Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 (32 page)

The next step was Lucia Basconte’s exhumation. I thought about Gregório, the forensic expert and professor who left the university and the morgue for a private forensic investigation lab. We had worked together in the days when he was poor. Now he only did autopsies on the beautiful people and is constantly in the crime pages. A respected guy, even if he’s a bit too much the celebrity type for my taste, always giving interviews with his hair in a ponytail, but let it go. I gave him a call. “I don’t have a penny. It’s for old times’ sake.” It’s been said that the rich have no past, they have selective memory. But he remembered. He agreed at once. Philanthropy in the police moves me deeply.

We set up a meeting. As I was leaving, Soraya called. “I want to return your records. And your books too.”

“I love you,” I said. Silence, a long silence.

“What about Lucia Basconte?” Soraya took on a childish tone when she felt she could dominate me.

“We ended it.” She remained silent at the other end. She was happy, I could tell.

When the lid of the coffin was raised, I felt a chill in my belly. You were still beautiful, Lucia Basconte.

Gregório found no sign of violence on your body, love. I believed it was poisoning. Twelve cases in the last three months. The crazy woman who turned in her husband. Acqua Toffana. Poor woman, she was right. That’s how the police are, they know somebody’s going to be killed and they sit on their hands. There’s nothing we can do. Nobody can do anything for anyone, ever. Gregório, the humanist. I don’t like the guy.

Results of the exhumation:

You didn’t have a heart condition.

You’re beautiful.

You didn’t faint in the bathtub.

You weren’t poisoned.

Your skin was all wrinkly (an indication of death by drowning).

You’re beautiful.

You married the wrong guy.

You’re beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

You’re the woman of my dreams.

Gregório and I left there and went to the Department. “The drowning is a fact,” he said. “Except, my friend, that nobody drowns in a puddle.”

We found Soraya in my office, tiny miniskirt, firm legs, long hair, young. Gregório liked her, I could tell. She also liked the playboy. Screw them both.

I asked Tonho to make a full-scale replica of the deadly bathtub in the Hotel Miranda and send it to Gregório’s lab in Jaboticabal. That son of a bitch womanizer wanted to run some experiments.

I descended six flights of stairs mute, with Soraya trying to catch up to me. “What’s with you, man?” I didn’t open my mouth on the way down. Soraya, at my side, was talking nonstop. At home, I ordered a pizza. Soraya was gorgeous, shaved legs. She sat on top of the table. We had sex there, almost fully clothed. She wanted to know why I was so quiet. “Soraya, Lucia Basconte called me and we’re getting back together. I had to tell you that.” She slapped my face and left. We were even. That’s how it is with me.

I took off my clothes and was getting into the shower when I felt a wave of heat. I nearly pissed my pants. My legs were tingling. Shortness of breath. Lucia Basconte wants to make a date. Not today. There’s not enough air, Lucia Basconte. I promise I’ll see the psychotherapist. I promise I’ll pay my bookie. I promise to spend more time with my son. I promise to treat Soraya better, Lucia Basconte. I promise to stop. I promise anything. I hit my head on the bidet. When I opened my eyes, I saw Soraya. She said she had come back to kill me. A dog, that’s what she called me, a real dog, but even so, she loved me. I wanted to sleep, to vomit, go away, Soraya. “I’m not going to let you vomit in peace,” she said, “do you really want to be my boyfriend?”

I’ve always been afraid of cancer, of cirrhosis. Now I was afraid of a hypercrisis. Psychotherapeutic techniques. All that’s missing is those color tests. I dialed the number my doctor had given me. “Psychological Clinic, good morning.” I hung up.

There are 3,583 investigations going on, Lucia Basconte, and I can think of nothing but you. Your photo is still in my pocket. Soraya will get used to it.

Gregório phoned me with the latest. (Could he have called Soraya?) He hired some starving university coeds to do tests in the killer bathtub and confirmed that without violence it was impossible to drown them. (How did he get Soraya’s phone number?)

Lapa Cemetery. We were impressed by the good condition of Eleonora Mendes Brandão’s body. The exhumation was only possible because she’d been embalmed. Gregório, insufferably professorial, explained, “Whenever a corpse is transported from one city to another, we do that. It slows down decomposition.” Know-it-all. Two-bit media-friendly playboy. Screw you.

The results of the exhumation led us nowhere.

Eleonora had died by drowning just like Lucia Basconte. Drowned in a water puddle. We still didn’t have a shred of evidence against the bastard. That was the truth.

Gregório gave me a ride. Silently, I mulled over the same question: How is it possible to drown someone in a tub without leaving a trace?

I arrived home, took off my shirt, and collapsed onto the bed. Soraya didn’t call. No one called. I fell asleep thinking how good it would be if you were here, Lucia Basconte.

The phone rang. Soraya checking up on me?

“Jaboticabal? Jesus, Gregório, now, at this hour?”

