back to the coffee and gives her as much time as she needs.

I was such an asshole, she whispers. And if my father finds out...

Is that why your mother seems so pissed off? She’s stuck in the middle?

Emma nods. I can’t afford to pay you, so I asked her to help. But only if she won’t tell dad.

Barnes hands her a ceramic mug and sits again. Does this involve a young man?

Yes. No. Well, a man, but...

He motions to her mug and slides a legal pad into his lap. He keeps his eyes on her and offers a small smile. He’s dressed in his usual non-threatening office casual: jeans, sneakers, a striped shirt with the sleeves down. If he rolls them up, the knife scar on his left forearm freaks people out.

Emma sips the coffee, and her throat moves while she swallows.

OK, she says. I’m a theater major. I know I’m not Meryl Streep, but I’m trying, and I’m getting better, but it’s hard.

It’s a difficult art, Barnes says.

Yeah, tell me something new. But anyway, I’ve got this professor now, he’s really tried to help me. Extra sessions, more improv work with a few upperclassmen, stuff like that. And it’s helping, I think. But...

The last word threatens to roll over them like an SUV. Barnes sips his coffee and waits.

I’m such an asshole, Emma whispers again. He can feel her fighting back more tears.

I’ll bet it’s not your fault, he says. The woman is only twenty and very attractive. If she’s thinking of changing her major, he can think of reasons that have nothing to do with her talent but a lot to do her youth and looks. And, he suspects, her vulnerability.

A lot of it is making connections, she says. You know, who’s directing the next production, who’s doing the costumes, who else might try out that you like working with—or not. And if there are roles for you. Comedy, singing, whatever.

Sure. He feels her finding her rhythm.

Last spring, I thought I killed an audition for a major role, and I ended up in some little walk-on. I was onstage five minutes in a crappy wig and tight shoes. I thought I could do more, and I told my professor.

What’s his name?

Stark. Well, he told me I didn’t project enough passion and I needed more work. Maybe more physical work to get in shape, more vocal training, more improv so I could let myself go.

Barnes thinks he sees where this is going. He writes Stark on his pad but doesn’t look up. Emma gives what he can only describe as a refined snort.

Let myself go. Yeah, right.

The story rolls out faster and harder. She lets herself get angry and he likes her more by the minute. Passion indeed. The sessions where Stark begins touching her, encouraging her to remove clothing. Then the session where he suggests she pose for art classes. Nude.

Then the student party at the beginning of the new semester, three weeks ago. Where she ended up naked in his bed and didn’t remember how she got there. She went to the department chair, who sent her to the dean. It’s her word against Stark’s, and he has tenure.

Emma looks out the window and Barnes sees her mother appear with a smoothie cup in her hand and fire in her eyes. He goes to the door to meet her.

I’m almost through here, he tells her softly. Give us another ten minutes, OK? Then we’ll all talk about this together.

The woman opens her mouth, but Barnes holds up his hand. Ten minutes.

He closes the door and returns to his desk. Emma looks smaller now.

Yesterday, she says softly, I went to talk to him again. He knows I went to the Dean—well, of course he does—and he said if I were smart, I’d forget the whole thing.

She looks at Barnes, and her face is that of a frightened little girl, tears filling her eyes again, turning them into blurry blue nickels.

He told me he had pictures. If I don’t behave myself, they’ll be all over the Internet and everyone will know what a pathetic little slut I am.

Barnes understands why she doesn’t want her father to know. If Emma were his own daughter, he’d dismember the instructor with his bare hands.

Have you seen the pictures? he asks.

No. But if he’s got them...

She’s right, of course. Maybe it’s a bluff and there are no pictures at all, but an attractive young woman who wants to make it in legit theater can’t afford to take the chance.

Barnes goes to the door and holds it open for Ms. Holiday. A cool autumn breeze follows her in, and she takes the chair next to her daughter again. She looks at Emma’s face and turns back to Barnes with a frown that would be the envy of any gargoyle.

What exactly do you want me to do? he asks.

Get those pictures back, the gargoyle snaps.

That would have been a lot easier to do twenty years ago, he points out. When cameras meant film and negatives. But now those pictures are almost certainly digital, so he could have copies all over the galaxy. His computer, a flash drive, discs, the cloud...

Emma shakes her head. I know, I know. But maybe there’s a way you can make him afraid to use them. I don’t know...

If he showed them, they could be traced back to him, Barnes says. That could put him in trouble with the college. Connecticut takes a dim view of students being harassed—or worse—by instructors. It could mean firing. And maybe jail time.

But my daughter’s reputation is ruined, too. The gargoyle wraps her arm around her daughter as if she’s a little girl. That mustn’t happen.

I’m not cheap, Barnes says. And I can’t guarantee you’ll like my results.

Do you have any idea what you can do?

Barnes watches the traffic go by on the Turnpike, orange and brown leaves scattering under their tires.

Well, I can start by saying ‘please,’ but that’s probably not going to go anywhere.

