William Crow Johnson's Blog

The King’s Clock Keeper
By
William Crow Johnson

Jeremy Pithicus loved the sunlight on the battlement as he made his way each morning along its stony walkway to wind the Tower Clock. It was the only time every day he got outside the castle.

The rolling patchwork of yellow and green lands visible through the crenellations stretched far past the King’s Wood, where the King’s Deer lived; far past Aethelbert’s Mark, where the King’s First Knight lived; indeed, all the way to the Mountains of Night. The King’s realm was beautiful. The air was fresh and clear, the sun was warm, and the silence was a balm to the soul.

But if he took the cotton from his ears—cotton he wasn’t allowed to wear inside the castle, where he must always be ready to hear and obey—a tide of sound welled up and spilt over the castle wall. The plaints of the people toiling on the land rose up like the soft moan of a giant from the King’s fields and the King’s streams, rose up and sighed across the parapet to his ears, and made him feel both lucky and bad.

Most mornings it was a fog of sound, of wordless wails, sighs, whimpers and groans; sobs, whines, grumbles and moans. There was no message there but suffering. But on some mornings, words floated above the rest: “Woe is me!” “Mercy!” “Kill me now!” The cries came from far and wide. “I am a poor serf who labors for the King! There is no escape! The King is cruel! Save us!” And if Jeremy strained his eyes, he could imagine that in the distance, faces turned toward him, fingers pointed at him, eyes locked on him, as if he were the source of their serfdom.

He was not. He was Keeper of the King’s Clocks, like his father before him, his father before him, and so on back into the reaches of Time. But while the serfs’ complaints made him feel guilty for his good fortune at not being one of them, they also gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction that he wasn’t one of them. Which could have made him feel even guiltier, but he decided it was healthier than feeling bad and not being able to do anything about it.

So, when he climbed to the parapet every morning to walk along the battlement to the clock tower, where he would climb the ancient stairs and wind the ancient clock, he stuffed cotton in his ears so he wouldn’t hear them. And he enjoyed the sunlight, which did not reach into the deeps of the old stone castle where the other six hundred ninety-four clocks ticked, each requiring his visit each and every day. When his full day of clock winding and sometimes clock repair was done, he would retire to his modest room in the bowels of the keep, light a candle, and read books secretly lent him by young Ketaba, the new Keeper of the King’s Books. Both knew if they were discovered using the King’s books, they would be among the serfs laboring on the fields, but she informed Jeremy that records showed the King had not read a book in two hundred seventy-five years. So they felt safe.

The King had been King for nine hundred sixty-one years because his wise men gave him a daily dose of long-life potion, rumored to be a bouillon cooked down from three peasant newborns and two evergreen branches of octivivus, but no one knew for sure. Those who asked such questions were long ago banished to the fields or hung from the barbican as an example to those entering or leaving the castle.

Such was Jeremy’s life. Chief among his challenges was remembering the names of all the King’s heirs, each of whom was important and gave orders. The King’s wives, consorts, and children of course were normal people who lived seventy years or so and died. And because the King was a vigorous old goat, over his lifetime there had been six thousand, seven hundred, forty-two royal descendants. Each had naturally hoped the King would die so he or she could kill their brothers and sisters and become King or Queen. Then he or she would get the potion and live for a thousand years. And they all tried to sneak some of the potion.

But the King knew that if all his six thousand, seven hundred, forty-two offspring still lived, each of whom wanted his throne, and each of whom would grow craftier with each passing century, he would never make it to lunch. So he carefully controlled the potion, threatening his wise men with horrible death if anyone else received it. Life around the castle was challenging enough as it was, with six hundred ninety-one living descendants, one or two of whom had to be beheaded each week, either for plotting against him, or just to keep the others terrified.

But even the reduced and dwindling number of six hundred ninety-one were a nightmare for Jeremy.

“PITHICUS, you worm!” one might shout at him as he ran past her room, for that was the only way he could get to six hundred ninety-four clocks each day and do his duty by winding and possibly repairing each.

“Yes, Your Beautificence. How may I serve?”

“Wind my clock before you wind my sister’s! You make it look as if she is more important than me!”

“Yes, Your Magnificence. I will wind it immediately.”

Which he would do. Which would complicate his route, because it was hard enough to remember whether he had wound each of six hundred ninety-four clocks, without having the order changed.

Then, when he had just about gotten used to the new route, another important heir would shout, “PITHICUS, you spawn of rats and snails! Why are you winding my worthless brother’s clock before mine? I am far more important because I am a good man with a sword and I was born before he!”

“It is because he asked me, Your Wonderfulness. I abase myself before you and beg your noble forgiveness. I will immediately wind your clock, and will henceforth do so before your brother’s.”

Such was Jeremy’s life, and it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t bad. The important heirs were not always in their rooms, so they couldn’t really always tell the order in which he wound their clocks. And he had a good memory and a good set of legs, so he was usually able to finish his duties by the darkling hour, go to the servants’ kitchen and get his bread, water, and gruel for the day, and retire to his windowless room, light a candle, and read. Life could have worse.

But then one day, things changed. Normally, every day when he went into the throne room to wind the King’s Clock, the King did not deign to notice him. Jeremy would crawl into the giant room on hands and knees, as prescribed by law, never looking up, certainly never looking the king in the eye, which was punishable by death, and he would wind the King’s ornate, gold-encrusted clock. Sometimes he would hear interesting things. “They’re running out of newborns in the provinces, Sire,” a knight said once. “We’ll have to conquer new territory to keep you supplied for your potion.”

“Do it, then, Knave!” roared the King. “Can no one make obvious decisions any more?”

Jeremy of course had heard enough King’s Chamber talk that he knew that people who did dare to make decisions and made the wrong one, found themselves hanging by the neck from the barbican arch, or from a tree along the road that led to the castle. Only a fool took such initiative.

But that is by the by. On one morning, a morning Jeremy hoped would be sunny, because, of course, he wound the King’s Clock before climbing to the battlement to wind the tower clock, and he didn’t yet know if it was sunny, the King spoke to him as he was backing out of the chamber on hands and knees.

“PITHICUS! Rise and look me in the eye!”

Jeremy’s arms and legs nearly gave out. He trembled so that he could barely carry out the King’s order. This was it, then. He had not even grown old enough to find one of the kitchen maids to marry and produce a new Pithicus to follow in his footsteps. But he doubted the King knew or cared. He rose and looked the old man in the eye.

It was a shock. First, the King was enormously fat, the size of a wine barrel with legs.

Second, he was ugly. Really ugly. He was so ugly, he could have stood on the battlement and scared enemies away. He was so ugly, salamanders would lose their tails at sight of him. He was so ugly, if he looked in the mirror, he would turn to stone.

Third, his eyes were a fright. They looked as if they had seen everything in the world, and more besides. They made him look debauched, debased, coarse and crude, yet canny, wily, cunning and shrewd. They looked as if they could see what Jeremy was thinking. He stood terrified and awaited his fate.

“Bartolomy, isn’t it?” asked the King in a voice he probably imagined was kindly.

“Jeremy, Your Superbness. Bartolomy was my great, great, great, great, great grandfather.”

“Hmm, well, yes. Time does pass, which of course, you as the Keeper of the Clocks know very well. Which is why I have deigned to speak to such an unimportant person as yourself.”

“Yes, Your Eminence. I am transfigured by your notice.”

“Of course you are. Now. The reason I’ve stooped to speak to a commoner is that I want you, as the clock expert, to make time go backward.”

