Black Cat Mystery Magazine #14

By Barb Goffman, Josh Pachter, Janice Law and 7 more

Black Cat Mystery Magazine returns with an action-packed issue featuring 11 original tales of crime and mystery. Our classic reprint is "The Moffat Mystery" by Australian writer Mary Fortune. Here's the lineup:

REAL COURAGE, by Barb Goffman
MEET ME AT THE CHURCH AND BRING ALL THE GUNS, by Bruce Arthurs
EL PASO HEAT, by Peter W.J. Hayes
THE LEGEND OF YAG-GRYLLHOTH, by Andrew Welsh-Huggins
RED ROSES FOR A BLUE LADY, by Josh Pachter
HEIRESS, by Linda Niehoff
EL PRIMO DE ANA, by Tom Larsen
RAIN ALWAYS FALLS, by Stephen D. Rogers
HYENAS, by Janice Law
A GREAT TEAM, by John Bosworth
SPEED DATING, by Steve Liskow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Nov 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667603223

Book preview

FROM THE CAT’S PERCH

Temple and I recently returned home from Bouchercon San Diego where, for the first time I can remember, four panels were devoted to short mystery fiction. In a genre where novelists usually command all the attention, it was nice to see short fiction given the attention it deserves. I was honored to moderate two of the panels, and I attended a third, missing Sunday’s panel only because Temple and I had a flight to catch. What I learned is that the short form is alive and well, with editors, writers, and readers who are passionate about short mystery fiction.

Earlier this year, Malice Domestic offered a panel featuring editors of short mystery fiction, with moderator Deborah Lacy leading Carla Coupe (Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine), Linda Landrigan (Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine), Josh Pachter (multiple anthologies), and me in a discussion about the editor’s role in the publishing process. We had a lively discussion and addressed numerous questions from an enthusiastic audience.

If you attend mystery conventions and you love short mystery fiction as much as I do—and you must because you’re reading this magazine—don’t let future convention committees short-change us. Let them know you desire more panels and presentations devoted to short fiction.

In related news: Black Cat Mystery Magazine stories continue to attract the attention of award committees and best-of-year editors. This year, Mike Adamson’s The White Calf and the Wind (BCMM 11) was short-listed for a Derringer Award and was included in the Honor Roll in The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2023. (Stories published in our sister publications—Black Cat Weekly and Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine—also collected a fair share of recognition this year.)

—Michael Bracken

Editor, Black Cat Mystery Magazine

REAL COURAGE

BARB GOFFMAN

Elise. April 1983.

It started with an accident. I was trying to be funny—was always trying to be funny, to make the other girls like me—and was imitating this skit I’d seen on Saturday Night Live a couple of nights before. We were in music class and were supposed to be practicing our solo pieces for an upcoming state strings competition. But Mrs. Vandeburg was busy helping Greg, who was the best violin player in our junior high. And when Mrs. V. focused on Greg, she didn’t pay any attention to the rest of us. So, we did what most fourteen-year-olds would do. Goof off.

The skit’s called Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood, I said, and Eddie Murphy is playing Mr. Robinson, who’s just like Mr. Rogers—you know, the ‘Won’t You Be My Neighbor’ guy—except he’s an ex-con and he’s showing off this bag of groceries—

We get it. Kirstin rolled her eyes. She was the head of our crew, pretty and curvy in ways I didn’t think I’d ever be. She excelled at everything, and she always knew the right thing to say. We all wanted to be her best friend, including me, even though I knew that would probably never happen because she often seemed annoyed with me. Like now.

But wait, I said. The funny part is—

We know, Kirstin said.

I hated how she cut me off. She did that a lot. If I could just get her—get all the girls—to listen, to let me get to the best part, I knew they’d find it as funny as I did.

No, wait, I said. So he’s talking about how much better it is to get steak instead of turkey, and he reaches behind his back and pulls out this frozen steak that he’d stuck in his pants.

It had been hilarious when Eddie Murphy did it. I imitated him, swinging my arm behind me. I was laughing and smiling. I had all their attention. Then the side of my hand slammed into something hard. I twirled around to see a music stand pitching sideways, a bow flying, and a violin that had been hanging on the stand falling. It felt like a slow-motion race as I lunged for the instrument, with it falling, falling, falling and me struggling to reach it as if I were straining forward against a gusting wind. Then they hit the floor—the violin and stand—simultaneously, with clanging and cracking, the violin’s bridge collapsing, the noise so loud that everyone in the room stopped talking and practicing. When I looked up, everyone was staring at me.

You idiot, Kirstin yelled, her voice so loud, so strident, kids must have heard her in every room throughout the school. You broke my violin.

Oh no. Kirstin’s violin. Why did it have to be hers? My luck always went that way.

I’m sorry. I picked up the violin and cradled it. It was an accident.

Mrs. Vandeburg marched toward me, her chubby cheeks flushed, her eyes narrowed into slits. I’d never been her favorite student. No matter how much I practiced my bowing or plucked my fingers raw, I rarely improved. Mrs. V. often seemed frustrated with me, but now she was furious.

