Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 (8 page)

Brian thought a minute. "We all went outside. Maybe the thief stashed it
somewhere outside the museum?"

That was a glum thought. "Okay, with objects so small, they could be hidden
anywhere. Let's rule that out for a minute. Was anyone missing during the food
demonstration?"

"No. Well, Steve was at the hotel, sick, but the rest of us, we were all there."
Brian counted off on his fingers. "Lale had to round us all up. Jack, Harold,
and I were there in the middle, trying to roll the grape leaves into tubes and
get the
manti
to stay stuck together. Everyone else was there, because
I remember Lale was very careful to keep a head count. I don't envy her; it's
like herding cats, keeping track of everyone. Tiffany and Nicole were there
too—remember, they were taking all those pictures? Since they're always
scampering off, I remember looking around for them."

"They seem awful young to be on such an expensive trip," I said. "And usually
twenty-somethings are, I don't know, going to more popular destinations, don't
you think? Rome or the Greek islands?"

"Or Ibiza," Brian agreed. The young ladies in question were now in the lobby,
chatting up our young—and very dishy—van driver, Emin. More
blushes, more giggles, more photos.

That reminded me: As we headed to the end of the trip, I wanted to organize some
tips from all of us for Emin and for Lale. They were well paid, but had done
such a good job—

Something Harold had just said reminded me: I wasn't the only one who knew what
the objects might be valued at. Lale certainly did, and she knew ahead of time
we'd be seeing them as well. But there was no way she would have taken the
artifacts. Was there?

I shook my head; this speculation was hopeless. "Such small objects—some
no bigger around than a pencil—and worth so much. You could hide dozens
of them anywhere, and have a small fortune."

Brian opened his mouth, then hesitated. "This is crazy, but—"

"Go for it," I said.

"What if Jack or Tiffany rolled them into the grape leaves?"

"Or the
manti?"
I thought about it, then shook my head. "Even if they
were expert, they couldn't stuff a whole handful of coins and seals into one
grape leaf. And it's too obvious, too public. You'd have to be a magician to
pull it off."

Suddenly, I was thinking of Harold and the trick he did with his lighter. And of
the supply of empty cigar tubes he might have accumulated over the course of the
trip. Still too complicated. "I'm beat, Brian. Let's go upstairs."

"Remember, we have to put the suitcases out before we go down to breakfast
tomorrow, to be loaded in the van."

I slumped. I really didn't want to do more organizing so late; it had been a
long, tiring, eventful day. But I resigned myself as I worked; it was a small
price to pay for seeing the world.

After I got into bed, I thought I'd be asleep in an instant. But I stared into
the dark, listening to Brian snore softly. The noises of the air conditioner,
and farther away, barely audible, the elevator and ice machine.

It had been such a wonderful trip, I thought. It's people, really, who can spoil
tourism—

I sat up and switched on the light, took out my tablet computer to check
something. I spent another couple of hours thinking, then shook Brian.

"'Mup," he said. He squinted against the light. "Time 'zit?"

"It's not time to get up, yet," I said. "What do you know about
‘Ozymandias'?"

When he realized it really was the middle of the night, and there was no
emergency, he sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"

"Nope."

"Emma, what are you talking about?"

"The theft. I don't want to be a suspect. I've been there, I don't like the
feeling. I don't want Lale to get into trouble, she's been too good to us. And I
don't want the museum to lose its excellent artifacts and good reputation. What
do you know about ‘Ozymandias'?"

"He didn't build the tomb on Mount Nemrut," Brian said, rubbing his eyes.

"No, I mean the poem. You had to memorize it, right?"

"Yeah, but it was like six hundred years ago. I don't know anything about it." He
looked around. "Is there any bottled water left?"

"It's warm." I handed him a bottle. "Try to remember about the poem."

"It was written by Coleridge—"

"No, it wasn't. It was written by Shelley."

"How do you know—?"

"I briefly flirted with the Romantics as a response to Grandpa's obsession with
Shakespeare. But I won't ask you to take my word for it." I held up the tablet
computer I'd brought with me. There was an encyclopedia article, with the poem
and its origins.

"Okay, so what does that prove?"

"It means people can know a poem, and not know anything about it," I said with
satisfaction.

He stared at me.

I told him who I thought might be responsible for the theft.

Brian shook his head. "It's kind of a long shot, Emma. Really
circumstantial."

"Sure, and like you've said, it's not my job to solve this case." I looked at my
watch, then pulled my shorts and the rest of my clothes from the back of the
chair. "So I don't need to prove anything. But it won't hurt to ask what Lale
knows about the members of the tour. She's usually up hideously early, making
calls in the lobby. I'll just go have a quick word."