“Sire?” choked Jeremy. Then he realized he’d forgotten the honorific. “Your Unbelievable Majesty.”

The King noted the slight, but let it pass. “I am old. Very old. I am older even than my father grew before I finally killed him. To put him out of his misery, of course. And I see the way my loyal sons and daughters look at me. They are just waiting for their opportunity, when my guards are inattentive. And I suffer pain and forgetfulness. Which cannot be in a King. I must be at the peak of my powers, not in their decline. So you will make time go backward and make me young again. Or you will die. Horribly. Your guts will be fed to the rats in the castle sewers. While you are still alive, of course. Eh?”

“Of course, Your Awesomeness,” managed Jeremy.

“Serfdom is too noble a fate for someone who should fail at such an important task,” added the King thoughtfully.

“Far too noble,” strained Jeremy, as his world crashed around him.

The King leaned forward over his gigantic belly, pushing his gigantic and horrific face down toward Jeremy’s. “So can you do it?”

Jeremy had overheard enough throne room conversations that he knew there was only one answer to such a question.

“Of course, Sire. Uh, Your Imposingness. I will do it with dispatch.”

The King leaned down even closer. “I am no fool, Pithicus. How soon is ‘with dispatch’?”

Jeremy’s mind was a tornado. Should he not just expose the back of his neck now? Was there any way out of this? But of course, hope springs eternal, and in desperation, he had an idea. Spread the blame. It was not his most noble moment, but survival was at stake. He had three people in mind.

“Seven days, Your Stateliness.” Then he realized he needed to add some credibility. “And I must take your clock with me. I will bring you a replacement.”

The King scowled, pursed his wrinkled lips, and looked deep into Jeremy’s eyes. “Well, all right then. In seven days, I’ll be younger. Right, Pithicus?”

“In seven days, the process will begin, Your Amazingness. You will grow younger gradually, with each passing day.”

“Hmmm,” said the King. “I think I like that better than becoming young all at once. Go then, insignificant cockroach, and come back and change history.”

* * *

But the spread-the-blame strategy didn’t work.

First he went to Oleandrus, the Magus. Could he perform such magic? The Magus laughed in his face.

“You’re on your own, Pithicus. You think I’d put my own neck on the line for something like this? This would take fifty magicians as powerful as me, all casting spells at the same time. And it still might not work. And there I’d be, with my name on the failure. Forget it. It’s been nice knowing you. I always thought you were a likely lad, and did your job well.”

Then he went to Akaedemikus, the wise man. Was there ancient lore he could call on to make this impossible thing happen? Had it ever happened in the past?

“It has not,” said Akaedemikus. “It is an ancient desire, and there are ancient stories of kings who have tried it, because they had everything else, but eternal youth has either escaped them, or bitten them where it hurts.”

“So it has actually happened in the past?”

“Only in stories, I think. I am sorry, young Pithicus, but you’re on your own. I don’t want to be associated with this.”

In desperation, he went to the priest, who turned out to be least help of all.

“Accept your fate, my son,” he said, putting a hand on Jeremy’s head. “Enjoy the days you have left. You can do no other.”

So finally, in extremis, he went to Ketaba. “Is there anything in the old books about how to do this?”

“I think not, Jeremy Pithicus. You need an idea. When I need an idea, I sleep with my head on one of the King’s oldest books of lore, and something usually comes to me. Maybe you should try this one.”

He took the book and looked at the title embossed in gold leaf on the leather binding: Trickery.

“I’m not sure how this will help, but I’ll try anything.” And he took the book to his humble chamber and read and read, but it all seemed pointless. Who would believe such stuff? Still, he did as Ketaba suggested and laid the book under his head before he went to sleep.

In the morning he had a neck ache and was feeling irritated and puckish. But he did have an idea. The problem was, it required the cooperation of all the King’s heirs. Knowing what he did of politics, having overheard enough conversations in the throne room, he knew this was not possible without trickery.

First, he changed the gears in the King’s clock so it ran backward. That was required in any case. Then, he went as usual on his daily rounds, winding clocks, and talking to the heirs. And it took him four days before he caught each and every one and told each the blessed secret that would make each the new king or queen, as the case may be.

And so, after he replaced the King’s Clock, now running backward, each heir would stop by each day and say, “Father, I believe you are growing younger!” Or, “Father, you look so healthy today!” Or, “Father, you have the ruddy face of a young man! Shall we ride to the hounds and horn and bring back a stag for our supper?”

And so on. And at first, the King did look younger, ruddier, healthier, and he did act more energetic. But of course, in the end he sickened and died, despite the potion, which had kept him alive all these centuries.

And of course, then the heirs all began killing one another, each believing he or she was the rightful heir.

And when they were all dead save one, the hated Malichus, the castle guards, who had grown tired of snatching babies from poor serfs, and who had been laughing in their sleeves about the grotesque King believing he was growing younger, instead killed Malichus and declared Jeremy the leader of the Wise Council. The reason was that the gossip in the lower passages said Jeremy had played a big trick that caused it all, which they all appreciated because it had set them free. He would henceforth rule the Kingdom.

Jeremy’s first act was to go to the battlement, face out upon the Kingdom, and shout, “You are free! You are free!”

Then he called Ketaba to the throne room and asked her to rule with him and the Wise Council. For as long as their natural lives allowed.

“I am honored,” she said. “But first I must know if I can trust you. What part did you play in the King’s demise?”

“I told each heir the King was playing a trick to identify his rightful successor. He’d had me make his clock run backward to test them. He knew it wouldn’t really make him younger. But if they noticed and called him a fool for thinking it would, it would expose their arrogance, and it would be off with their head. If they noticed and said nothing, they were cowards and it would be off with their head. Only the rightful successor would be loyal and tell him he was getting younger. I told each to speak to no one about this, and never say the King looked younger when another heir was present. Lastly, I told each that the King had let it slip that he or she was his favorite.”

Ketaba laughed and said, “Of course I will rule with you. You are canny, wily, cunning, and shrewd.”

“And you’ll be my wife?”

“Of course.”

The two lived happily ever after, until the end of their natural lives. And all the castle’s clocks went unwound.

Copyright 2018 by William Crow Johnson. All rights reserved.

MURDER IN THE SEDALIA WRITERS' GROUP

By W Crow Johnson

Sheriff Tip Tungate looked down the library conference room table at the members of the Sedalia Writers’ Group. All looked back wearing their best poker faces. Every single one looked guilty.

“Let’s not waste time,” he said. “You’re all persons of interest. I’ll find out sooner or later, so just come out and tell me what motive you had to kill Carter Blake.”

Chief Deputy Chet Biggle had prepared a brief bio on each member, including possible motives. As head gossip in Sedalia, seat of Howarth County, Indiana, not far north of the Ohio River, Chet could deliver up such an assessment on nearly everybody. Tip had read them thoroughly. Now he wanted to hear what the local writers had to say for themselves.

At the far end sat Eldora Quick, the eighty-something grande dame of the group. Author of four romance novels, some with near-sex in them, she wore her lavender sun hat even indoors. The overhead light probably bothered her eyes. She alone had a hint of a smile, an amused, covert expression that said, “This ought to be interesting.” What she in fact said was, “He was an arrogant son of a bitch. Disparaged my work.”

No one reacted. Chet had said to be careful assuming she was just a nice old lady. She had been a newspaper crime reporter in Fifties and Sixties Chicago, and was rumored to have been a mob gal in Forties Kansas City in the post-Pendergast era.

