Black Cat Weekly #201 (eBook)

Mary Angela Honerman, Tom Larsen, Hal Charles, Devin James Leonard, Gary Earl Ross, B. Morris Allen (Autoren)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
865 Seiten
Black Cat Weekly (Verlag)
978-0-00-095970-6 (ISBN)

Infos

This issue has more of a fantasy focus than usual-just the way the stories lined up, not a permanent trend-but it really showcases the strengths of modern fantasy writers, as none of the stories is anything like the others. On the mystery front, we have a new Capitán Ernesto Guillén story from Tom Larsen, for those who have been following the Ecuador-set series with interest. Our mystery novel is by Henry Kitchell Webster, and our fantasy novel is a Victorian-era feminist allegory from Edith Allonby. Don't skip the introductions for some interesting insights into both books and their authors.

Here's the complete lineup-

Cover Art: Stephen Hickman

NOVELS

The Corbin Necklace, by Henry Kitchell Webster

A wedding, a missing pearl necklace, and family secrets collide.

Jewel Sowers, by Edith Allonby

On planet Lucifram, a mute girl seeks her voice.

SOLVE-IT-YOURSELF MYSTERY

'A Walk in the Park,' by Hal Charles

Can you solve the mystery before the detective? All the clues are there!

SHORT STORIES

'The Mailbox Murders,' by Mary Angela Honerman

When red dots appear on calendars, residents of Green Meadows start dying.

'El Sicario (The Hit Man),' by Tom Larsen [Capitán Ernesto Guillén series]

A corrupt cop uses an elaborate sting to catch a killer he can't forget.

'Last Call at the Gasping Banshee,' by Devin James Leonard

A wife thinks her husband's been replaced. The bartender knows better.

'Skipjack,' by Gary Earl Ross

A boy discovers he can time travel through photos-but he's not alone.

'Gods in Reduced Circumstances,' by B. Morris Allen

Retired gods crash at Prometheus's cottage until he can find them a home.

'The Elves Stole Her Away,' by J.A. Prentice

p>Can a witch rescue a girl who chose love with an elf over safety?

'The Black Kiss,' by Robert Bloch and Henry Kuttner

An artist inherits a cursed house where dreams of sea monsters come alive...

Textauszug

THE MAILBOX MURDERS,
by Mary Angela Honerman

The Mailbox Murders, as we called them, started three months after I did, so we had intimate knowledge of the details. Mom and I watched the mailboxes from the small dining option at her retirement community, Green Meadows. I liked the restaurant because it looked French, with little round tables and chairs and a sign that read Bistro. We ate there often, and when the red dots arrived on the weekly schedules, we noticed. Green Meadows had lots of activities: bingo, baking, painting, crafts. They were organized in colorful calendars delivered via the mailboxes.

When I mentioned the red dots to my co-workers, it reached my supervisor, Linda Fry, who told me, quite frankly, I was there to make beds and take out the garbage. I was not to spy on residents. After that, I kept future suppositions to myself. I didn’t want to jeopardize the discount Mom received because of my working there. Green Meadows was expensive, and Mom couldn’t afford it without a reduction in rent.

One day, Mom and I were eating chicken à la king when we spied the second red dot. The first had happened the week before, when Mrs. Charles Carmichael died of heart failure. (Mom didn’t like her because of the Mrs. Charles part. Mom had fought for women’s rights in the Sixties and took personal offense to the use of her husband’s first name.) The dot was on the calendar belonging to Fredrick Jefferson. Dark red, it was a perfect circle, just like the first one. When I spotted it, I lost a spoonful of chicken gravy on my pants.

Mom’s eyebrows lifted as Fredrick scooted by with the mail in his walker basket. “What do you have there, Fredrick? A renewal for your NRA membership?”

I focused on the chicken chunks swimming in gravy. Like most people in the facility, Mr. Jefferson was on Mom’s bad side. From the moment she’d moved in three months ago, they’d argued, mostly about politics. It didn’t help that her first action as a new resident was to get the conservative news channel changed. The second was to get the thermostat lowered. “I cannot stand the god damn heat,” she’d said, pronouncing it as two words. She could break up a name or a word like that, for emphasis. Despite being the youngest person in the room, I thought I’d die.

At her comment, Fredrick stood still. He’d been a tall man once but now was bent low at the waist. He set the locks on his walker, readying for a fight. He pointed his stubby chin in her direction. “I got a piece of your mail, actually.” He picked up a postcard with a poverty-stricken person on the front and slid it across the table.

Mom turned it front and back. “There’s no name on this.”

“Of course it’s yours.” He pointed to the picture with a shaky finger. “It’s one of those scams, begging for money. Your box is always full of them.”

“Assistance for the Blind isn’t a scam.” She stabbed a piece of chicken. “By the looks of your prescription, you’ll be utilizing the organization one day.”

Fredrick adjusted his thick, square glasses, as if they’d make him hear better. “What’d you say?”

I interceded before the conversation grew heated. “What else do you have there? What’s on this week’s schedule? Anything good?”

He scanned the reminders, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the dot, the heavy red ink seeping through the thin paper. The last person who received one was dead. Would he be next?

“Cake decorating.” Fredrick looked over his glasses at Mom. “You might be interested in that.”