The women look at each other.

There are a few other possibilities, but if I tell you, you don’t need me anymore. And if I have to play dirty, you’re better off if you don’t know too much. Not to mention that I’m probably better at it than you are.

He opens the blank contract file on his PC and turns back to the mother.

Ms. Holiday, since you’re the payee, I’m going to need your name.

Sharon.

He types the name in the blank.

How long do you think this is going to take?

Hard to tell, he says. I take two days as a retainer, but today’s Friday. I’m going to have to visit the college, and I’m not sure how much I can accomplish over the weekend.

Everything, I hope. Sharon Holiday digs into her purse and finds her checkbook. The woman can write a check for four figures, but her daughter is going to one of the least expensive colleges in the state of Connecticut. Does that say something about the family’s budget, the young woman’s talent, or none of the above?

Barnes’s printer whirs and spits out two copies. He hands them to the woman.

Sign them both and keep one. Then I’m going to need a few more details.

* * * *

After watching Sharon Holiday’s Lexus ease into traffic, Barnes Googles Gordon Stark and finds several entries, but nothing to keep him awake at night. Stark, thirty-eight, graduated from Carnegie Mellon, and has worked in the theater department at Northern Connecticut State University for ten years.

Barnes knows Carnegie Mellon has a reputation for theater, so he goes into the Equity Actors website and searches for Gordon Stark there. Yes, he performed in several productions after graduation, all Regional theater or off-Broadway, and none a major role. Maybe that’s why the guy is at a tiny college instead of Yale or UConn. Barnes finds a head shot that must be ten years old, too, conventionally handsome features and medium brown hair. Stark is six feet tall, a hundred sixty-five pounds, and lists stage combat, dialects, and owning his own car as special skills.

Nothing about seduction or blackmail. Maybe he picked those up later. Barnes pulls out his phone.

Zasha, how delightful to hear from you. In his ear, Svetlana Melanova Thirst’s voice sounds like a cross between a purring cat and a jar of honey.

Barnes met her in their freshman year at Central, and he may be the only male in New England who has never slept with her. But she did introduce him to Erin Cavendish, whom he married after they graduated. A drunk driver rammed her car, killing both her and their unborn child, and Barnes left the Hartford PD not long after that. Svetlana helped him get his drinking under control, too.

You know I can’t stay away, Svet. He hears a soft chuckle on the other end.

I’m sure Elzbieta would have something to say about that. And would take appropriate action, would she not?

Or, inappropriate, if I’m lucky. Barnes met Beth three years after his last drink. Now they share a house in Wethersfield.

Svet, I just took a case, and I need some information on a man.

He gives her Gordon Stark’s name and background. I found his acting résumé, but I’m wondering if there’s anything else you can find besides the stuff on the Northern Connecticut State University website. They just have his picture and degrees and that he’s in the theater department.

Is there anything in particular about which you wonder?

Svet is the best hacker Barnes has ever known. She claims to use her powers for the forces of good and will do the job for dinner reservations or concert tickets because they’ve known each other for over half their lives. Anyone else would pay five hundred dollars an hour.

Anything you can find, he says. He couldn’t find any other teaching positions. If Stark did work somewhere else, it would be nice to know why he left. Leverage is always handy.

I am on it, darling. Svet chuckles again. Such a silly phrase, is it not? Almost salacious if you have a dirty mind. Which, of course, at least one of us does.

She signs off with a phrase he suspects is Ukrainian. Svet can curse fluently in four languages besides English and reads at about three thousand words a minute in all of them.

Barnes is laying the groundwork for a field trip, so he needs to build a disguise. He dials Beth Shepard’s cell even though she’s probably writing and won’t pick up the land line. He hits her voicemail on her cell.

Hi, it’s me. I’ve got something I want to run by you. And are you free tomorrow to take a little drive in the country?

* * * *

Northern Connecticut State University lies forty minutes north up I-91, a few miles from Suffield, Connecticut. Barnes navigates through the Saturday morning traffic while he and Beth Shepard rehearse their cover story.

Svet did a nice job photoshopping Adriane, Beth comments, studying her phone again. Beth Shepard won the Powerball equivalent of the genetic lottery. She can still pass for twenty-five without make-up and has shoulder-length waves the color of expensive champagne and eyes that most people probably assume are tinted blue contact lenses. She does wear contacts, but that’s because she’s legally blind without them. She’s also five-ten barefoot.

Amazing, Barnes agrees. But she had great material to work with.

Yeah, once a girl hits puberty, she can pass for older anyway. Except for the chin. Hers looks more finished now. Scary, she looks like Tina.

Barnes has only met Beth’s twin sisters once, but he has to agree. They’re both dark where Beth is blonde, and they’re both only an inch shorter than his own six-one.

Nobody would believe he and Beth have a daughter college age, so they’re going to be checking out colleges their niece might want to visit. He’s downloaded a map of Northern’s campus, not much larger than an 18-hole golf course. The enrollment, mostly commuters, is about five thousand.