“I see,” said Tip. “Who else thinks he was an arrogant son of a bitch?”

All hands went up. He looked back at Eldora.

“And where were you at two AM on the night of the murder?”

“Home in bed, of course,” said Eldora. “By myself,” she smiled sweetly.

Beside her Jim Tuck, class of Sixty-Five at Sedalia High school, notorious in his youth, Vietnam hero, respectable adult, looked at Tip with a level predator stare. He would be a tough nut if it came to it.

“Put a scratch on my restored car once with his belt buckle,” volunteered Tuck without expression.

“The Sixty-Five GTO?” asked Tip, revealing his dismay.

“Yup. Three rounds of rubbing compound and spray.”

“Serious motive,” said Tip, straight-faced. “You probably shouldn’t have told me. Your alibi?”

“Reading Moby Dick, but it still wouldn’t put me to sleep. Wife has no problem.”

Tip could see they were all going to say they were in bed sleeping. He realized it was a stupid question, so he decided to save the alibi question for a serious suspect.

“Who’s next?” He looked across the table.

Tom Rollins, buzz-cut, focused, and intense, nodded. “He wrote a one-star Amazon review of my latest novel last week. No idea why. All my other reviews are three stars or better. I never did anything to him.”

Tip looked Rollins in the eye for a long moment to see if he would get nervous. According to Chet, he actually earned a modest living from online book sales. He took his work seriously, and he seemed all business, honestly baffled by Blake’s jab. But beneath Spock-like demeanor, he might just be one of those who could get really emotional really fast. He returned Tip’s stare with a level gaze of his own.

Tip released Rollins from his gaze and looked back to the end of the table at Patti Craig, who Chet said ran the group.

“Made me look like a fool to my subscribers,” she said without prompting. “My on-line literary magazine. He promised to send me a manuscript for exclusive publication. I advertised it; he reneged. Lot of nasty emails from subscribers.” She clenched her jaw, still ticked off, even though the guy was dead.

Tip considered. Women were hard to read. Mysterious. In fact, Janelle had told him everything he knew about women was wrong. Like JoAnn Meyers several years ago. Nicest possible person face-to-face, and a serial murderer in secret, mercy-killing old people by painless means, usually overdoses, before they sank into pain and suffering. In the case at hand, the Blake case, there was poison, which in crime novels was used more often by female murderers than male. So he was guessing the culprit was a female, but he had nothing to go on.

Problem was, he just couldn’t imagine any of these writers killing anybody. He thought of writers as timid souls who lived in imaginary worlds, not people with the gumption to actually do somebody in.

He went through the others around the table one by one, and it was all the same. Their motives were pathetic. Some even seemed to hype their motives to be taken seriously. He couldn’t escape the feeling he was listening to the pallid confessions of a bunch of teacher’s pets. Mack Gregglin, a baldheaded young lawyer said, “I didn’t like the way he treated his girlfriend.”

So he really had nothing. But the fact was, Carter Asquith Blake had become a corpse—in his own house—mere hours after meeting with this group—in his own house—so they were the likeliest suspects.

Blake was old-family Sedalia but had fled town and his long-time Bloomington girlfriend for the Big Apple after a devastating local humiliation. Soon after, he made it big with his first novel, Sycamore Dreams. He made it even bigger with Bend in the River, his second novel, which Sedalians quickly discovered was a get-even novel aimed at home-towners he didn’t like. And that was a lot of people. After Bud Tatum at the Sedalia Democrat read it and alerted everyone, a favorite pastime became identifying people in the novel and having a laugh or two. Unless, of course, you yourself were the person being laughed at.

Blake had come back from Manhattan last week to sell the family home. He said. But it seemed to others he had come back to thumb his nose at Sedalians who had humiliated him during his trial.

His trial had been a bit trumped up. He got caught stealing his MFA manuscript from the IU library in Bloomington to prevent its being read. Seemingly a minor offense. But D.A. Dave Woods had never liked Blake, so he stacked on resisting-arrest and public-indecency charges, and insisted on displaying arrest photos and reading from the horrible manuscript in court. The circumstances of the arrest—hiding in girls’ clothing in a sorority house—had been hilarious to Sedalians. So Blake had taken his revenge on Dave Woods and Chet Biggle, Chief Deputy, in his book. But Tip knew both men were too smart to kill Blake with such an obvious motive hanging out there.

A charter member of the Writers’ Group, Blake invited the members to his house for a farewell meeting. He served expensive wine and cheese, read from his “novel number three, just back from my editor,” and in general behaved so patronizingly, being a big, famous Manhattanite writer and all, that Mack Gregglin (dystopian novels) had whispered, “May we all puke now,” entertaining those sitting next to him

.

But according to all the group members in the mildewy Sedalia Public Library basement, nothing really unusual had happened. They all read their work, they talked, they tried to milk Blake’s editor’s name out of him. But it was really a normal Writers’ Group meeting.

So they all said, but Tip sensed something. So he talked to them one by one upstairs in the Children’s room to try to ferret it out.

“Who opened and poured the wine?” he asked each. “Who brought and served the cheese? Any other snacks?” He did not reveal to them that tests on the left-over wine and cheese in the fridge found no trace of the ricin the medical examiner said had killed Blake. Or that he showed signs of a beating. He was just trying to get a reaction out of somebody.

“Carter, and Carter, and no other snacks,” they all said.

Still, there was something.

“Who else was there?” Tip asked each.

With every one, this caused a slight stir, but no one said anything for a beat. Then each mentioned a stranger. A young woman.

“His New York girlfriend,” said Eldora. It was clear she disapproved.

“What about her?” asked Tip, wondering why they all seemed reluctant to discuss her. He wondered where she was.

“Phony sophisticate,” sniffed Eldora. “Gold digger.”

“How so?”

“Spoke French to Carter, and he back to her. But I know she could speak English, because I heard her. Spoke French with a pretty bad American accent.”

“What did she look like?”

“Young. Trim. Really fit. Dark. Racially and ethnically ambiguous. I guess you’d have to say she was pretty. He called her ‘Jasmine.’ She pretty much stayed to one side while we were meeting, looked through his book shelves, and generally nibbed her way around the house. Cherchez la femme, I’d say.”

“Of course,” said Tip, then stared Eldora hard in the eye. “But which femme?

Eldora stared back. He could tell the question unsettled her slightly. She realized this was no game.

He finally decided the writers’ group was a waste of time, but he had one nugget and one hunch: Jasmine, plus the feeling the writers all knew something they weren’t saying.

“Don’t leave town,” he told each as he dismissed them. “You’re still all persons of interest.”

* * *

The flight manifest for Blake’s Delta flight from La Guardia to Indy—first class, no less—also listed a Jasmin Lambert, but there was no record of her return to New York, or anywhere else. A check of Louisville and Cincinnati airports, including all car rental agencies within a hundred miles, produced the same result. She was still in Indiana or had left using an assumed name. Not unheard of, especially if you had committed a murder. But a photo from the Indy airport surveillance system—showing a very fit, good-looking young woman of maybe twenty-eight or thirty walking beside Blake—produced no hits when circulated. No one had seen her in the last two days.

* * *

The next two days produced no new evidence, other than Chet’s slightly odd behavior and a confusing bit of info from the medical examiner.

Tip had the feeling that even Chet was holding back on something.

“What?” demanded Chet when he caught Tip staring at him across the office. “You been looking at me funny for two days.”