How many times have I told you not to horse around in here? she said.

I couldn’t recall her ever saying that. She pulled the violin from my arms, examining it, shaking her head.

Can you fix it? Kirstin asked. She held the first seat in the second section of violins in our orchestra, an honor reserved for the best player in eighth grade. I’d never thought she cared much about violin. It was just something she did well, like everything else, but now her lower lip wobbled.

I don’t think so, honey, Mrs. V. said, her voice soft and kind. Then she turned to me. I hope you’re proud of yourself.

My eyes watered. I understood why she was mad at me, but it had been an accident.

I’m sorry, I said again. And then I had an idea. A way to fix things. You can have my violin, Kirstin. I’ll skip the state competition so you can go.

She can’t just switch instruments like that, Mrs. V. snapped. A player gets used to one. Yours would feel different in her arms. Sound different. You’ve pretty much ruined her chances at this year’s competition, where she, at least, had a prospect of winning.

My heart sank into my stomach.

Kirstin, let me see if I can find someone who can try to repair it, Mrs. V. said. "In the meanwhile, I guess we’ll need to find you an alternate one to play, even though it won’t be the same. Those last words had a bite to them and were clearly aimed at me. I’ll examine the extras we have in storage and bring some to our next class."

Mrs. V. gave me another dirty look and stalked off. I was left standing there with everyone else still staring at me. No, scowling was more like it. Then the bell rang, and we all scattered to our next classes, saving me from the awkwardness.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

Ninety minutes later I walked into the cafeteria and headed to our usual lunch table. I spotted an empty seat next to my friend Lila and hurried over. I’d just come from English, where we’d been discussing the meaning of courage in To Kill a Mockingbird. We had a test coming up, and I hoped Lila could help me understand the book better since she took honors English.

Hey, I said, sliding onto the bench. Without even saying hi, Lila shifted her back to me, talking with the girl on her other side. Feeling unsettled, I smiled at Allie, who was sitting across from me. She stared daggers my way, walked to the other end of the table, and squeezed in next to Kirstin. What had I done to her? I cast a questioning look at the remaining girls sitting across from me. They all turned away.

Uh oh. Something was really wrong. I tapped Lila’s shoulder. She ignored me. I tapped again and leaned close to her ear. Lila, can I talk to you for a minute?

Her shoulders rose and fell, as if she’d taken a deep breath, and she curled around. "What do you want?"

She said it with disdain, as if I were her annoying little brother, not the girl who’d been her best friend for most of elementary school. I could hardly believe it. Sure, we hadn’t done much together in the past year. She’d been so busy with Kirstin and the other popular girls, but she’d always been friendly.

Can I talk to you in private? I whispered. I needed to find out what was going on and get Lila’s help to fix it.

Lila laughed. No. I don’t want to talk to you in private. She said it loudly, cruelly. After what you did to Kirstin, you think anyone wants to talk to you?

Oh, God. Was this about the violin? All the girls at our table were staring at me now, their tweezed eyebrows narrowed.

I’m sorry, I said. It was an accident. How had word spread so fast?

Yeah, right, Lila said. "You knocked over Kirstin’s violin on purpose. You were angry because she didn’t want to hear your boring story about Saturday Night Live, like anyone cares about that lame show."

That’s not true. I’d merely gotten overexcited. It’s something I’d repeatedly gotten dinged for on elementary-school report cards. Elise needs to work on practicing self-control. How could Lila think I’d hurt anyone on purpose? She knew me. Besides, I said, my anger rising, it’s not my fault that Kirstin hung her violin on the stand like that. Mrs. V. told us a million times not to do it because a violin could easily get knocked off. So don’t blame me now that it’s happened.

Everyone volleyed their heads toward Kirstin, whose glare made me feel a foot tall. No one ever spoke to her like that. She tilted her blond head toward Lila, sending a signal, it seemed. Lila twisted back to me.

First you break Kirstin’s violin, and now you try to make it her fault, Lila said. You’re pathetic, Elise. Go find somewhere else to eat. You’re not welcome here.

And in unison, as if they were controlled by the same puppeteer, my friends all turned away from me.

Stunned, I rose. I don’t even know how I got to the bathroom or what I did with my lunch. I just remember standing there, gripping the chipped sink, when the bell rang forty minutes later. A girl washing her hands beside me said, Why are you just standing there? Aren’t you going to class?

She was the last person who spoke to me at school that day—the last kid who spoke to me for the rest of eighth grade. Everyone ignored me, not only my former friends but even kids I didn’t know well. No one would cross Kirstin or Lila, who became Kirstin’s new BF after doing her dirty work. BF—before BFFs became a thing. It had been the ultimate power play by mean girls, long before that term was in vogue too, and it left me cowardly, with anxiety and trust issues for years to come.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

Connor. February 2015.

It started with a promise. I was eleven, and my mom was dying, and I promised her I would protect the weird girl who moved in next door two summers ago.