Barnes takes the exit ramp to NCSU and follows two-lane blacktop through fields of withered corn stalks. A few weather-beaten barns and patches of woods dot the landscape until he rounds a sweeping curve and the campus rises abruptly before them. Barnes steers through the gates and cruises slowly between two obvious dormitories and past the administration building. Saturday, he figures nobody will be there to field questions, which is the whole point. He wants to talk to theater kids.

The Richardson Cardone Theater Complex is brown brick, five stories tall with windows on two sides and a flat roof with AC generators at both ends. Barnes holds Beth’s door and wonders who Richardson Cardone was that the theater is named after him. Or her. Or them.

I’d guess the offices are in the part with windows, Beth says. She wears baggy jeans and a faded flannel shirt open over a UConn T-shirt. She has her ponytail threaded through a Red Sox cap.

Makes sense. The theater itself won’t have windows, will it. Barnes also wears jeans and a flannel. He and Beth have spent several years compensating for their Ken and Barbie looks. Despite crummy hats and cheap sunglasses Beth still gets recognized by romance readers who think she really writes the Taliesyn Holroyd books. The publishers pay her handsomely for appearing on the website and showing up at book signings because everyone assumes a romance writer is a woman. Under her own name, she’s published about forty short stories and two historical novels.

The double doors into a lobby are open and they face another set that seems to lead to the performance space. Barnes pulls it open, and they look in.

Sure enough, several hundred seats face the stage at the far end of the room, where a half-dozen people and three tall folding ladders stand in shadowy light. Barnes and Beth walk down the left aisle and the carpet muffles their steps, so nobody notices them until they step into the light spilling from above the stage.

Whoa. A man in jeans and a black T-shirt looks up from the plywood slab across two sawhorses to form a makeshift worktable. A Maglite and tape measure hang from his belt, and an adjustable wrench protrudes from his hip pocket. He’s a few inches shorter than Barnes, but his arms show wiry muscle. The bright overhead stage lights put his face in deep shadow.

You don’t belong here, he says.

Sorry, Barnes says. The other people, all apparently students, look down from their ladders. Two hold large lighting instruments that they seem to be hanging on bars.

We’re looking around the place, Beth says. She flashes her best ditzy smile. See, our niece might want to come here next year, so we’re trying to check it out, talk to people. Is this where you do shows?

Yeah. The man approaches the stage apron and hunkers down to their level. Barnes notices cord dangling from the wrench and tied around a belt loop. But this is a construction site and you’re not covered by our insurance if someone drops something. And you should have a guide. Who let you in?

The door was open, Barnes says. Are you a professor here?

The man looks up the aisle at the doors before he nods. Karl Yaeger. I’m the resident tech director.

Do you teach, too?

Design classes. And set construction.

How is that different from woodshop? Beth asks. You know, carpenters, people like that?

It isn’t, except that you’re building stuff you can take apart again easily. And hopefully recycle. Wood, mostly. Maybe some fabric. Paint...

I never would’ve thought of that. Beth says. That’s interesting.

Barnes watches two young men move a twelve-foot ladder and realizes they’re aligning it with a tape measure lying on the floor. Four pipes about twelve feet above the stage support dozens of large lighting instruments held by clamps. Short power cords hang from all of them.

These are students? Is this actually part of a class?

Yeah. Yaeger watches one of the two women scurry up the newly-placed ladder, one hand on the rungs and the other toting a stage light that must weigh at least twenty pounds. Light design, plus a few more experienced upperclassmen. We’re hanging for the show that goes up next week. We’ll be here most of today and tomorrow.

It takes that long? Barnes realizes that the woman on the ladder is Emma Holiday, her hair tied back in a ponytail. One of the men appears to be holding the ladder steady below her, but Barnes suspects he’s really checking out the girl’s hip pockets.

Yaeger shrugs. We’ve got to focus every one of these puppies on a particular spot. And we’ve got to check the gel colors to see if they’re right for the colors the actors are wearing.

You actually worry about stuff like that? Beth’s eyes widen into aquamarine saucers and Yaeger looks at her.

You’re a blonde, he says. How would you look standing under fluorescent lights in a lime green dress?

Um, terminally seasick.

Yaeger nods. I rest my case.

Two of the students lean over the plywood before they walk to a bank of lighting instruments on the last bar and loosen clamps with their own wrenches, tied to their belt loops like Yaeger’s.

Is that so nobody drops a wrench on someone’s head? Barnes asks.

You’re catching on. Yaeger picks up a silver cable about three feet long. Each end has a clamp that opens by pushing inward. And we fasten each instrument to the bar with one of these safety cables, too. They’re woven steel. Even if the screws in the clamp strip, the instrument’s not going to fall. When we raise the bars to their real level again, you’re talking a twenty-foot drop. You could kill someone.

And you six will do all of this? Barnes asks. All weekend?