“Something’s missing. You know everything that goes on in this town, Biggle. Who’s doing who, who owes who, who has secrets. So you know something. I’m sure of it.” He looked hard into Chet’s slippery gaze. “So do those people in that writers’ group. I just can’t figure out what it is.”

“I’d say it’s probably that gal from New York. If I was looking, that’s who I’d look at.”

“You’re the chief deputy. Why would you not be looking?”

“I’ve told you everything of use already. You seem to have taken this one up. I’m letting you run with it. I mean, is there anything you want me to be doing?”

There it was again. Chet was useful as an information base, but basically worthless as a law enforcement officer. Initiative was a foreign concept to him. Runt of an old family with connections all through the county, he was basically unfireable. When he didn’t want to do something, his usual play was to prove ineffectual, then ask if he should do more of the same. But Tip was pretty sure somebody else was involved, and Chet and the Writers’ Group all knew who it was.

Tip sighed and looked again at the email from the M.E. Ricin was definitely present in Blake’s digestive system. But depending on its form, and this looked to have been refined, the toxin typically took more than three or four hours to kill. Sometimes as long as twenty-four. Which took some of the focus off of the Writers’ Group members. Blake died at 2 AM of the morning after the meeting. Who had a chance to poison him in the entire twenty-four hours before his time of death? Ruling out his eating anything between two AM and six AM of the morning of the meeting, the question became, who saw him on the day of the meeting?

Of course, when he followed up with the writers again, nobody knew anything.

* * *

Mrs. Dietz, the widow next door to Blake’s house, kept a close eye on all comings and goings in her neighborhood, and she could see Blake’s sidewalk and front porch between her lilac bushes. The odor of furniture polish wafted through her front door. She invited Tip in for iced tea.

“He was always a difficult boy,” she said. “Always disappointing his parents. They just wanted a football player, you know, and they got a writer. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dietz,” said Tip. “But did you see anyone go into or out of his house on Monday, the fourteenth?”

“Well, yes, of course.” And she named off every member of the Writers’ Group.

“Anyone else? Maybe earlier in the day than those people?”

“Well, yes. A young woman who was not from around here,” and she described Jasmin. “Not sure who she was, but it didn’t surprise me to see him with someone like that.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you know. City. Not very modest.”

Meaning, she was sexy looking. “I see. Well, if you think of anyone else, please let me know.”

“Of course, Sheriff.”

* * *

The break came from a kid in the neighborhood.

“Yeah, that woman that used to come over all the time,” said the boy from across the street. “Me and Tom were shooting horse when she came out. Crying. You could hear her over here.”

“What woman? Crying? What time was this?”

“Just after supper.”

“What time is supper?”

“Six o’clock. If I’m not home, I don’t get to eat.”

“And how long did it take you to eat?”

“Maybe five or ten minutes. Mom always says not to gobble my food.”

“Your mom is right. Do you know the woman’s name?” But by now, Tip knew. It was Blake’s Bloomington girlfriend.

“Sure. Anna. His girlfriend. Dad says it’s a shame when a guy has a girlfriend for ten years and doesn’t marry her.”

“Yeah. Kind of is. Anybody else see her?”

“Oh, yeah. Tom. Bunch of people going into his house when she was coming out. Mrs. Dietz.”

The Writers’ Group. So. A conspiracy of silence to protect Anna Christoph, Blake’s long-time girlfriend. Jilted girlfriend. Pretty obvious motive. One they would immediately attribute to her, and if they liked her, which they all apparently did, they might try to hide. Same with Chet.

“Thanks, Luke. Big help.”

“You think she did it, huh?

“Never can tell.”

But on a hunch, Tip had everything in all Blake’s waste baskets tested for ricin. The state crime-lab people had tested the kitchen waste basket, all the dishes, and the food in the refriger-ator but come up negative.

Bingo. A single cupcake liner in a small wastebasket at the end of a couch table in the study. Saturated with the stuff. Enough to kill anybody who licked off the crumbs and the icing. So who baked a cupcake full of ricin? And where did they get the refined poison?

* * *

Anna Christoph—whose legal name was Ann Christopher—was not hard to find. She ran an art gallery in Bloomington that smelled of sandalwood, had dreamcatchers hanging all around, stained glass in the door window, and the general feel of a hippie haven. And of a business that had a lot of visitors but didn’t make a lot of sales. Paintings and drawings covered all wall space, each with a shocking price tag, small sculptures filled an alcove, boxes of three-dollar backed and bagged prints covered tables near the register, and racks of frame samples rose behind the register.

Tip waited while she finished up a sale to a framing customer. She was a good-enough-looking brunette in her early thirties vs. Blake’s early forties. Tip had seen her around Sedalia with Blake, and she had probably seen him, too. She tried to act as though she hadn’t really taken note of him, but her hand shook as she rang up the sale. She had to clear the key strokes and start again.

The customer left, and she raised her eye to his, with apparent effort. She nodded. “Sheriff.”

“Anna. You know why I’m here?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Come on. He was my boyfriend for ten years. I know it looks bad. But I didn’t do it.”

“Got an alibi?”

“No. In fact, I was there in the late afternoon of the day he died. Went to confront him.” Her lower lip trembled. “How could he just leave me after all those years?” She paused to get control. “The son of a bitch.”

“What did he say?”

“Said he’d moved on. He was a New Yorker now. Always was, really, in his mind. Had this gal with him. She just smiled the whole time I was there. Wouldn’t leave so he and I could talk. Spoke bogus-sounding French with him. I did Spanish so I couldn’t understand. But I mean, it’s been twenty years since Carter had French. How the hell does he remember that stuff? He introduced her as “Jasmine,” as if I should be happy to meet her. She pronounced it ‘YahzMEEN.’ May we all puke.”

There was that phrase. Who had said that? But there was no time to think. Anna was warming up.

“I didn’t kill him, but if you could bring the asshole back to life, I’d kill him again.”

Tip acknowledged this with a nod. “Mind if we look into your kitchen?”

“What?” She looked confused. “Here? I just have a hot plate in the back of the store. You can look at that if you want.”

“I mean your house. Can we go there now and look in your kitchen?”

She still looked confused, but turned her palms out. “Look, I’ve got nothing to hide. Look in my kitchen all you want.”

“Good. I’ve brought the State Police crime scene team over with me. I have a warrant, but since you’ve volunteered, it does look better for you.”

The State team found no trace of ricin in the kitchen in her cabin in the hills outside of Bloomington. No cupcake liners like the poisonous one from Blake’s wastebasket. And hardly any serious food, for that matter. Spare and clean with a wood cook stove, the kitchen made Tip sad. Looked like she ate mostly salads, bean sprouts, bulger, peanut butter, granola, tofu, dried beans, brown rice, and all that alternative-lifestyle crap. Probably lived on almost nothing. A well-used axe stuck in a log chunk outside the door by a wood pile. She had been dragging up deadfall, sawing it up with a bow saw and splitting it herself. Sure as hell that store/gallery didn’t make her much. And she still had pictures of her and Blake all over the house. Hadn’t sunk in yet, or she didn’t really hate him bad enough to kill him.

So he had nothing. He drove back to Sedalia in a funk.

That evening river fishermen found the body of a young woman in her late twenties hidden in the undergrowth about two miles below Sedalia. They called Tip directly. Everybody had his cell number. He called the State crime scene people again, and the M.E., and went to investigate.