 
I padded down the hall to the elevator. I always think it's strange,
being alone in such a public place, knowing people were asleep in their rooms
all around me. It was a little creepy, and I was grateful for the social
pretense that let us ignore the fact that we were so close to each other.

Now that was a very Western idea, I reminded myself. A very American idea; other
cultures would be made comfortable by so much human proximity.

Or maybe it was just me being paranoid.

I turned the corner. Somewhere, close behind me, a door had clicked shut. The
noise, even the very slight vibration, made me jump a mile. I turned around.

Jack Boyle was setting down a suitcase outside the doorway. It was the large blue
wheelie bag with the flower decal on it for identification. And the monogrammed
initials "S.O."

The one that belonged to Steve Osborne.

Jack knew I recognized the bag.

"Steve still feeling unwell?" I managed to say.

"Yeah. I think he's gonna try to see a doctor today. Get some antibiotics, or
something, before we head to the airport. I told him I'd put his bag out for
him, poor guy."

The sleeve to Jack's hiking shirt was rolled up. It was damp, and there was a
faint pink tinge coloring the white technical cloth.

I forced myself to breathe normally, but my heart was in overdrive. I'd seen a
lot of bloodstains in my time.

"Nice of you. Well, see you." I waved a little wave, and forced myself to turn
back down the corridor, my pulse still racing.

"Emma."

I turned around, knowing what I'd see. Jack had a pistol trained on me.

I've had guns pointed at me before. Familiarity didn't make it any easier.

"You were staring at my shirt just a little too long. I can't let you go."

"Huh? Shirt?" I shook my head, but my heart was sinking. He knew, or at least
suspected, I knew.

"Don't scream; I'll shoot you and be away before anyone hears you. The only way
to live is to do exactly what I say." He gestured to the room. "Get in."

I couldn't go in there; it would be all over for sure. I had no doubt that Steve
was either dead or dying, and if I went in, I'd soon join him. But I also knew
that staying out here, hesitating too long, would end in a similar result.

A movement out of the corner of my eye sent a thrill through me. Things were
going to happen very quickly. I had to be ready.

I decided the best thing to do was panic. It seemed like the easiest, most
obvious thing to do.

I stepped forward, wobbling, my breath rapid and uneven. "Wha—? I can't .
. ."

He reached into his pocket for the key card, never taking his eyes off me. "Shut
up. Get in, now." He slid it into the door, shoved the handle down with his
elbow, stuck his foot in to keep it opened.

"I can't . . ." One hand flew to my chest, the other steadied me against the
wall. I staggered forward a few more reluctant steps, hyperventilating. "I can't
breathe. . . ."

Jack grew impatient. He grabbed my left arm and pulled me toward him.

I rushed in, much faster than he anticipated; he stumbled backward. I grabbed his
right wrist, jamming his hand—and the pistol—down, against the
door jamb. I held on with all my strength, pointing the gun away from us.

Brian ran the last few steps to us and clocked Jack with the empty ice bucket. It
wasn't enough to drop Jack, but it was enough to make him turn his head. Brian
stepped out, got the angle, and punched him in the head.

Jack went down then. I stood on his wrist and took the pistol. I carefully
removed the magazine. Only when I confirmed there was no round in the chamber
did I feel like it was safe to exhale.

That's when the shaking started in earnest.

 
The ruckus drew the attention of all the people who had been asleep
nearby. Someone finally called the manager; even if I hadn't the Turkish to
explain, the sight of me holding the gun and Brian sitting on Jack Boyle's back
was enough to bring help. The manager called the police and Lale, who eventually
called the museum.

In the room, we confirmed Steve was really dead. I recognized the red and purple
blotches on Steve's face and neck as evidence of suffocation. I told Lale, who
conveyed this to the police, explaining I worked with the police at home
sometimes.

Confronted with this evidence, Jack broke down and confessed. He and Steve had
fallen out when Steve announced that he was getting cold feet. Jack panicked and
smothered him with the pillow, which left the telltale hemorrhages—and
the bleeding scratch on Jack's arm.

My professional skills and habits had been helpful on this vacation after all.

"How did you guess it was Jack?" Lale asked, afterward. She had dealt very
efficiently with the police and the museum representative, and was very glad to
have restored the artifacts—and her reputation.