“Why in the Sam Hill would I want to decorate a cake?”

He made a grin. Two incisors were missing. “For social interaction.”

Mom cut her chicken. “Pass.”

Personally, I wished she’d take the cake decorating class, seated-chair class, birding class, or any of the other classes. She was miserable at Green Meadows; she missed her old house and didn’t want to be here. But her condition made living with me impossible. She couldn’t do stairs, and I didn’t make enough as a teacher to relocate. In fact, I wasn’t sure what would happen when school started. I would need to cut back on my hours here, at least during the daytime. Picking up extra shifts on nights and weekends would be easy, though. They had a difficult time keeping workers during those hours.

“If you change your mind…”

“I know where you live.” After he left, she leaned in. “You saw the stamp?”

“Of course I saw it.” I sipped my warm soda, no ice. Ice bothered the elderly’s sensitive teeth.

“He’s a walking dead man,” Mom proclaimed. Leaning back, she took her biscuit and tapped it against her plate. “Hard as a rock.” She said it loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.

“Mom,” I pleaded. The plea worked because she left off with the biscuit and went back to her chicken. “Why would anyone want to kill Mr. Jefferson?”

“You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I’ve met him. Most people like him. He organizes that book club.”

Mom’s elbows were like two chicken bones on the table. Oh how I wished she’d eat more. “He’s rich. Everyone here is rich, but he’s really rich. He’s left a hundred thousand dollars in his will for a new library at Green Meadows—the Jefferson Library.”

Only Mom could find fault with donating money. She didn’t trust wealthy people, and to be honest, neither did I. I supposed it was something passed down from the lower-middle class, generation to generation. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“It will be, when he’s dead.” She gave up on the chicken and put her fork down. “A lot of people would like to see the library started now, including Lois Undertaker.”

“That’s not her last name. It’s Underwood, and you know it.” Lois was the assistant director at the facility.

“Not to mention Karen Bury-Me-More,” added Mom. “She practically froths at the mouth every time he presses his emergency call button.” Mom pointed down the hallway. “See? There he goes again.”

Karen Barrimore was the director, a stout, pear-shaped woman who came rushing when Mr. Jefferson pushed the emergency button on his necklace, like he did now. I heard him say it was heartburn. Karen said she would escort him to his apartment, so they could “catch up.”

“Catch up, my a—”

“Finish your chicken,” I interrupted.

“I’m not hungry.” She took a scoop of gravy and poured it slowly over her biscuit. “Who could be when they serve dog food?”

I stuffed in another bite of chicken. It was good, and I was hungry. I’d never be able to afford digs like this when I got older. It’d be whatever my teacher pension afforded, if I was lucky, and if I still had my job by then. With as much time as I spent with Mom, I was beginning to wonder.

Mom stood, taking her cane from the back of her chair. “Let’s go. I want to see if I’m right.”

Reluctantly, I pushed away my food. Mom was probably right. Something about Karen bothered me. I knew she had money, and the wealthy rarely gave something without getting something in return. What if she was helping residents along to their final destinations, like Mom said? They were old. No one questioned their deaths.

I was reminded of this fact when we passed the chapel, where a picture of Mrs. Charles Carmichael was placed on the table in the frame, Gone But Never Forgotten. Last week, she’d passed away of a heart attack. One of the aids told me heart attacks were common, a way of saying that the heart stopped beating from old age. Mrs. Charles Carmichael looked out from the frame with round glasses and a pressed-lip smile.

Mom pointed. “Good Lord. You think they could’ve found a better picture.”

I cut Mom a side look.

Ignoring me, she studied the photo. “I suppose they wanted her to look as sickly as possible, so we believe she died of natural causes.”

“And why would they want to kill Mrs. Carmichael?”

She clicked her tongue. “Her name was Al-ma!”

I’d never heard the name before in my life. I had no idea how Mom knew. She’d probably interrogated her on the way to dinner. They’d lived on the same floor. I took a breath. “Why would they want Alma dead?”

She stumbled near the elevator, and I grabbed her arm. Mom was not old, or, not as old as most of the residents. But she hadn’t been blessed with good health. When it came to aging, her mind was much more stubborn than her body. She didn’t believe she should be here. “She found out about the pill pushers. You know the ones.”

Yes, I knew the ones. Mom claimed they’d come into her apartment, in the middle of the night, and put pills in the locked cabinet in her kitchen. When I’d asked Linda about it, she said it was routine. The elderly had trouble with their bowels. The staff kept softeners, laxatives, and suppositories stocked for emergencies. “Linda said it’s routine medicine.”

“You call morphine routine?” Mom pushed the UP button with her cane.

“Morphine?”

“In her kitchen cabinet.” Mom nodded. “Alma told her daughter.”

The old tune by Buddy Holly “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” played in the elevator as we rode to Mom’s floor. “So wait. How did Mrs.—Alma get the key to the cabinet? I thought they were locked.”

“Yours truly.” Mom winked at me. “I stole it from Pip when he was playing ping-pong with old man Thompson.”

I cringed. Pip was the second-floor attendant. Most times he was at his desk, on his...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 6.7.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Science Fiction
• ISBN-10: 0-00-095970-7 / 0000959707
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-095970-6 / 9780000959706