Christ no. Yaeger shakes his head. We’ll work until five. Another crew will come in with the director at seven and pick up where we leave off. They should be done around midnight. Then we’ll focus tomorrow. And check those gels.

Who’s directing this production? Beth asks. A student?

Gordon Stark. He teaches acting and does a directing seminar every other year.

A directing seminar, Barnes says. That would be interesting.

Yaeger shrugs. Listen, I got to get back to work. You two should go to administration, find someone to show you around. Actually, there might not even be anyone there on a weekend. But this is off limits. Like I said, insurance.

Right, thanks.

Barnes and Beth make their way back up the aisle to the lobby and mount the stairs to the second floor. The first few office doors are locked, but a kid with a beard that might have been applied with a mascara brush guides them up another flight of stairs, where they find Stark’s office. He has hours Tuesday and Thursday, and he’s apparently leading a Linklater workshop—whatever that is—in rehearsal hall B—wherever that is.

By the time they find the right room, the workshop has ended. Several students drift through the double doors, some with ear buds already in place. Most wear backpacks or carry gym bags or water bottles, and everyone shines with sweat. It’s especially noticeable on the female students, who wear tank tops and either gym shorts or yoga pants.

Barnes recognizes Gordon Stark easily, even though he’s now ten years older than his picture on the Equity site. For one thing, he’s a lot older than everyone else in the group. For another, he has his arm around a young woman’s shoulders, his lips not quite nibbling her ear.

You’re getting there, Patrice. The man’s voice sounds like he just changed his oil. Lots of truly marvelous work today, lots of progress. But you still need to open up.

I’m trying. The woman doesn’t quite whine, but her shoulders slump and she bites her lip. Barnes feels his chest tighten.

I know, I know. Stark squeezes her shoulder and pulls her against him. We’ll do another session Monday. The usual time.

I’m not sure I can—

Patrice, sweetheart, this is for your art. This is for what you love. And you’re showing progress. We need to keep building on it.

The woman pulls free and swerves around Barnes and Beth. Stark catches sight of them.

Yes, he says. Can I help you find something?

Barnes shrugs. Um, we’re just kind of browsing. See, our niece is thinking of majoring in theater, she’s been the lead in a couple of plays in high school. We’re checking out schools she might want to visit later in the year. You know, see what they’re like.

Of course. Stark’s eyes sink to Beth’s chest long enough for Barnes to catch him. Um, during the week, we have a few students who can give you the full tour, but on weekends...

We just got a call from her last night. Beth pulls out her phone and brings up the fake picture. See, here’s what she looks like. She’s only a junior now, she’s got lots of time, but my God, she’s so good. You wouldn’t believe how good she is. She can sing, too. And she’s got so much talent it’s like incredible. Here, look at this.

She holds the phone out and Stark takes it before she shoves it up his nostril.

Um, yes...very nice. I assume she does musicals mostly? High school...

"Oh, God, she was amazing in Oklahoma last year. Only a sophomore, and she played Laurey. They’re talking about her for My Fair Lady this year, and it’s only October."

Beth takes back her phone and flicks her finger across the screen.

Um…shoot, I thought I had a picture of her in costume, but I don’t see it here. Geez, I hope I didn’t delete it.

Barnes knows Beth can keep Stark busy. He looks back up the hall, but the young woman Stark groped apparently didn’t slow down until she reached the stairs. Maybe she hasn’t slowed down yet. Two of the young men from the same session lean against a wall near the stairs. One checks his phone and the other swigs from a water bottle, his throat moving as the liquid disappears down his throat.

Hi, Barnes says. Hey, listen, I’m... Well, my niece... Uh, yeah. My wife and I, we’re checking out the school for my niece, you know? I guess you guys were doing a special workshop, right? What the heck is Linklater training?

The kids look at each other, their condescension to the outsider so palpable it almost has a color.

Well…sir. The taller one tucks his phone in his backpack and takes a deep breath like he’s about to deliver a monologue he’s polished to a high gloss.

See, Linklater, she’s... Well, the main idea is that whenever you make a sound, talking that is, the sound starts somewhere in your body.

Well sure, Barnes says. It’s in your vocal cords, right?

Uh, yeah, right, but certain sounds come from other places, too. Like deep sounds come from your diaphragm or gut, some are higher, like in your throat, and some are in your mouth. Like sibilants, you know?

OK. Barnes nods and tries to keep his eyes wide and lips slack.

Well, see, where that sound comes from, it causes part of your body to move, contract, you know? Different sounds affect different parts of your body, and they help you sort of…become one with the word. It’s like you get more in touch with your body, and it helps your concentration and your body language when you act, see?

You mean like getting into the part? Barnes forces his voice to become enthusiastic. Beth used to be a dancer—third runner-up in the Miss Massachusetts pageant half a lifetime ago—and she used Linklater training then, too. She also uses it to keep her voice strong when she does readings at author events.

