Black Cat Weekly #118

By Dave Zeltserman, C. C. Guthrie, Justin Kiska M. and 6 more

   This issue, we have 17 short stories and 2 novel serials for you—one of our largest lineups ever! (Of course, quite a few of the stories are short, and hopefully you like awful-pun stories…)

   On the mystery front, we have original tales from Dave Zeltserman (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Justin M. Kiska (a Christmas fantasy-mystery), plus another fantasy-mystery from C. C. Guthrie (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Our serial of Jack Guthrie’s Tiger Island concludes. And, of course, there’s a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

   For the science fiction and fantasy lineup—we have the above-mentioned Kiska and Guthrie tales, plus the complete series of 8 Benedict Breadfruit stories by Randall Garrett (written under the pseudonym “Grandall Barretton”) plus 3 more pun-stories from the series Garrett was parodying, The Adventures of Ferdinand Feghoot Through Time and Space, by Reginald Bretnor (written under the pseudonym “Grendel Briarton”) and a Feghoot by Your Editor, John Betancourt (written under the pseudonym “Grendel Briarton, Jr.”). See my intro to this very punny section for more info. On top of all that, we have a delightful fantasy from Anna Tambour, a classic SF piece from Ben Bova, and part 3 of Francis Jarman’s historical fantasy novel, The Eagle’s Wing. Whew, that’s a lot!

   Here’s this issue’s complete lineup (in order of appearance):

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Ice Lady,” by Dave Zeltserman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Coveted Coin Caper,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The December Candle Caper Con,” by C. C. Guthrie [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“North Pole Noir,” by Justin M. Kiska [short story]
Tiger Island, by Jack Ritchie [serial novel, part 3 of 3]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The December Candle Caper Con,” by C. C. Guthrie [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“North Pole Noir,” by Justin M. Kiska [short story]
“The Godchildren,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
“Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: I to VIII,” by Grandall Barretton [8 short stories]
“Through Time and Space With Ferdinand Feghoot: VIII, XIX, and XXXVII,” by Grendel Briarton [3 short stories]
“Through Time and Space With Ferdinand Feghoot: Alpha,” by Grendel Briarton, Jr. [short story]
“Answer, Please Answer,” by Ben Bova [short story]
The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman [serial novel, part 3 of 4]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Dec 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667603230

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE ICE LADY, by Dave Zeltserman

THE COVETED COIN CAPER, by Hal Charles

THE DECEMBER CANDLE CAPER CON, by C. C. GUTHRIE

NORTH POLE NOIR, by Justin M. Kiska

TIGER ISLAND, by Jack Ritchie

WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE GODCHILDREN, by Anna Tambour

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT (AND FRIENDS), by Grandall Barretton (Randall Garrett)

INTRODUCTION

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: I

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: II

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: III

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: IV

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: V

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: VI

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: VII

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT: VIII

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: VIII, by Grendal Briarton

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: XIX, by Grendel Briarton

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: XXXVII, by Grendel Briarton

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: Alpha, by Grendel Briarton, Jr.

ANSWER, PLEASE ANSWER, by Ben Bova

THE EAGLE’S WING, by Francis Jarman

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The Factions in the Senate

WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

The Ice Lady is copyright © 2023 by Dave Zeltserman and appears here for the first time.

The Coveted Coin Caper is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The December Candle Caper Con is copyright © 2023 by C. C. Guthrie and appears here for the first time.

North Pole Noir is copyright © 2023 by Justin M. Kiska and appears here for the first time.

The Godchildren is copyright © 2017 by Anna Tambour. Originally published in Walk on the Wildside edited by Joseph S. Pulver Sr., NecromoniCon, Providence, 2017. Reprinted by permission of the author.

All eight Through Time and Space with Benedict Breadfruit stories were originally published in Amazing Stories, April 1962 through October 1962. No notice of copyright renewal found.

Strange Tourist, by Reginald Bretnor (writing as Grendel Briarton) is copyright © 1958, 1986 by Mercury Press. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, August 1958. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Ghost, by Reginald Bretnor (writing as Grendel Briarton) is copyright © 1959, 1987 by Mercury Press. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, October 1959. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Feghoot Shipwrecked, by Reginald Bretnor (writing as Grendel Briarton) is copyright © 1961, 1989 by Mercury Press. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, March 1961. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Through Time and Space with Ferdinand Feghoot: Alpha, by John Betancourt writing as Grendel Briarton, Jr., is copyright © 2022 by John Gregory Betancourt. Originally published in Startling Stories: 2022 Issue. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Answer, Please Answer, by Ben Bova, was originally published in Amazing Stories, October 1962.