Though partially eaten by coyotes, coons, and possums, her face and head still showed marks of a fatal beating with a blunt instrument, most likely a tire iron. And her ID, still on her body, said Jasmin Lambert. “Jasmin” without the “e.” So indeed, she had never left town. She had been a beautiful young woman, but her body showed signs of extreme fitness, as with a martial arts devotee. A check of her background produced two interesting facts. She was French Canadian, living in the U.S. on a green card, and she had once been arrested on Malta on suspicion of murder. Victim was a rich Frenchman in his seventies to whom she was engaged. She inherited. The death was eventually ruled a suicide. There was suspicion of a payoff.

Tip went back to the office and began to sweat. One murder was bad enough, but two and public pressure would mount. He had to find a culprit quickly.

The landline phone rang, and he put it on the speakerphone. It was the M.E.

“Preliminary time of death is about the same as the Blake TOD,” said the man, on loan from Indy. “Should I move down to Sedalia? You’re beginning to compete with Indy for murder rate.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Tip, and jammed the “End” button. Well, at least, he figured, find the perp for one, he probably had the perp for the other.

Chet looked up from his crossword with a poorly concealed smirk.

“Wow, Tip. You’re in the big leagues now. Maybe a serial killer. What are you going to do?”

Chet loved to see Tip sweat. In turn, Tip enjoyed making Chet’s life miserable.

“Tell you what, Chet. Criminals return to the scenes of their crimes. We haven’t released the news yet about the female victim. I want you to stake out the river bank where her body was found. See who shows up.”

“Nobody will show up.”

“Can’t tell unless you go. Take the night vision goggles we got from the feds. And the good camera.”

Chet tried to hide his irritation. He knew a direct order when he heard one coming. “How long?”

“Oh, just from now until, say, tomorrow about noon.”

Chet huffed. “All night? You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yup. When else do you think a murderer would come?”

With Chet gone and unable to gossip except by cellphone, which would violate his normal oh-by-the-way out-of-the-side-of-the-mouth style, Tip took the department SUV and went for a drive. First he headed two blocks over to Eileen’s Café, partly for a hamburger before she closed, and partly to make sure Chet wasn’t malingering there on his way out of town.

Chet’s patrol car was not there, so he drove on past. The hamburger could wait.
He started his usual patrol pattern of Sedalia’s streets, because driving helped him think. The damned cell phone could still go off, since now without a dispatcher all calls rang directly to him. But calls didn’t usually start until after dark, so he was free to just drive up and down the maple-arched streets trying to think who might have killed Carter Blake. And why.

One thing he was curious about was ricin, and where the murderer would have gotten it. Google searches turned up pictures of castor bean plants and enough information about poisoning by ingestion to suggest Blake had been hit with a hell of a dose of concentrated extract. And once Tip saw the pictures blown up and printed out, he remembered seeing plants like that somewhere. He just couldn’t remember where.

And then he did, in Mrs. Wilson’s back yard, along the property line between her place and Mack Gregglin’s place. Which was a coincidence too big to ignore.

Tip had asked Gregglin only the usual questions, no follow-ups, and Gregglin had not seemed suspicious. Just another nerdy guy in the writers’ group. Early thirties, mostly bald despite his youth. A belly. Lawyer. Worked at Quibble and Slack, the only law firm in town. Not yet a partner. Slack was the senior partner, ready to retire. Quibble was early forties. Had in fact defended Blake in his trial for theft, public indecency, resisting arrest, and all the other charges Dave Woods had cooked up. Woods was an effective D.A. but a serious asshole, so Tip kept their relationship correct and professional. They had to work together.

So. Gregglin? What could his motive be, and how to find out? Anna had said he could call her any time, so he pulled the SUV into the fisherman’s drive-off by the town bridge and called her on his cell.

“Yeah, sure, I know him,” she said. “Year behind me in school. Had a crush on me once. An OK guy, but never my type.”

“I see. Did he have any sort of relationship with Carter?”

“Yeah, I think so. I think he worked on Carter’s will.”

“Carter did a will? He didn’t have any heirs. Mom and Dad both dead. No sisters or brothers. Seems odd for a guy his age. Usually only older people with families think of that stuff. Wonder why he did a will.”

“I have no idea. Seemed strange to me, too. This was back before his big scandal. But he wanted to make sure his copyrights went somewhere instead of just the public domain. Seemed like inflated self-importance at the time, because none of his stuff was selling. I mean, he was an English teacher with a fifteen-year-old car.”

Tip thought he heard a muffled sob. He gave her a moment.

“But now that his stuff is selling—fairly big, if I understand it— those copyrights could be worth something. Wouldn’t they?”

“Yeah, I guess they would. Haven’t given it much thought, frankly. I think mainly about how to pay next month’s rent on the store. Carter used to help me sometimes.”

“OK, thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

* * *

Tip caught Eileen closing up. Place was empty. She shook her head. Old conversation.

“You do this at least once a week. I already cleaned the grill and put everything away. No hamburger. How about a ham sandwich?”

“Any of that potato salad left?”

“Yeah, but you’re going to wash your own dishes and lock up.” She looked at her watch. “My show is on tonight.”

Tip knew of the show. Star Train. Everyday people—too often achingly desperate people—competing to become singing stars. Eileen liked to imagine herself as a slinky nightclub singer and a good judge of singing talent. She did in fact do a credible, smoky version of Etta James doing “At last” when she had a couple of drinks in her.

“No problem. I’ll skip the potato salad and take the sandwich with me.” He slipped her a ten, which went straight into her dress pocket.

“Puts your tab into credit. Finally.” She opened the fridge and pulled out the ham, mustard, and dill pickles.

“Good. You know I’ll use it up. Hey, you know anything about Mack Gregglin? Any connection to Anna Christoph?”

“Ann Christopher, you mean? Never did go for that phony, arty crap. But yeah, I mean they’re both at least ten years younger than me, so we don’t move in the same social circles, if you know what I mean. But I do remember people saying he had a thing for her, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. I know Mack plays a mean jazz piano, though.”

She slapped the sandwich together, squirted on the mustard, and slid it over to him on a napkin. The ham was three quarters of an inch think. He considered falling in love with Eileen.

“Played for me once when I was auditioning at a club in Indy,” she continued. “Really embarrassing. They hated me. Never tried again. Mrs. Dietz taught him piano starting at age six, he told me.”

Ah. Mrs. Dietz. Next door to Blake. Had to be some connection.

“I see. Hm. Must have learned the jazz on his own.” He tried and failed to imagine Mrs. Dietz rocking out at the piano in her living room. “Does he still have some sort of relationship with Mrs. Dietz?”

“I guess he just likes her and goes and does things for her. Mr. Dietz died a few years ago, you know. Just helps out an old lady.”

“I see. Can I have a bag of chips to go? And a piece of cake? I got nothing to eat at home.”

“Cause you got no woman at home. Too bad about Janelle, but nobody thought it would last.”

“Told me everything I knew about women and black people was wrong. What I was wrong about was myself. And Sedalia.”

“I’ve known you for years, Tip. She’s right about the first. You don’t know crap about women. Don’t know about the second. You can have the cake, but no chips. You would just go home and drink beer with them. This murder, you need to keep a clear head.”

“You’re a hard woman, Eileen.”

* * *

Next morning, Jason Quibble blinked at Tip across Tip’s desk at the jail.

“This seems unusual.”

“Wanted to talk to you where no one would see or hear us.”

“You’re kidding. Chet Biggle is the biggest gossip in Sedalia.”

“He’s on a stakeout.”

“OK. What do you want to know?”

“Connection between Mack Gregglin and Carter Blake.”

“Drafted Carter’s will.”

“What does the will say? Who inherits?”