Well, sorta, yeah. The kid looks to his buddy but gets no help. It’s kinda... It helps get you grounded. It’s a lot more complicated than it sounds, you know? And it’s hard, I mean, if you’re not used to thinking about your body. It’s kind of...

Sexy, the other one says. Barnes turns to see a leer. Some of the girls get a little freaked by it. They have more trouble with it. Except the ones with lots of talent and...

Barnes hears him catch himself before he says something non-PC. He can see how Stark would use the concept, though, and wonders how much progress he’s made with Patrice. Classes have only been in session about six weeks.

So, different parts of the body, you feel words differently? he asks.

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Some of the girls... Well, they’re not used to…uh...

Right. Barnes restrains the urge to wink at the kids. Got it. I think I see why some of the girls...

Yeah. The kid has shoulders wide enough to suggest that he played football in high school. Northern doesn’t have a football team, so maybe this is how he meets girls now.

See, you have to be able to use your whole…instrument to act. It’s not just learning lines and reciting them.

No, Barnes says. I can see. And that teacher, what’s his name?

Stark, the kid says. He’s seriously hot shit. He used to act professionally. He’s been there, you know?

But he’s here now?

Yeah, he felt he could do more good helping a lot of other people instead of just focusing on himself. He’s a great guy.

I can see.

Barnes thanks the duo and rejoins Beth, who rolls her eyes.

Hoo, boy. He never touched me, but I feel like I need a cigarette.

And you don’t even smoke.

No. Beth’s eyes look older. He’s really good. Or bad, depending on how you want to look at it. Every single thing he said was a come-on, but it was so vague or ambiguous that he could deny it all and say you just had a dirty mind. If he pulls this on kids, he could be getting a lot of action.

Barnes isn’t surprised. From what those guys say, I think he was putting his moves on the woman he was talking to when we came along.

No shit, Sherlock. You needed them to tell you that?

I’m a detective. I have to have more proof than a gut feeling.

Uh-huh.

They explore the rest of the building without meeting anyone else, then walk around the rest of the campus, the gentle breeze reminding Barnes of all the reasons autumn is his favorite time of year. Even in flannel and jeans, Beth still looks young enough to be the hot majorette he knows she was in high school. If he’d lived in Massachusetts, maybe they would have gone to school together and met in a class. Maybe they would have gone to the prom together and...

Maybe he needs to get his mind back on the case.

Nobody sits at the reception desk in the Administration building, so they return to their car.

If he’s really got pictures of some of these kids, Beth says, I don’t see a way to make him give them up.

Barnes realizes they don’t even know if the pictures exist, but anyone asking about them is already on the weak side of the bargaining table.

You could be right, he says. A lawsuit wouldn’t work. The last thing the woman would want would be for the pictures to show up in court.

They pass the Richardson Cardone Theater complex again and see two more students emerge. The woman has short red hair and three piercings in her right ear, and the man wears jeans that might be tattooed on.

Excuse me, Barnes says, falling into his uncle role again. My wife and I are talking to students around here to see what the place is like before we tell our niece if it’s worth visiting. Are you theater majors?

We certainly are. The redhead has diction that could peel an apple. Her companion nods in agreement.

Great. Beth flashes them her full-out smile and the woman blinks and almost steps backward from the effect. The guy lets it go by him and roll to the wall for extra bases.

You’re studying acting, right?

Well, among other things, the woman says. There are only so many decent roles, so you have to have all the tools. Acting, directing, design, stage managing...

OK, so who’s the best instructor here for everything? Acting, other stuff…?

Professor Stark is fantastic, the young man says. Barnes sees the woman purse her lips.

You disagree? he asks.

Well, she says cautiously, he knows his stuff, but... Well, it’s hard to explain...

No, it isn’t, Barnes thinks. He wonders if Stark has groped this woman, too.

He’s amazing, her companion says again. He gets you in touch with your—what he calls it—your true self, your absolute inner core. So, you’re absolutely true to everything. The play, the character, yourself...

The woman looks like she wants to roll her eyes. Barnes realizes this is the kind of vaguely sexual but ambiguous talk Beth meant.

He pushes really hard, the redhead says. Sometimes, maybe he could... I don’t know, lighten up a little. He can make people uncomfortable.

Intense, the guy says. Yeah, he pushes, but he wants you to be the best you can. Some people can’t cut it, and he weeds them out. Don’t get me wrong, he tries to help everyone, I mean, really. But some people just aren’t cut out for this, and he helps them see that.

Do people leave? Beth asks. You know, drop out of a class, change majors?

Uh, I can’t think of anyone right now. Probably a few girls, I’m not sure.

Just girls?

Um, I don’t know. I’m not sure, like I said.

Would you mind giving me your names? Barnes asks. Just in case our niece wants to follow up with either of you later?

Michael, the guy says. The girl says Showvan, and Barnes prides himself on knowing the correct spelling. Siobhan.

He thanks them and he and Beth return to his car.

This guy is really growing on me, Beth comments. Kind of like a yeast infection.