At four-thirty I was arriving in Jaboticabal. Gregório is married and has seven kids. I’m going to mention that to Soraya. I’d like to see her a newlywed taking care of all seven. We went into a room packed with books and glass. In the middle was a bathtub filled with water and three inflatable dolls.

“Take off your clothes and get in,” said Gregório, pointing to the tub. “Why?” I asked. He was grandstanding, which irritated me. I hate people who grandstand. My situation was ridiculous. There I was, in undershorts and T-shirt, in a pathologist’s lab, getting into a bathtub. (I can’t believe you’re seeing this guy, Soraya.)

“I think I’ve discovered how Lucia Basconte and Eleonora Brandão were murdered. Put your feet here, please.” I obeyed, more irritated than ever. “They were found with their feet outside the tub, you know why?” I had no answer. Gregório held my feet. “You don’t know, but I do. See, the killer stood here, near the feet of the women, and like a Don Juan—” I felt water rushing into my nose.

I awoke dizzy, my head throbbing. (I’m sure of it, Soraya wasn’t screwing this guy.) He was a doctor, he’d probably heard of the panic syndrome. I was going to tell him. I have panic syndrome, whatever the hell that is. I was just about to spit out the first word, when he delivered the gold. “When I pulled on your feet, the water went up your nose suddenly and provoked a collapse in your nervous system. You fainted. If I had let you, you’ve have drowned in the tub, and no one would find a single sign of violence. The murderer did to Lucia Basconte and Eleonora Brandão exactly what I did to you,” Gregório explained.

I now know what your final moment was like, Lucia Basconte. That bald clown yanking with all his might on your feet. You deserved better, love.

I lit a cigarette. I was tired, it was six A.M. Gregório lent me some dry clothes. I could smell Soraya on the shirt. There was no mistaking it. Fake Azzarro Number 9. It was my Christmas present. I started the car:

“Why didn’t you do that with the coeds?”

“Do what?”

“Pull their feet.”

“I didn’t get the idea till this morning. They weren’t here.”

We laughed. You son of a bitch. I’ve got my eye on you.

I’m going away, Lucia Basconte. Try to forget me, love.

Copyright © 2011 by Patrícia Melo; translation copyright © 2011 by Clifford E. Landers

“And isn’t it a fact, when you yelled ‘Stop thief,’ twenty-three people stopped!”

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REVIEWS

The Jury Box

by Jon L. Breen

Short story collections have always been considered a dubious commercial proposition. Even when magazine markets were numerous and lucrative, single-author mystery collections were relatively rare....

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by Bill Crider

At the Bouchercon in San Francisco, I caught up with Janet Hutchings, the editor of this magazine, and asked her to do a short video interview about the magazine’s Internet presence. You can find the...

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REVIEWS

The Jury Box

by Jon L. Breen

Short story collections have always been considered a dubious commercial proposition. Even when magazine markets were numerous and lucrative, single-author mystery collections were relatively rare. Ironically, today, with the number of major markets shrinking and mainstream publishing offering fewer slots of any kind for non- blockbuster writers, the rise of independent publishers and print-on-demand self-publishing has delight-fully increased the availability of single-author collections. Note that not one of the volumes considered below is from a major New York publisher.

****Clayton Emery:
Mandrake and Murder: The Robin and Marian Mysteries
, Merry Man, $12.95. Eight of these dozen adventures for Robin Hood and the former Maid Marian first appeared in
EQMM
, the rest in original anthologies. A density of historical lore remarkable in such brief tales is combined with picturesque prose, well-described phy-sical action, and sound detection. The sense of period authenticity is greater than in most historical detective fiction; wise though they are, the married sleuths respect and often share the attitudes and superstitions of their time. “Shriving the Scare crow” is a fine example of the series.

****Ed Gorman,
Noir 13
, Perfect Crime, $14.95. Of these 13 tales by a short-story master, over half are previously uncollected and apparently new to print. Especially chilling are “The Baby Store,” science fictional crime about designer children, and “Flying Solo,” about two cancer patients turned vigilante do-gooders. “A Little Something to Believe In,” written with Larry Segriff, examines religious belief through urban fantasy. Gorman goes for the gut and always hits his target.

****Jonathan Woods:
Bad Juju and
Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem
, New Pulp, $15. These 19 tales of erotic or absurdist noir are lively, imaginative, sometimes parodic, often darkly funny, accurately likened on the back-cover blurb to opium dreams and Quentin Tarantino. The final novella, “No Way, José,” is especially reminiscent in style and mood of
Pulp Fiction
. Exotic backgrounds abound, with “Incident in the Tropics,” equally damning of the Ugly American and the unscrupulous local, a strong example. Not my usual cup of tea, but it’s all executed with enormous skill by a writer of formidable talent.

***Ennis Willie:
Sand’s Game
, Ramble House, $32 hardcover, $20 trade paper. Two novellas and three stories about ex-mobster turned avenging detective Sand, written for the 1960s sleaze market, represent an unfairly obscure writer highly regarded by crime-fiction pros like Max Allan Collins, who contributes an introduction; editors Lynn F. Myers, Jr., and Stephen Mertz; and introducers of individual stories Wayne D. Dundee, Bill Crider, Bill Pronzini, James Reasoner, and Gary Lovisi. Willie is most often compared to Mickey Spillane. For me at least, he’s better.