The Eagle’s Wing is copyright © 2015 by Francis Jarman. Reprinted by permission of the author.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue, we have 18 short stories and 2 novel serials for you—one of our largest lineups ever! (Of course, quite a few of the stories are short, and hopefully you like awful-pun stories…)

On the mystery front, we have original tales from Dave Zeltserman (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Justin M. Kiska (a Christmas fantasy-mystery), plus another fantasy-mystery from C. C. Guthrie (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Our serial of Jack Guthrie’s Tiger Island concludes. And, of course, there’s a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

For the science fiction and fantasy lineup—we have the above-mentioned Kiska and Guthrie tales, plus the complete series of 8 Benedict Breadfruit stories by Randall Garrett (written under the pseudonym Grandall Barretton) plus 4 more pun-stories from the series Garrett was parodying, The Adventures of Ferdinand Feghoot Through Time and Space, by Reginald Bretnor (written under the pseudonym Grendel Briarton) and a Feghoot by Your Editor, John Betancourt (written under the pseudonym Grendel Briarton, Jr.). See my intro to this very punny section for more info. On top of all that, we have a delightful fantasy from Anna Tambour, a classic SF piece from Ben Bova, and part 3 of Francis Jarman’s historical fantasy novel, The Eagle’s Wing. Whew, that’s a lot!

And just a reminder: if you’d like to contribute to Black Cat Weekly, please see our submission portal at blackcatweekly.com for guidelines. We are always looking for original mystery and science fiction/fantasy stories.

Here’s this issue’s complete lineup (in order of appearance):

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

The Ice Lady, by Dave Zeltserman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Coveted Coin Caper, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

The December Candle Caper Con, by C. C. Guthrie [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

North Pole Noir, by Justin M. Kiska [short story]

Tiger Island, by Jack Ritchie [serial novel, part 3 of 3]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The December Candle Caper Con, by C. C. Guthrie [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

North Pole Noir, by Justin M. Kiska [short story]

The Godchildren, by Anna Tambour [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: I, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: II, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: III, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: IV, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: V, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: VI, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: VII, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Benedict Breadfruit: VIII, by Grandall Barretton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Ferdinand Feghoot: VIII, by Grendal Briarton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Ferdinand Feghoot: XIX, by Grendel Briarton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Ferdinand Feghoot: XXXVII, by Grendel Briarton [short story]

Through Time and Space With Ferdinand Feghoot: Alpha, by Grendel Briarton, Jr. [short story]

Answer, Please Answer, by Ben Bova [short story]

The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman [serial novel, part 3 of 4]

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

THE ICE LADY,

by Dave Zeltserman

FROM THE FILES OF MIKE STONE

There was a knock on my office door. Before I had a chance to swing my feet off my desk, Vera stepped in looking bored, pouty, perturbed, and put upon, which was quite a combination.

You got a dame waiting out there for you, she said without any effort to hide her disdain. A flash of bitterness compressed her lips into an angry circle. Her highness got all snooty with me and wouldn’t even tell me her name. I couldn’t even get her to tell me whether she wants to hire you.

Her highness? Is she dressed like royalty?

While my question wasn’t meant to be funny, Vera laughed as if it were. Hardly. She’s wearing a hideous leisure suit, the same kind my mom used to wear when I was a kid. A little too anxiously, she asked whether she should make up an excuse so I wouldn’t have to waste time seeing her highness, which meant that the woman had to be a looker and Vera, being the jealous type, had her doubts whether the woman came to hire me or for some other reason.

You better send her in, I said. I gave her my best reassuring grin. We could use the cash, and besides, it’s never a good idea in this business to turn down a potential client.

Vera wanted to argue with me. I could see the wheels spinning, but she came up blank and so instead sighed in her defeat and warned me to be careful with this one. If you get too close, she could give you frostbite.

With that, Vera left and soon after the woman in question walked in, and as I had surmised, she was stunning, even in her godawful, ugly yellow leisure suit. Around thirty-five, long blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a slender but shapely body. I’d say she had girl-next-door looks, but there was a sharpness to her jaw and eyes that made a mockery of that. And while she didn’t lower the temperature of my office, I understood Vera’s remark about this woman having the potential to cause frostbite. There was certainly an iciness about her.

"How do you have one of them working for you as a receptionist? she asked, incredulously, and maybe somewhat accusatorially. How is that possible?"

Vera showed up one day and took her place behind the receptionist desk as if she’s always been there.