“That’s privileged information.”

“You know I can get Judge Prechter to approve a motion to compel disclosure.”

Quibble sighed and nodded. “At this point, with no charges brought, that would be legally questionable. But knowing Prechter, you’re probably right. And you’ll know soon enough anyway. Ann Christopher is the assignee of all of Carter’s copyrights.”

Another piece fell into place. “Does she know?”

“No. We’re planning to notify her once the legal matters surrounding his death are resolved.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, did he commit suicide? Associated insurance policies would not pay off in that case.”

“He did not.”

Quibble’s eyebrows went up. “You’re sure?”

“Ninety-nine point nine percent. Coroner says homicide.”

Quibble added two and two, and he sat back. “I see. You didn’t want Mack to see me talking to you.”

“Correct.”

“Is he a suspect in a murder investigation?”

“Let’s say, he’s a person of interest. Along with the other Sedalia Writers’ Group members.”

“I see. And of course, I’m to keep this conversation confidential. Otherwise, aiding and abetting.”

“Of course.”

* * *

Tip drove straight to Mrs. Dietz’s house. He wondered why he had never wondered about how she kept her lawn looking so perfect when he knew she had some trouble walking.

She was playing a piece by Franz Liszt on a polished spinet covered with doilies and pictures. He knew it was Liszt only when he looked at the sheet music. The front door had been open to the screen door and she gestured him in with her left hand after he knocked, somehow without missing a beat. The piece was entitled “Liebestraum,” with “Love Dream” in parentheses. Very nice. He waited behind her until she was finished.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, Sheriff?” she said over her shoulder.

He realized she could see him in the glass of a framed picture sitting on top of the piano. A picture of . . . Ann Christopher!

Tip’s brain rolled over.

“She’s a beautiful young woman, don’t you think?” asked Mrs. Dietz.

“Yes, she is. And smart. Maybe she has settled too cheaply in life. I don’t think that art gallery is ever going anywhere.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

Still Mrs. Dietz didn’t turn around. Tip could smell her lavender perfume. He made a guess. He knew Mrs. Dietz had never been able to have children.

“Your niece?”

“By my youngest sister, Clara, now gone. Cancer. Ann’s father, too. Alcohol.”

Tip hesitated a beat. Mrs. Dietz was so nice. And the piano piece had been so beautiful. “Do you like to bake, Mrs. Dietz?”

There was a long silence. She swiveled around on the piano stool and looked him in the eye. “I do.”

“Do you sometimes make things for other people? Like Carter Blake next door?”

She heaved a long sigh and smoothed her dress down to her knees. She was silent for a long time, seeming to have a dialogue with herself. Finally she said, “I do. I did.”

“And Mack Gregglin delivered the cupcakes?”

“There was only the one. Carter owed Ann, you see. For her ten years of devotion. Mack just happened to let it slip one day that she was in Carter’s will. He’s been infatuated with her for the whole ten years she’s been wasting her time with Carter. Good job, lawyer and all that. He’s a much better prospect than Carter.”

“So you’re saying Mack didn’t have anything to do with it, and delivered the cupcake unwittingly?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“So where did you get the ricin?”

“Well, I have my own castor bean plants out back, you see.”

“And how would you have made sure nobody but Carter ate the cupcake?”

She nodded. She had thought about that ahead of time. “I put his name on it. It said, ‘Congratulations, Carter Blake III.’ He was always ridiculous about that numeral.” She looked down at her swollen ankles, then back up to Tip. “Am I going to jail, Sheriff?”

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Dietz. But not this minute. You’re not much of a flight risk. This minute, I’m going to ask you to write out and sign your confession.”

Which she did.

* * *

Confession in hand Tip left, wondering who had killed Jasmin Lambert. Chet called on the cell phone to report that, “as I was one hundred percent sure, absolutely nothing happened at the stakeout site, and nobody came.”

“Thanks, Chet. They also serve who only sit and wait.” And keep their mouth shut.

He headed over to the office of Quibble and Slack.

Mack Gregglin was not surprised to see him, but Tip was unprepared for his immediate confession.

“Yes, I took her body down River Road and hid it in the woods.”

“Why did you kill her?”

Gregglin looked confused.

“I didn’t kill her! You think I’m nuts? Think I’d beat a woman to death?”

“How did you know she was beaten to death if you didn’t do it?”

“Because I saw the end of it. I came back to Carter’s house after the meeting was over to get my notebook. Left it on the end table. We all had a little too much wine. I heard a ruckus in the garage. Yelling. I went to the door and heard her say, ‘Son of a bitch! You told me you changed it!’ Then he said, ‘I was going to. But now you’re pissing me off. You’re all of a sudden like a different person.’”

“Changed what, do you think?” asked Tip.

“His will. I mentioned it to him earlier in the kitchen, suggesting that since his financial situation had changed, he might want to review the will while he was in town. Then I realized she was standing in this little alcove and overheard.”

“I see. So then what? After you heard them arguing in the garage?”

“So I opened the door to the garage and saw her backhand him across the mouth. Unbelievably arrogant. He fell back. Almost fell down. Then he got mad and said, ‘You gold-digging bitch!’ and jacked her in the jaw. Pretty good right hook. But she didn’t go down; hardly even flinched. Just came back and put all these martial-arts moves on Carter: hits, chops, kicks. She was kicking his ass. It was bad. Yelling at him. ‘I spend six months in bed with your sorry ass, then come out from New York to this hillbilly shithole with you and find out you’ve been lying to me?’ That kind of stuff. No more Miss sophisticate. Anyway, to me it looked like she was really hurting him. He’s no fighter. Finally he grabbed a piece of copper pipe lying on top of the water softener and hit her in the face. Slowed her down but didn’t stop her. Three hits before she went down. But when her head hit the floor, it sounded like a coconut, and she just sprawled out. Didn’t get back up. It was clear she wasn’t going to. Then he looked up and saw me and said, ‘Oh, shit.’ I told him I had seen that it was self-defense. ‘Then help me,’ he said, and sat down on this old broken chair like he was really worn out, about ready to die. ‘Nobody will believe my story. Get rid of her body. I’m really not feeling good at all. Not at all. I think I ate something bad.’”

“So you did. Get rid of the body.”

“Yes. I knew it was wrong, but he was right. No one would have believed he was getting his ass kicked by a beautiful woman and killed her in self-defense. But the worst of it was, because Anna had a motive, people would think she did it and we were covering up for her.”

“Why didn’t you just call me?”

“Would you have believed two guys alone in a house with a good-looking woman were innocent of wrongdoing in her beating death?”

“Probably not. But you had no motive. For her murder.”

“I would have if she had lived and persuaded Carter to change his will. I knew you would find out sooner or later how I felt about Anna.”

“Ah. So you think it was all about the will?”

“Oh yeah. She was going to kill him. That was clear. He just messed up her little plan. Never saw anybody reveal themselves like that. One of those people able to come across different than they are inside. I’m not sorry she’s dead.”

* * *

Tip was back at the office trying to figure out what to do about Gregglin when he lurched forward in his chair with a sudden thought. He ran to the SUV and hurried to Mrs. Dietz’s house. But he had realized the risk too late. She was sprawled back on her couch with a cupcake liner beside her.

* * *

Tip had no choice but to charge Mack Gregglin with obstruction of justice. However, this being Howarth County, and Dave Woods being the Prosecuting Attorney, and Gregglin being Woods’s second cousin, the charge was never pursued.