Yeah. Barnes closes her door and moves around to his own seat to stare over the steering wheel. If Stark makes so many women uncomfortable—or worse—there should be more complaints against him. If he’s slipped a lot of women roofies and taken a lot of pictures, they may be afraid to complain.

So where can he find leverage to get all those pictures back?

We may have to try some kind of sting, he says. But that means we’ve got to find a woman who looks the right age to set Stark up.

Got any ideas? Beth asks. ’Cause I sure don’t.

Not yet.

* * * *

The next morning—Sunday—Barnes waits until after ten to call Svetlana again. Her lover is allergic to cats, so she spends nights at his home instead of hers, but by ten-thirty she should be dressed in her personal version of decent.

Zasha, she says. I have found nothing concrete on your Gordon Stark, but there are lacunae I find suggestive.

‘Lacunae?’

Gaps, darling.

Yeah, I know. The word just caught me by surprise.

I like to keep men guessing, you know that. Svet’s voice shifts to business mode in a breath. Gordon Stark has taught at Northern for nine years. He came in as an associate professor and may be considered for a full professorship after this year. Apparently, they take professional experience in performance arts in lieu of further scholarship. That would be sensible for someone working in the performance arts.

Right. Barnes feels something wrong. But if he’s been there nine years, has he done any more professional stuff since he started?

No acting, but he has directed productions in various summer stock venues. Williamstown, several years ago. And a theater somewhere in the Midwest. Iowa, as I recall. Eight or ten productions altogether.

That’s one a year, right? But he was fairly busy before he started teaching, wasn’t he?

Several performances, but nothing noteworthy, as you yourself observed two days ago. But we are becoming side-tracked. I wondered why he was not being considered for a professorship sooner if he had so much legitimate experience.

And do you know why now?

Svet’s voice slows down as if she’s trying to read her monitor.

Not precisely. But I find several gaps in his records, almost as though something has been redacted. I can’t be certain, but I believe the tenure issue may have come up before and was always either voted down or tabled. The reasons are not clear, but there seem to be meetings or long discussions that are not in his records.

Can you tell when?

The first seems to be about five years ago, when the issue of his gaining tenure first arose. Three others appear since then. He does have tenure now, but I have enough cynicism to wonder if something happened that delayed it.

Several gaps, Barnes thinks.

Svet, he says. Do me one more favor. See if you can find a female student in the theater department named Patrice something. I don’t know her last name, but she’s probably a freshman. And another woman named Siobhan Lafferty. I think they’re both theater majors, so let’s see how they’re connected to Stark.

He hears Svet connecting dots. Should I ask what you suspect, or should I use my own healthy cynicism?

I trust your healthy cynicism.

He ends the call and wonders where he can go with this if Svet can’t find anything. If those gaps are because other women complained about Stark and it got swept out of the spotlight the way it happened with Emma Holiday, he wonders if the women will talk to him on the record. If so, that might be the leverage he needs.

If they won’t, he needs to find a bigger crowbar.

* * * *

It’s mid-afternoon, Barnes and Beth raking the back yard and ignoring the suspicious neighbors who must be peering from behind curtains at the weird couple who would rather do domestic yard work than watch the NFL. Barnes played baseball in high school, but football never interested him even though he’s big enough. Beth was a majorette in high school, which means she cared more about the half-time shows, but she had to know how to show appreciation for the local heroes. After all, dates don’t grow on trees. Well, actually, they do.

Beth holds the mouth of a large trash bag open and Barnes scoops leaves into it with his rake. They’ve already filled three bags and the two trees in the yard look like they’ve barely begun dropping leaves. Something to look forward to next week. The thought is still in his mind when his hip vibrates.

He pulls out his phone and pulls off a work glove so he can manipulate it better. Sharon Holiday.

Mr. Barnes, thank God you’re there.

He’s tempted to say Beth says the same thing, but the woman’s voice sounds like it’s shredding in his ear, and she doesn’t slow down for him anyway.

Emma just called me a few minutes ago. That sleazy teacher we hired you about, Stark. He’s dead.

* * * *

The next morning finds Barnes driving up I-91 again. Today is a workday and the commuter traffic through Hartford transforms the highway into a still-life tableau, flashing taillights and rear bumpers to the horizon in both directions. Fortunately, Barnes knows there’s no hurry. All he can do right away is ask more questions and annoy the cops already on the scene, so he passes the time reviewing what little he already knows.

Svetlana couldn’t find more about those gaps in Stark’s record, but she reported that Siobhan Lafferty and Patrice Delacroix have both taken acting classes with Stark, which was no surprise.

It’s a sure bet that the now-deceased Gordon Stark isn’t going to give Emma Holiday’s pictures back…assuming there really are pictures and he wasn’t bluffing to keep the young woman under control. If he was bluffing, though, has he done the same with those other women?

Barnes doesn’t even know how Stark died, but he suspects it wasn’t from old age or a lingering disease. The Hartford Courant ran two meager paragraphs that morning and didn’t even reveal that much.