"He kept saying he was only interested in the food on the trip," I explained.
"That he was only peripherally interested in the history. Someone who's that
historically disengaged doesn't just know that the character of Ozymandias was
based on Ramses, or even if he does remember it from studying the poem—"
Here I glanced at Brian. "You don't drop terms like ‘Nineteenth Dynasty'
casually. I might have been able to put Ramses before or after Tut, but I
wouldn't have remembered the dynasty easily, and I'm a professional. He knew
more about the history than he was letting on."

"So, they decided to steal the artifacts," Brian said, "because Steve knew from
having been on this stop on another tour that they'd bring out the objects for
display?"

I nodded. "The plan was for them to travel as if they were strangers. Using the
excuse of his illness, Steve snuck out of the hotel and triggered the alarm at
Jack's signal, sent by text. Steve, in disguise, took the objects from Jack when
we were being crowded by the other group at the cooking demonstration. They had
intended to smuggle them out incorporated into a cheap beaded souvenir
necklace."

 
With all the official procedure, we were fortunate to make it to the
airport in time to catch our flights home later the next day.

I helped Eugene with his bag, and while waiting for Brian to go to the men's
room, saw Harold Campbell waiting for his flight to New York.

"Good trip," he said, jiggling his lighter.

"Yeah." I shrugged. "Up until the end, anyway."

"Oh, no. No, no," he said, looking surprised. "I mean, it was really sad that
someone died, but really, all the excitement was just an extension of the trip.
I figure you teach the stuff, seeing the sites for you is already in your blood.
But for me, it's the people. I tell people I want to see other places to see how
people live. But you learn just as much from the crowd you go around with. We're
not going to the circus, we are the circus.

"You can go anywhere in the world you like." He found a cigar and stuck it in his
mouth, unlit. "But people are still the best show in town."

Copyright © 2012 by Dana Cameron

 
Tom Piccirilli is the author of more than twenty novels,
including
The Last Kind Words,
which received a
starred review from
Booklist
and was called "perfect
crime fiction" by best-selling author Lee Child. He is the recipient of two
International Thriller Awards and four Bram Stoker Awards, and has been
nominated for the Mystery Writers of America's Edgar Allan Poe Award, the World
Fantasy Award, Mystery Readers International's Macavity Award, and Le Grand Prix
de l'Imaginaire.
 

 
Professor Chadwick wants us to call him Hal, and Hal is telling us
again why he's a genius. His voice has the mocking quality of arrogance even
while he's trying to sound humble and compassionate. The rest of the class,
especially the freshman girls, are hanging on his every word as he leans back
against his desk, sleeves rolled up halfway, tie loosened, dimpled chin pinched
between thumb and forefinger, azure eyes bleeding sincerity.

"All great literature," Hal says, "is about love or the absence of love. In my
novels I write about the truth of love. Its pain, its dulcet desolation, and the
void it often brings with it. That's my power. That's my gift."

The girls practically coo as they daydream about Chadwick babies and Chadwick
money. Cocktail parties on the balcony of an Upper East Side penthouse
apartment. The beach house in the Hamptons, the French maid Fifi with downcast
eyes, the chauffeur Franz who always tips his cap. The red-carpet premieres, the
cable entertainment-show interviews. The Real Housewives of Academia.

Hal has managed to parlay three of his bestselling novels into major Hollywood
deals. Unlike the other professors here, Hal isn't losing sleep, desperate for
tenure. He doesn't need to lean against a desk and behave in a nurturing manner,
attempting to mold our young eager minds. He's doing it, he says, so he can give
back. Sometimes he says he's paying it forward. Back or forward, I don't know,
but I'm in awe of his people skills.

Jerry the Jock, who came in hoping for an easy "C" so his GPA wouldn't drop below
2.0 and he could stay on the football team, has started a novel. It's about an
overbearing father rabbit forcing his bunny son to fatten up on corn beef hash
and become a linebacker when the baby bunny would rather be a figure skater.

It's called
I Never Tackled Hard Enough for My Father: A Fable.

He read a chapter of the bunny book today and Hal actually commended Jerry for
his sensitivity. The jock's eyes got a little smoky. The guy sitting behind him
patted him on the back. The girls murmured appropriately.

I'm failing the class. I don't participate enough. I refuse to critique my fellow
students. I flop on the in-class exercises. My writing doesn't contain enough of
an "emotional and personal component," Hal says. I write about dark things
without enough poetic resonance to connect to the reader. Hal says I'm full of
literary fireworks without any grounding in realism. He doesn't like my
sword-and-sorcery tales. He doesn't enjoy my dark fantasy pieces about witches
and midnight sacrifices. He smiles sadly at my crime stories about good men
forced to do bad things because of debt, stupidity, and beautiful women.