Zoey was a year younger than me. Short and uncoordinated, she laughed too loud and sucked on her long brown hair and sang songs to herself on the school bus. Not popular songs either. Everyone avoided her—except me. I felt bad for her. It couldn’t have been easy starting at a new school when you were that odd, especially when you didn’t have any brothers or sisters to hang out with. So, I talked to her on the bus, and sometimes I invited her over to play video games.

After my mom got sick, real sick, she asked me about Zoey. Tell me the truth, Mom said, lying in her bed, gaunt and pale, her voice thin as tissue paper. Tell me how the kids treat her.

So I did. Tears welled in Mom’s eyes, and she told me about these mean girls who dropped her when she was fourteen. For months she had no friends. No one to eat lunch with or hang out with or anything. I couldn’t believe anyone would do something like that, especially to my mom, who was always super nice to everyone. That’s when she begged me to protect Zoey, to be in her corner no matter what.

That’s when I made the Promise.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

Connor. April 2019.

Four years later, on a warm spring Saturday night my sophomore year of high school, I ended up down the block at Dereck’s house. He was throwing another rager. Kids were everywhere, smoking cigarettes and weed and other stuff I didn’t want to know about. Someone had smuggled in a keg, and someone else had made Jell-O shots. Music was pumping, and I was glad to be there. Glad to be out of my tomb of a house, where the lights were always dim and it was always quiet and my dad was always reading in his study. He’d retreated there after my mom died and pretty much hadn’t left. Books were his escape, he once said. I understood. But sometimes I needed to let loose.

I grabbed a cup of beer and made the rounds, laughing with my best pal, Brian, and cheering on Dereck to chug, chug, chug. Last time he drank that much, he spewed all over the front lawn. But here he was, at it again. Anything for an audience.

It amazed me that Dereck got away with throwing these huge parties all the time. His parents were big on showing that they trusted him, so every few months they went away for the weekend and left Dereck home alone. The kid was seventeen, just a couple years older than me. It was a recipe for disaster. But somehow the cops never showed up, and his folks never found out. Or maybe they knew but just didn’t care. We lived in an upscale neighborhood where kids could get away with murder if they smiled and pretended to be nice.

I was on my second beer, feeling good and buzzed, when I spotted Zoey across the room, by the stairs. What was she doing here? Freshmen usually didn’t go to seniors’ parties. Plus, this was so not her crowd. In the past year she’d finally found a group of girls to hang with. They wore all black with too much eye makeup and were into emo music. Not my scene, but Zoey seemed happy, so I was happy for her. But I didn’t see any of those girls here. Just Zoey, by herself, looking around.

Zoey, I yelled, but she couldn’t hear me over the music. I started edging her way, pushing through the thick crowd, craning my neck, trying to keep her in sight. Then something splashed against my chest.

Oops, my friend Nicole said, giggling. My bad.

She stood in front of me, holding an empty cup and grinning so wide that dimples popped on her cheeks. I was covered in her beer.

If I had a napkin, Nicole said, her words slurring, I would dry you off with it. But I don’t. Then she glanced down and back up at me, her blue eyes suddenly bright. I’ve got it!

She lifted the edge of her shirt and started blotting mine with it, showing off her flat stomach, raising her tee higher and higher as she patted my chest, until she was revealing way more than she surely ever would if she were sober. I grabbed her hand and lowered her shirt.

She leaned into me. What do I have to do to get you to notice me?

And then she kissed me. It was soft and sloppy and wonderful. I’d thought Nicole had been flirting with me over the previous few weeks, but since I had no experience in this area, I hadn’t known what to do. But now here it was. My first real kiss. It was one of those milestone moments my mom used to talk about, something that would be seared into my brain forever, so I figured I should go all in. I clutched Nicole’s wrist and pulled her to a corner, and we made out. For a while. Eventually she pulled away and poked my chest.

You … are a good kisser, Connor.

Thank God. Right back at ya. I was smiling like a fool, but I didn’t care.

Yep, she repeated, pronouncing each word forcefully. You are a good kisser, and I am a thirsty girl.

Well, let’s see what we can do about that.

Fingers entwined, we headed toward the keg, Nicole stumbling, me leading the way, winding through the hallway, past the stairs. Stairs … why did that ring a bell? And I remembered. Zoey. She’d been standing by the stairs when I last saw her. God, when was that? A half hour ago? Longer?

I looked around, but I couldn’t find her anywhere.

Nicole pulled my hand. C’mon, Connor.

We went farther down the hall. Still no Zoey. But I spotted Brian.

Yo, I called. He maneuvered toward us. Have you seen Zoey?

He tilted his head toward mine, smirking. Is Nicole not enough for you? Nice going, bro.

Ha-ha, I said, hoping Nicole hadn’t heard him. Zoey?

Yeah, I saw her wander down that hallway. He nodded behind me.

When?

He shrugged. Great. I hated leaving Nicole, but I had to find Zoey, make sure she was all right. A freshman at a senior’s