Presumably, that means someone killed him. That suggests someone had a reason to want him dead. A woman he’d harassed? How many are there, and how can Barnes make them come forward? And what if they had nothing to do with Stark’s death and he simply choked on a fish bone at dinner?

When he reaches NCSU two hours later, the parking lots are jammed, so he decides his best bet is the administration building. The lobby is all shiny black and white squares and sunlight. The receptionist’s smile rivals the brightness of the floor wax.

Good morning. Are you here to drop off a résumé? She looks him up and down and apparently approves of jeans and a tee with a corduroy blazer. Maybe that’s what the hip professors wear here. Barnes usually wears a blazer or jacket even if he’s not carrying a gun, which he isn’t today, but he likes to maintain the habit.

No, sorry. He gives her a smile that is nowhere near as good as hers but seems to get the job done. I’m here to talk to someone about Professor Stark.

Her smile dims. Um, we’re in touch with the family and they will announce funeral arrangements when they’ve been finalized. Other than that, I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can tell you.

I’m not media, he says. He debates showing his ID but decides that won’t help. Is there anyone in the administration I might be able to discuss a few things with?

The woman hesitates, then turns to her phone and selects an extension. She points Barnes to the second floor.

Mr. Grayson can see you now.

Victor Grayson has a smile that Barnes suspects was assembled by a committee. He’s several inches shorter than Barnes and wears a pin-striped shirt and tweed jacket that turn him into a magazine advertisement, appropriate since he’s at a desk in the information office, which certainly means Public Relations.

He automatically extends his hand to Barnes, but winces when they shake.

Damn, he says. Sorry, I forgot, did lots of raking and digging in the garden this weekend. My hands aren’t used to it yet.

Barnes can sympathize. He sinks to a chair that’s mostly polished chrome and shiny leather, surprisingly comfortable, and explains his quest. By now he knows his lines as well as any actor.

Can you give me more of an idea what you’d like to discuss?

Well, I’ve been doing sort of a background check on Professor Stark and...

Sort of a background check? Is that like being kind of late? Or pregnant? Or nosey?

Barnes suspects the last few hours have been a crash course for a lot of the staff.

Not exactly, he says. Are you aware of any issues concerning Professor Stark since he’s been on the faculty here?

Grayson’s face assumes a different expression. I’m not sure what you mean by ‘issues.’

Oh... Barnes shrugs. Budget problems with productions, run-ins with other faculty. Anything at all.

Nothing that I’m aware of.

How about problems with students?

Grayson’s eyebrows lower a millimeter. The man might be handsome if he looked less robotic.

If you mean grading, again, not that I’m aware of. Certainly, our staff maintains high academic standards, so some students fare better than others. I suppose some of them have felt they deserved a higher grade at one time or another.

Emma Holiday’s complaint went all the way to the Dean, which means even the President of the college should be aware of it. Barnes wonders how many other complaints Grayson will deny.

The discussion continues to go downhill from there. Grayson sounds like he’s never even met Stark—or many of the other faculty, for that matter. He cites the University’s growing reputation and outreach program to economically disadvantaged students in the area, the cutting-edge architecture, and the winning field hockey team. Barnes isn’t sure the man would recognize a classroom, and he seems to view the students as push pins he might put on a chart.

So, you’re not aware of any complaints about Professor Stark from female students.

Absolutely not.

Grayson rises. If there’s nothing else, Mr. Barnes...

Out in the cool autumn breeze, Barnes decides to annoy the security staff, too. He consults his campus map from Saturday and finds Public Safety two blocks down. It faces two buildings that can’t be anything but dormitories. Students scurry along the walkways to various other buildings, all of them talking. He doesn’t stop to listen, but he can guess what they’re talking about.

The uniformed woman at the desk for Public Safety might be the offspring of Wonder Woman and The Incredible Hulk. Even sitting down, she projects size and strength Barnes wouldn’t want to argue with. Her energy level suggests she hasn’t been sitting long and really needs some down time.

Yes?

He flashes his ID and gets a stare in return. The woman in the administration building must have depleted his infinite charm. Maybe she even called over here to warn her colleague that a spectacularly handsome man might show up with all kinds of questions.

I’d like to talk to someone about Professor Stark.

Really. She isn’t hostile, but doesn’t squirm with enthusiasm, either.

You look too smart for me to lie to, he says. You’d catch on in a second.

Probably, Mr...Barnes. If you’re an investigator, forget it. We’ve already notified the State Police and all other official agencies, and the investigation is well under control.

Which proves that Stark really didn’t die of natural causes. Victor Grayson or his supervisors must be working overtime to keep the story out of the spotlight.

I understand that. Barnes forces himself to be patient. If Stark died of a heart attack in his bathtub, say so and I’ll go away. But if he didn’t, I might have information that could be useful.