* * *

Nobody wanted Anna Christoph’s art gallery as a business, so she sold the inventory at auction. It didn’t bring much. But it didn’t matter because she inherited everything: the Blake house, the Dietz house, and all of Blake’s money.

She moved into Mrs. Dietz’s house and hired a cleaning lady who cleaned both houses every week. But Carter’s house remained empty, except for once in a while when a light shone through the living room window and Anna could be seen sitting in there reading.

Otherwise, no one saw much of her except when she was out back carefully tending the castor bean plants in Mrs. Dietz’s yard.

Gregglin asked, but she still wouldn’t marry him.

"Murder in the Sedalia Writers' Group" was originally published in 2015 in a short-story cycle entitled Sedalia, Indiana, available on Amazon.

Copyright © 2015 William Crow Johnson

All rights reserved.

THE LAST PAY PHONE IN THE WORLD
By W Crow Johnson

Oliver was having a good afternoon. The Seahurst account had come through, all his doing. The bonus on that alone would support him and Alicia for a year. The sun was shining. The daffodils were blooming along the walkway through the park, promising warmer days ahead. Alicia’s parents were coming to dinner next Sunday for the big announcement. And just that morning Carson Smith, the managing partner, known among the young associates as the managing ogre, had suggested that he, young Oliver Long, not quite thirty-five, was on track for Partner.

Oliver took the same walk every afternoon at three before heading back for the usual grind until seven PM. That was the time when the other associates started looking around to see who would be the first to go so they would not be. But tonight his work would go far past seven, so he definitely deserved a couple of Emily’s scones. Maybe three or four.

He always walked the same route, across Pascal Avenue and into the park, where he would sit on a bench by the pond for exactly five minutes, no longer, and watch the ducks. It was important to stay connected with nature, but also to keep one’s self disciplined, so he never deviated from the five-minute rule. Then it was on across Division Street on the other side of the park to Emily’s Patisserie for a sweet roll and a cup of coffee.

Near the curb to the left of the pastry shop, no more than thirty feet from its door, stood a relic: a glass and aluminum phone booth. For Oliver, it occupied that perceptual background of things that never emerge into the foreground until they make a difference.

But today, while waving to Emily through the window of the pastry shop, and before he went in, the phone rang.

Oliver remembered people using these devices when he was a small boy, so he knew how to answer it. But he saw no reason why he should. The call was clearly meant for someone else. Still, he stopped for moment of doubt. There was no one up or down the sidewalk to answer the phone. It could be an urgent call for help. He was a responsible person. His sense of duty compelled him to answer.

He moved across the sidewalk to the open phone booth, looked at the ancient device, thought twice, then picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. He wondered as he did so if he would catch something from the disgusting-looking mouthpiece.

“Hello?”

“You are the only person who can save the situation,” said an anguished female voice.

A pang surged through Oliver’s stomach. The phrasing was odd but the voice was earnest.

“Save what? You don’t even know who I am.”

“Me. Peace on Earth. Good will toward men.”

The abiding strangeness of this answer gave pause but made the decision for him. Had to be some kind of disturbed person. “Look, I’m a busy. Good bye.”

“Wait!” said the woman, but he hung up the phone and headed for Emily’s door. She smiled through the plate glass and held up two fresh scones, his favorites. She pointed to them and licked her lips.

The phone immediately rang again. He sighed, doubled back and picked it up.

“I remembered the number,” said the voice quietly. “Look, I really am in trouble here. I need you to contact the police and send them to 219 Juniper. There are men upstairs with guns. They think they’re going to ransom me, but I have no money.”

“Right. So you’re downstairs on the phone and they don’t hear you?”

“In the basement, yes,” she whispered. “My husband put a phone down here, a landline, years ago, before he died.”

Oliver shook his head in irritation. “So why not call 911?”

“I did that. I got a recorded message that said they were busy right now with other emergencies, and that if my emergency was potentially life-threatening, I should call 211 and ask them to call the police.”

“So why didn’t you do that?”

“I did, and I got a similar response. Nothing.”

Oliver wanted to hang up again but she sounded just credible enough. “So how do you even know this number? It’s a phone booth, you know. I just happened to be walking by.”

“God bless you, young man, for answering. I can tell from your voice you’re a nice young person. I just called a random number. I have no one any more, you see. Since my husband passed.”

“I’m sorry. Nobody else who can help? Neighbors? Siblings? Children? Cousins?”

“No. I could be the last of my breed.” There was that strange manner of speaking again. Then she said, “Will you help me?”

“Look, I am very busy.” The pile of Intercorp paperwork that had to be done by tomorrow morning formed a clear image in in mind. “I don’t have time for this, but I will at least call the police and send them to 219 Juniper.”

“Do you have a cell phone number? What if I need to contact you again? You won’t be near this phone.”

“I rarely give it out.”

“I’m in danger here.”

He sighed. “All right.” He gave the number, thinking it was foolish. “OK, I am going now. I will do as I promised, but that’s the extent of it. I am very busy.”

“Thank you young man.”

Oliver immediately called 911 on his cell phone. Oddly, he received exactly the same recorded message the woman in distress had described. As a responsible citizen with a stake in society, he was incensed. No 911 caller should ever receive a recorded message. He called 211 and listened to a similar message.

Now quite irritated at these displays of the incipient breakdown of social order, he went into the patisserie with a scowl on his face. Emily instantly sensed his mood. They normally exchanged good-natured pleasantries.

“Oliver, you look angry. What’s wrong? Something about that phone call you made on the old pay phone? Why did you do that, anyway? Cell phone not working?”

“Actually, I answered the phone; I didn’t make a call on it. And that’s why I need to know the number for the police. A woman in distress just called that number randomly. She couldn’t get through to 911, and neither could I.”

Emily took on a proper look of concern. “OK, no problem.” She took a cordless phone from under the counter and handed it to him. “Use mine.”

She watched as he called 911. He handed the phone back to her so she could hear the same recording. She listened for a moment, then punched the End button.

“Wow, that’s weird.” She consulted a plastic card taped to the wall behind the counter and copied down a number on a piece of white pastry paper. “Here’s the number for the police.” She slid it across the counter.

“Thanks.”

He called the number, and astonishingly, received a phone menu which directed him to an option that generated a ring, but no answer. Five rings, seven rings, eleven, thirteen, seventeen. No answer.

He punched End. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “No answer. I’m going to have to go myself and see if I can help this woman. ‘Armed men upstairs,’ she said. They were going to ransom her. I’m not sure what to do.”

“You could just go to the police in your car, report it, and go back to work.”

“There’s no such thing as making a fast police report, then leaving. It took me two hours once to report a luggage theft. I have to do this myself.”

“Well, first, take a bite of this scone.” Emily handed him one of his favorites partially wrapped in white paper. “On the house. It’ll put you in a better mood. And second, if you’re going where there are guns, you might need this.” She reached under the counter and came out with an automatic pistol. “It’s loaded, so be careful. You do know how to use one, right?”

He looked at the weapon doubtfully, then at beautiful Emily. He wasn’t sure which distressed him more, the fact that she felt a need to keep a weapon under her counter, the fact that he barely knew how to use one, or the fact that he was going to lie to her.

“Of course,” he said breezily, and slid the heavy gun into his jacket pocket. He hoped the safety was on, but he didn’t want to figure out in front of her which button it was. “But I’m not sure which is worse: men with guns, or blowing the Intercorp deal. One might kill me, and the other will surely cost me my job.”

“But you’re going to go and try to save that woman’s life. That’s noble of you, Oliver. You’re a good person.”