Of course, Vera wasn’t her real name, just the name she adopted in my hell. Days didn’t exist here either. The sky in my version of Brooklyn never changes from its gray murkiness, and none of us are ever given the reprieve that sleep might provide. Time just blends together endlessly, and we trick ourselves into thinking that one day ends and another begins, or at least I do. But I didn’t bother explaining any of that, and instead told her to take a seat and tell me what she wanted. I watched as she adjusted herself in the chair across from my desk, and then as she crossed a shapely right leg over her left knee.

Is she real? the woman asked. Or is she something you somehow conjured?

I signaled for her to lower her voice. I didn’t want Vera hearing any of this. The consequences wouldn’t be good, at least if she didn’t convince her that we were only talking nonsense. This woman had to have squatters in her world—those souls who wander into private hells, like my own, and take up residence. Squatters, like Vera, lack the awareness to understand that they had died and need to fully embrace the hell that they’ve made as their home. It’s what anchors them and keeps them from sinking into something much worse, not that any of our private hells are much of a picnic. One of the two true maxims of hell is that no matter how bad things are they can always get worse. Her question about squatters and the implication that she didn’t have any in her hell that took on everyday roles, like a bartender, told me that her own level of awareness was weak, which meant she was at risk of sinking into a far worse hell than what she had now.

She’s as real as any of us, I said, my voice purposely low to guard against the event of Vera having her ear pressed against the door, which I thought was possible given her insanely jealous nature. I took a bottle of Canadian whiskey and two glasses from my bottom desk drawer and poured both of us stiff drinks. My time on Earth as a living, breathing person has grown hazy over the seeming eons I’ve spent in hell, but as far as I could remember the food and booze in my hell tasted like the genuine articles, and I figured this ice lady could use the whiskey since it was doubtful that she had had anything to eat or drink since she died.

Her eyes grew wide as she stared at the glass I offered her. It wasn’t until I picked up my own glass and took a sip that she did the same. Her eyes grew even wider then.

This tastes real, she said, astonished.

I didn’t bother telling her that while it tasted real, you couldn’t get drunk off of it, not even if you guzzled a case of the stuff. Hell wasn’t about to be that kind to offer even a brief escape from its constant monotony and dreariness.

I put my own drink down on my desk and fixed her a hard look. What are you here for?

You’re a detective, right?

That’s what it says on the door that you walked through. And as far as I know I’m the only one in hell, at least the only one taking cases.

She took a longer drink of whiskey to fortify herself, and her steel-blue eyes met mine. I want to know who killed me and why.

You already know that.

I say that to all the souls who want to hire me for the very same reason, which are almost all of my clients, and like all the rest of them she looked at me as if I were talking in a foreign language that she didn’t understand. I didn’t press the matter since it wouldn’t do any good, and instead asked for her name and whatever details she could give me. She told me her name had been Karen Fiske and that she couldn’t remember what had happened to her.

Why do you think you were killed?

She made a face as if she had tasted something obscenely vile. My husband robbed a bank, she said. People died in the robbery. Maybe it was retaliation for that. Or maybe someone thought he had hid the money in our house.

Your husband’s name?

Frank Fiske.

When and where did this robbery take place?

1974. Medford, a city right outside of Boston.

That year seemed to fit considering the leisure suit she wore. Souls confined to hell only have one outfit to wear for all eternity and it’s usually what the person had on when they died, but not always. My costume is a poorly fitting gray suit that looked like it came from the 1930s, a matching fedora, and a pair of beat-up shoes that badly need polishing. I died in 1998 at the age of thirty-seven, and while I had been working as a private investigator for nine years at the time of my death I had never worn a suit on the job and the closest I ever came to wearing a hat were baseball caps. My theory is that souls with greater awareness end up wearing for eternity an outfit that defines their truer nature.

How long after the robbery did you die?

I don’t think it was long after Frank was arrested. Maybe a couple of weeks after that.

Is it possible he was innocent?

No. They had him dead to rights. From the way her skin color had turned a greenish tint I would’ve known that she was beginning to feel the sickness even if she hadn’t started rubbing her temples. The sickness happens whenever a soul enters a different soul’s hell. It hits the less aware souls faster, and is always worse the first time in that foreign hell. While you can last longer with each succeeding visit, the sickness will always be present, and if you stay in that hell long enough your sense of self will disintegrate and you’ll end up a squatter, or worse, a zombie.

Her eyes had become unfocussed and in a voice that had gotten heavier, she asked what I would be charging her.