The woman stares at him long enough for her charm to grow on him. She’s big, but well-proportioned, and definitely not stupid. He suspects the training manual talked about a hypothetical situation that vaguely resembles the last 24 hours, but not precisely, and the team is trying to fill in the blanks, almost like the theater department would do an improvisation with a few given circumstances.

Let me see if someone’s available. The woman picks up a phone, says a few words, hears a few in return, and stands.

Follow me, please.

Roger Newton, the head of Public Safety, has two inches on Barnes and hair the color of thin mud. He also has the vibe of an ex-cop and recognizes the same in Barnes. Good, they won’t need to have a pissing match. Barnes takes the offered chair and already has the feeling that Newton, who clearly hasn’t slept much in the last two days, will probably be able to repeat the entire conversation verbatim if he has to.

They found him in the theater, Newton says. Sunday morning about nine. Crew was going in to finish setting lights, found him on the stage. The medical examiner says he’d been dead about eight hours. Full rigor mortis.

What happened? Barnes asks.

Newton runs his tongue around his mouth so his cheeks puff out and recede again.

Well, it looks like a light fell off one of the overhead bars and landed on him. Crushed his skull. He probably never felt a thing.

How likely does that sound to you? Barnes sits up a little straighter.

Hey, shit happens. One guy wins the lottery, another guy gets struck by lightning. I admit, it’s a million to one shot, but that’s what it looks like. The Staties have been in and taken pictures and measurements and made lists and all sorts of stuff. We’ve talked with the people who saw him last. That was a bunch of students helping with a light hang Saturday night. They quit about midnight, and he was apparently locking up and leaving, too. Except he didn’t.

Barnes absorbs what he’s hearing. Who found the body?

The technical director and the kids who were going to finish focusing lights in the morning.

Newton does his tongue trick again. They went in at nine, found him lying on the stage and a broken Leko—a big one, whatever that means—was next to him. Those things are heavy enough to do serious damage if they fell on someone.

Barnes remembers Emma Holiday scampering up a ladder, hauling a light that probably weighed more than a cinder block. Yes, it would definitely do the job. But how likely is it that one would choose to fall at that precise moment?

You’re sure it was on a light bar?

Well, he was lying next to a ladder and only a few feet from a big diagram on a sheet of plywood. My best guess right now is he put the light up, then came down to check the diagram and make sure he had it in the right place. He had a cable plugged into it—it looks like he had it on so he could see where it aimed from up there—and it fell. Maybe he snagged the cable accidentally. We’re still checking things out.

If it wasn’t an accident...

Why wouldn’t it be? Newton’s eyes narrow slightly. You trying to say someone had reason to want the guy dead?

Barnes thinks of Emma. And Patrice, whom he saw Stark groping Saturday. And Siobhan, who wasn’t a huge fan. And maybe others. But maybe he’s all wrong. Svet couldn’t find proof that anyone had ever complained.

Including Emma Holiday. Where is her complaint? That went to the Dean and the head of the theater department. There should be a record.

I’m just trying to keep an open mind, Barnes says. I was hired a few days ago to check him out. It seems awfully coincidental that he’d die right after that.

Newton rolls his tongue around again. Like I said, we’re still looking at everything. So are the Staties. We’re talking to the kids, asking a lot of questions. We’re not going to close this down too soon.

Barnes lets that one go.

How well did you know Stark? he asks.

I knew who he was. We got used to seeing him around the theater department at night. Rehearsals, stuff like that. That’s about it. Obviously, we know the coaches and people who hold night classes. Just so we don’t stop them for ID every time we run into each other.

Sure, that makes sense. Barnes knows he has to talk to one more person before he leaves. How many faculty members are there, altogether?

I’d have to check to give you an exact number, but I’m guessing a hundred and fifty, more or less. We’re a university, so we’ve got lots of areas you can get a degree, and they all need enough classes to make it mean something.

Sure.

Barnes stands and extends his hand. Thanks for your help. I don’t suppose there’s any way I could get into the theater to see where Stark died?

You suppose right. Newton shakes his hand once and releases it. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Barnes?

No, I guess that’s it. Oh, can you give me the name of the theater department chair? I’m assuming he’s in the building with the theater itself, right?

Gail Andreotti. And she’s probably in a class or juggling Stark’s schedule right now so she can’t talk to you.

Good point, Barnes says. He knows neither of them is fooling the other.

The receptionist in the lobby makes him feel slightly less welcome than anthrax but tells him where to go. He finds Gail Andreotti’s office on the second floor of the theater building, four doors down from Stark’s. A dozen students sit on benches near her door, and he sinks to a bench near three young women who alternately check their cell phones and make quiet comments to each other. It doesn’t take him long to figure out they’re students who suddenly lost an instructor.

Two other students, a man and a woman who appear to be upperclassmen, pore through a large black binder and point to notations on various pages. They talk on their phones, too, but are actually talking instead of checking their Facebook status. Barnes hears one of them mention Yaeger, the technical director.

Excuse me, he says. Are either of you in professor Yaeger’s light design class?

"A couple of