He suggests I start more simply, with a plot centering on the worst day of my
life. I hand in a twelve-thousand-word novelette about a goblin king lost in a
hospital looking for the maternity ward so he can steal children and repopulate
his underground realm.

The girl sitting in front of me is Beth Moore. I've been crushing on her for six
weeks, since the beginning of the semester. She walked into Creative Writing 102
and turned her gaze on me, and we both knew, right then, that I was already
infatuated with her and would do nothing but stare at the side of her face all
semester long. She wasn't going to speak to me or look in my direction or
encourage me in any way. We both understand that the great literature of my life
is going to be about the absence of love.

 
I tried living in the dorms my freshman year and couldn't get any
work done. Between the stereo wars, parties, and binge-drinking roommates
bounding in at three A.M. with faceless drunk girls crashing across bed springs,
my nerves went from bad to shot. Now I have an off-campus apartment, a
mother-in-law room in back of the two-floor walk-up. My landlandy, Mrs.
Manfreddi, bakes me cakes and pies and doesn't chase me down for the rent if I'm
a few days late. She spends most of her time with her spindly, diseased tomato
plants in the yard, cursing at them in Italian.

I write, submit to the top magazines, and collect rejections. Sometimes the
mailbox is so full that the postman has to bundle my manuscript-stuffed
envelopes with twine.

My insomnia is worse now than ever, but at least it lets me stay busy. When I'm
not writing I'm working at one of my plethora of part-time jobs. I work the
drive-through window of Cabo Wabo Cantina. I rent skates at the Boogie Paradise
roller rink and shoes at the Top Tier bowling alley. I pick up extra shifts and
bartend at three bars on the weekends.

This is a small college town. I see Beth Moore and her friends practically every
night somewhere on Main Street. She either doesn't recognize me or pretends not
to know me. Her laughter is breezy and inspiring. I give her extra Wabo fries
for free and don't charge her for the skates. I pour her top-shelf scotch. She
says thank you with a sweet tremolo of a giggle, but says it turning away, as if
she's speaking to someone beside me instead of me. I wave to her back as she
heads out onto the rink, the lane, the dance floor.

I head home and study chemistry and calculus and ethics before trying to sleep.
But every night ends the same. With me at my desk, staring at the page, being
willful and fake. My losers quip dialogue like heroes and my heroes have the
maudlin voices and doomed destinies of losers. I type "The End."

 
In an effort to encourage us to do even better work, Hal suggests we
hold a contest. The most popular story written in class from now until the end
of the semester will win signed copies of his three novels and passes to the
movie version of his current bestseller
The Secret Chambers of My
Heart.
My classmates respond with smiles and giggles and sighs and
hell-yeahs. They speak to him like they're his children, and he speaks back to
them like he's their father. A humble, compassionate, arrogant, genius
father.

They already have his books. And they all had their copies signed on the first
day of class, forming a lengthy line around his desk. He touched girls on their
wrists very lightly. He shook hands and clapped guys on their shoulders. I sat
in my seat and watched the proceedings with a kind of awe. Hal kept asking, "And
who shall I make this out to?" One after another they said their names. Hal
managed to repeat each name and make it sound solemn. When they were done he
glanced at me and with a chuckle asked, "And who are
you?"

It's a good question. I figure I'll get back to him on it someday.

 
Fruggy Fred doesn't like anybody watching him while he reads his
story. He asks us not to turn in our seats. He's back there behind me, clearing
his throat, the pages in his hand flapping as he trembles. Some people might
think his fear is part of his passion. Some people would be wrong. Hal tells him
to relax and take his time. Hal promises that everything is going to be all
right.

I shut my eyes and listen.

Fruggy's worked hard to lose his holler accent. He sounds New York born and bred.
He sounds like everyone else. I can hear him sort of dancing in his seat as he
reads his story. All three hundred pounds of him swaying in his seat, heels
shuffling, kicking my chair. I know he's got the echoes of a jug band in his
head, but he won't let anyone else know it.

He wants everybody to understand that the fat white trash feel love. The fat can
be heroic, the fat want to have children, the fat white trash can say the right
words at the right times. A throb of sorrow works through his voice. He swallows
tears.

I want to slap him. I want to shake him. I want to haul Fruggy to his feet and
ask him, How the hell has this happened? Fruggy, how did they get you?

He's settling for the thinnest self-description there is. Fruggy Fred doesn't
write about singing Ozark backwoods songs or playing the banjo, which he does
extremely well. He doesn't discuss how he came up out of the Missouri holler on
a music scholarship. How his mother cooks crank, how his sister was killed in
Afghanistan. How his daddy died from eating poisoned squirrel. The years at
college have murdered his concept of himself. The rush and patter of his
classmates has deformed him, made him forget who he is. Fruggy Fred used to be
my roommate three years ago when I lived in the dorms. So much has changed.