You’ll owe me.

She squeezed her eyes tight and began rubbing them. It looked like it was taking a good deal of effort on her part to sit upright. She moaned out, What will I owe you?

There were no saints in hell, and I certainly wasn’t the exception. Whatever I choose. You better get back to your own hell before it’s too late.

I doubted that she knew about the sickness, but she understood that something was very wrong with her.

She tried to push herself out of her chair, but her legs had become too wobbly, and she fell to the floor. She looked up at me with hate boiling in her eyes.

You poisoned me, she accused, her voice sounding like she’d been drugged.

I didn’t. What you’re experiencing is what every soul suffers from when they visit another soul’s hell. Where did your portal leave you when you crossed over into my world?

She didn’t believe me, but she was desperate, and so she told me that she stepped out of an office in my building. 5B. I had to get her back to her own hell if I wanted to collect payment from her at some future time, and so I hefted her onto my shoulder and carried her out of my office. Vera didn’t bother to look up from the romance magazine she had buried herself in, which was what I had expected. Squatters had an uncanny sense of self-preservation, and they’ll always avoid anything that might contradict what they need to believe, which in Vera’s case was that she worked as a receptionist for a small private investigator’s office in Brooklyn, New York.

My office was on the third floor. There was an elevator that didn’t work and so I carried Fiske up two flights of stairs. As I did so, I was able get her to mumble out the name of her sister. By the time I got her in front of office 5B, she was moaning softly but otherwise appeared unresponsive. I stood her on her feet and slapped her hard across the face. She opened her eyes to a slit.

I can’t cross you over into your hell, I told her. You have to slip through your portal yourself, and you have to do it now or you’ll lose your identity completely.

I had the door to 5B open and told her that on the count of three I’d be helping her over the threshold. I can’t explain in words how it’s done, but passing through a portal comes as naturally as breathing, or at least what we trick ourselves into believing is breathing. I wasn’t sure she’d be up to the task given her current state, but since there was nothing else to do when I reached three, I nudged her forward. As she stumbled into 5B she disappeared from sight, which meant that she had passed through into her own hell.

* * * *

The basement of my office building has thousands of stacks of phone books that are crammed to the ceiling. These phone books have the names of every soul in hell along with the addresses in my version of Brooklyn that will take me to their portals, and fortunately they were in alphabetical order. If Frank Fiske had robbed a bank and killed someone during the robbery then he should be in hell, at least if he was dead, but he wasn’t in the directory that listed several pages of Francis Fiskes. I knew this because of an intuition thing. When I see the phone book listing for the person I want, my palms start itching, and I didn’t get any itching from any of the names I looked at.

The simple fact is you can’t trust what anyone here tells you, and it was possible that Karen Fiske had lied to me about everything. It’s what souls do here. They bury themselves in a cocoon of self-deception and lies. It was also possible that if she had told me the truth and Frank Fiske had robbed a bank in 1974 like she claimed, he could still be alive. I had no idea what year it was in the world of the living. One of my clients claimed to have been killed in 2009, and if he was telling the truth and Fiske was also in his thirties in 1974, then he might be in his seventies now. I didn’t know whether Massachusetts had the death penalty back then, or, if they did, whether Fiske worked out a life sentence. Or maybe he could be rotting on death row. All I knew for sure is that time works differently in hell. It drags endlessly, and it has felt as if I’d been here for centuries.

I tried Karen Fiske’s sister next and as with Frank Fiske there were pages with the same name, but this time one of the listings made my palms itch like crazy. My office building was in Brooklyn Heights and the address listed was in Canarsie, which was a seven-mile hike. Fortunately, I spotted Edwin camped out in his cab a block from the building. Edwin, a short, squat man with a face resembling a bullfrog, showed up one day as if he’d always been driving a cab in my hell. A sour, unpleasant soul, but I can almost always find him at that same spot where he was now, and he’s been saving me a lot of shoe leather, which was a plus since I wasn’t about to ever get another pair of shoes here.

I got in the back of the cab and directed him where to drive. It would’ve been pointless giving him the address since this was my version of Brooklyn and was really only an approximation at best to the real thing. Some of the streets were probably close to the real Brooklyn, at least at the time of my death, others not at all, and many of the street signs were blurry and unreadable, but since this was my hell I knew instinctively where to go, and Edwin, as he always did, acted as if it were completely normal for me to tell him each turn to make.

The address ended up being for a middleclass residential street lined with modest two-family houses. I didn’t see any squatters or zombies in the area, which was good since that meant Edwin wouldn’t