*** Arthur Porges:
The Curious Cases
of Cyriack Skinner Grey
, Richard Simms, $20.95. Paraplegic scientist Grey plays wheelchair detective on a variety of bizarre cases, usually of the locked-room or impossible-crime variety. The fourteen (six from
EQMM
in the 1960s, five from
AHMM
in the 1970s, three new to print) are mostly very brief, with few developed characters apart from Grey, his geniusteenage son, and police detective Trask, but they are full of ingenuity, humor, and learned allusions to science, literature, and music.

*** L. Ron Hubbard:
The Trail of the Red Diamonds,
Galaxy, $9.95 for book or dramatized CD set. Two novella-length adventure cum mystery stories based in 1930s China offer further evidence of Hubbard’s pulp-action mastery. The title tale recounts the search for Kubla Khan’s treasure, while “Hurricane’s Roar” concerns the unconventional and mysterious flying peacemaker known as Wind-Gone-Mad, met in an earlier collection.

*** Stephen D. Rogers:
Shot to Death: 31 Stories of Nefarious New England,
Mainly Murder, $14.95. The sometime
EQMM
poet is so smoothly readable, explores such a variety of inventive situations, and is so ambitious in structure and theme, even the stories that don’t quite hit the mark make enjoyable reading. Especially good ones include “A Dog Named Mule,” “A Friendly Game,” “Discharged,” and “Last Call.” Offbeat pure crime stories appear alongside unconventional private eye tales like “Sidewalk,” with its black-comedy punch line.

**William F. Nolan:
Dark Dimensions,
Darkwood, $17.99. The latest from one of the great masters of popular fiction, all previously uncollected and first published between 1995 and 2010, is a mixed bag. Making up for some minor items are the lead novella, “Horror at Winchester House,” an occult detective story about a real San Jose tourist attraction; a Hollywood private eye tale, “Vampire Dollars”; and a moving non-criminous autobiographical piece on loss and aging, “Getting Along Just Fine.” Nolan completists will want this; others should try earlier collections first.

**Gary Lovisi:
Ultra-Boiled: Hard-Hitting Crime Fiction,
Ramble House, $19.99 trade paper, $35 hardcover. Small-press publisher Lovisi’s tough crime stories are highly variable in quality. Good examples of his inventive plotting are “Love Kills” and “Not Much Joy in Prison,” while “Political Year” is a deeply cynical account of American politics that may be more accurate than we would hope. Seven of these 23 have been previously collected; five are new; the others appeared in various print and online publications.

Francis M. Nevins’s
Night Forms
(Perfect Crime, $16.95), includes everything in his earlier collections
Night of
Silken Snow
(2001) and
Leap Day
(2003) plus four previously uncollected, among them his brilliant Ellery Queen pastiche “Open Letter to Survivors” and the Harry Stephen Keeler parody “The Skull of the Stuttering Gunfighter.” An extensive introduction and story afterwords add to the interest.

The title novella of Philip Wylie’s
Ten Thousand Blunt Instruments and Other Tales of Mystery
(Crippen & Landru, $29 hardcover, $19 trade paper) is a good 1944 American Magazine whodunit notable for its specialized background (the American Museum of Natural History) and its World War II period. Bill Pronzini’s introduction summarizes the author’s remarkably prolific and versatile literary career. . . . Loren D. Estleman’s Amos Walker: The Complete Story Collection (Tyrus, $32.95) brings together 32 cases of the Detroit private eye, most previously uncollected and one new, plus an introduction by the author about his famous character. . . . An obscurely-published and excellent 1959 short story, “Hard Case Redhead,” is included along with a novel and novella previously unpublished in the latest Peter Rabe omnibus,
The Silent Wall/The Return of Marvin Palaver
(Stark House, $19.95), introduced by Rick Ollerman. . . . A mixed collection of Arthur Upfield’s fiction,
Up and Down Australia
(Lulu, $24.96), edited by Kees de Hoog, includes “Wisp of Wool and Disk of Silver,” the only short story about Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, originally published in
EQMM
in 1979 after being lost for decades, plus the first chapter of an unfinished Bony novel featuring the half-Aborigine sleuth’s wife, an off-stage presence in most of his cases.

The advent of the e-book reader has made easily accessible many old books expensive and scarce in their original editions, including some classic short-story collections. Anna Katharine Green’s 1915 volume about a young woman detective from the ranks of New York high society,
The Golden Slipper and Other Problems for Violet Strange
, contains delightful period detail, agreeably old-fashioned prose and dialogue, and some offbeat and cunningly plotted mysteries, including the bizarre classic “The Second Bullet.” It’s available from Amazon’s Kindle store for free.

Copyright © 2011 by Jon L. Breen

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