He goes on about fat. He goes on about pretty girls not liking him. His voice is
flat, without melody. There's nothing mellifluous about it. Maybe the jug band
is dead in his head. Maybe he can no longer pluck a banjo. They've done it to
him. They've filled him full of doubt and fear, something nobody in the holler
could ever do.

The fat guy in his story watches the pretty girl turn away from him and walk away
into a sunset.

The pretty girls in class are crying. Hal claps his hands. The rest of them
follow suit. Soon, the applause is deafening. I finally turn in my chair. Our
eyes meet. Fruggy Fred is smiling so widely I can practically see his tonsils. I
wonder if he'll ever visit his sister's grave again.

 
I see Beth Moore every night that week. She's dating a few different
guys and these guys all have a taste for Wabo burgers. I take their money and
hand them their orders and always let my gaze linger an extra moment on Beth in
the passenger seat, snuggled up beside the beau. The beau turns and hands her
the fries and she plucks at the box daintily, pinching a fry between two
fingers. She eats slowly, letting the fry hang from her mouth the way kids do
when they're pretending to be smoking cigarettes. She lips the fry and I tell
the beau, "Thank you for visiting Cabo Wabo Burger. Please come see us again
soon." The beau ignores me. Beth ignores me. The french fry ignores me.

I watch the car speed out of the parking lot and make a squealing left turn. The
brake lights blaze for an instant and then vanish. I shut my eyes and still see
the burning red points for a moment, a soccer mom with a bunch of crying kids
already at the window. She looks at me as if she wants me to take all her pain
away. I'm looking at her with the same expression. We're like that for a
while.

 
The following week, Beth writes about her family. She lives her life
and then lays it out across the pages without dramatic tension. Her narrative
voice lacks confidence. She's repetitive. Her dialogue is unnatural and when she
reads she tries on voices. They all sound like her, especially her mother.

But the truth is there, as clear as a bell tolling vespers. She discusses her
father, a cop over on Oceanside who's nearly put in his thirty and is ready to
retire. She explains how the burden of battling evil on a daily basis has taken
a severe toll on her old dad. Her brother is also a police officer, and she's
witnessed him change from a moderately self-centered punk into a resentful, hard
engine of fury and justice. She doesn't have a good relationship with either of
them. They drink too much. Her parents argue. Occasionally her old man slips and
begins to discuss some terrible event like walking into a bodega after a
hostage-crisis situation and having nothing to do except help clear away the
bodies. Her brother is getting a divorce, and her three-year-old nephew wonders
why Daddy isn't coming home anymore.

She falters as she reads. Hal tells her to take her time.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and then tries to clear her throat. It doesn't help.
Her chin drops and her shoulders begin to quiver. A quiet mewling breaks from
deep inside her chest.

I know that noise. I've heard it a thousand times before. I've made it a thousand
times before. I start to slide from my seat but Hal is already moving to her. Of
course he is. He takes her in his arms and hugs her. Of course he does. He
shushes her gently as she cries against his collar. He presses his lips to her
forehead.

I close my eyes and I make the noise, silently, and let it go around and around
inside my head.

 
Hal tells us, "You must find your muse. Seek her out no matter how
difficult the journey. She may be fickle. She may be shy and hide when you call
to her. She may embrace you when you least expect it. But it's your duty to
discover her. It's your obligation to provide her with whatever it is she
needs."

I think about my muse. I wonder who she is. Maybe Beth. Maybe the first girl I
ever pined for. Perhaps some bully chick from first grade who haunts me under my
skin whose name and face I've forgotten. The drive is there. It makes my hands
strong. I don't use a computer. I type on an old manual Underwood. I want to
feel the foot-pounds of pressure when I hit a key. It's work. Writing for an
hour on a manual burns up more calories than three games of racquetball. I eat
one of Mrs. Manfreddi's homemade pies a day and there's still not an ounce of
fat on me.

My writing courses through my system. It has impact. It changes me. My muse,
whoever it is, knows this.

I try to imagine what it is she needs. What sacrifices must be made in the name
of passion, creativity, and success.

Hal has given a name to his muse, and calls her Pandora. He thinks he's being
cute. He always thinks he's being cute. He says, "Pandora loves no man, not even
me. But she understands who and what I am."

What the hell. I steal the name.

Pandora, you're my muse. We need to get back to work. You don't love me but you
know what I am.