“Yeah, who’s about to become unemployed.”

“Eat the scone. It will give you courage and brighten your day. Would you like me to close the shop and come with you?”

“No. One person getting shot is enough. Thanks for the scone. Hopefully I’ll be back before too long and get another one.”

* * *

He made his way back across the park to the parking lot at Smith, Threadneedle, Tunkett, and Pall and climbed into his Civic. He had been planning on a Beamer, but that now looked like a stretch too far. The pile of documents on his desk was six inches thick, and he needed to go through each and every one and make sure it was properly reflected in the contract for Intercorp’s buy-out offer to Seaway, the largest containerized freight company in the world. Even all night would have been close, but he had been sure he could make it, just barely, with a good sugar high from Emily’s scones and liberal amounts of coffee. Now, he was pretty sure he would not.

Worse, his GPS told him 219 Juniper was in Coromandel, a subdivision forty minutes away on the other side of town. There was now no doubt. He would not get the contract done in time, and no one else at Smith, Threadneedle, Tunkett, and Pall knew enough about it to help. Weeks of pre-work had been necessary to get his understanding to where it was now.

As he drove, honking angrily at drivers who didn’t understand that he was on a mission, he plunged into despair. A day, a week, a month, a year— indeed, a life—bright with promise half an hour ago was crashing into ruins. He could of course turn around and go back and work on the contract, but he knew guilt would eat him up. As it was, the suspicion that he was ruining his life based on a hoax racked him, but he couldn’t take the chance. He had been raised as a good boy, a Boy Scout: trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly and all that. He couldn’t turn his back on that now.

Of course, he could hurry back to the office once he had saved this woman, assuming he didn’t get killed by a bunch of kidnappers, and rush through the papers, cutting corners where he thought no harm would come. But that was the thing about legal documents. Harm could come from the most inconspicuous sentence or phrase in the most harmless looking document. Even a missing comma could be disastrous.

There was no cutting corners. That would just set up Intercorp, and thus Smith, Threadneedle, Tunkett, and Pall, for disaster at some future time. And of course, himself.

And there was no delaying the meeting. Intercorp’s CEO and lawyers were due in from Hong Kong any time for tomorrow morning’s meeting. The Managing Ogre himself was wining and dining them tonight.

There was no way out. He was completely, comprehensively, thoroughly screwed.

* * *

As the GPS told him he was getting close, he realized he needed a plan. Just because he was forfeiting his professional life didn’t mean he should shuffle off the mortal coil at the same time.

He tried the police one more time, but got the same phone menu followed by no response. There was nothing for it but to go in with the gun and save the woman.

He passed the house, an unassuming ranch house with a ragged lawn, which meant the woman couldn’t mow it herself, or lacked the money to pay for it to be done. The garage door had badly peeling paint, so he began to feel sorry for the woman. Looked like her story was consistent.

He parked the Civic down the street and walked back to the house next door, which had a for-sale sign in the front yard. It was well maintained, with the lawn lately mown, but its windows were dark and lacked curtains. The house looked unoccupied.

Good. He went into its back yard and hid behind a bush while he took the gun out of his pocket and acquainted himself with its features. He reassured himself that it had a bullet in the chamber, and that the safety was on. Then he stealthily moved to stand beside the woman’s back door, peeking through the glass. He held the weapon up and at the ready, with his trigger finger outside the trigger guard, as he had seen police do on TV.

Inside, a gray-haired woman sat at the kitchen table with her back to him. She wore a short-sleeved work shirt of some kind, and comfortable-looking leather shoes showed beneath the chair. It looked as if she was in loose slacks. On the table to her left lay a pile of scones on a paper plate in a wicker holder. She raised her left arm without turning around and beckoned to him. A speaker overhead in the eaves said, “Come on in, Mr. Long. I’ve been expecting you since we spoke on the phone. There is no danger. No kidnappers.”

Oliver was suffused with fury. No danger? No kidnappers? It was a hoax. He had just ruined his life for a hoax!

He pushed the door open so hard it swung around and hit the door stop. He stepped aggressively into the kitchen, but looked quickly all around to make sure she was telling the truth. She was.

“Ma’am, I have nearly certainly ruined my professional life to come here and help you, and now I find no danger at all. I am mad as hell, and I am going to make a report to the police. You deserve whatever—”

She turned to face him, and he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw her face. She was a mature woman, that was true, but she was also beautiful. And he couldn’t quite decide what shocked him more, the fact that she was beautiful and the mere sight of her face calmed him, or the fact that at one moment she looked like his mother, the next like his wife, the next like Emily, and the next like his kindly old Latin teacher at the academy.

“Relax, Oliver,” she said. Definitely the same voice, but now with no hint of anxiety. Even her voice had a calming effect on him. “There is no danger now. Have a scone. They’re delicious. I know that’s where you were headed when I called you.”

“Wha . . .?” he croaked.

“You came. You saved your world. We would like to sanitize this planet and keep it for ourselves, but we are not barbarians. We couldn’t just liquidate your proto-civilization without testing its moral character. So we conducted the usual sort of test, making allowances for different technology and customs. We made thousands of calls to cell phones before we realized they are constantly bombarded by crank calls, so we narrowed our search. We realized that crank calls probably don’t go to the old pay phones. More importantly, they have no caller ID, so we concentrated on those.”

Oliver found his voice. “For what?”

“The moral test.”

“Moral test?”

“Yes. Would your people help their fellow man?”

“Of course. We do that all the time.”

“Yes, of course, when others are watching. But the true test is when nobody is watching, and there is a big price to pay. Like the contract you’re supposed to be finishing today.”

“How do you know about that?”

“We know everything. All your systems are open to us. And our AIs can process everything instantly to tell us what we want to know.”

“Who is “we”?

The woman stood and spoke a word that was more a sound than a word. Suddenly the two of them were in another room, one side of which was a massive window. The moon hung huge in the window, and past the edge of the moon, the earth was visible as a blue and green ball.

“What?” he said weakly. “Just a big television screen? Where are we?”

“No television screen. Put your gun on that pedestal behind you.”

Oliver did. It glowed and disappeared.

“Now look out the window.”

There floated the weapon he had just put on the pedestal.

“Now let’s go back,” she said. She made the same sound, and they were back in the kitchen of the house at 219 Juniper Lane.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Never mind. The question is, who are you, and the answer is, the man who saved humanity from being cleansed from the Earth so we could live here. Or try another species program. We took a valid statistical sample, thirty-two humans who actually answered the pay phone out of thousands of calls when people could have. Of course, when someone did answer, we arranged for the 911, 211, and police recordings. And we made sure each person exposed to a call had a big price to pay for helping. And Oliver, the previous thirty-one people who answered ignored the pleas for help and walked away. Only you came to help. Thus you saved your entire race from extinction. We really like this planet, but we conclude from our test that your race has the beginnings of morality.”

“What? You would have killed all the people on the planet?”

“There would have been no pain, of course. We are not barbarians. We simply cull our experimental species that don’t measure up. You did.”

Sweat broke out in Oliver’s hairline. The woman, or whatever she was, probably really could have wiped out humanity.

“But wait! What about my job? My life?”

“What about them? There’s always a price to pay for being good.”

The woman disappeared and left Oliver standing alone in the kitchen with the plate of scones.

Many things occur at the edge of vision. People walk by, cars zoom along, dim stars twinkle in the night sky, then disappear if you look at them directly. Mostly we don’t pay attention to those things unless we want to, like seeing the star, or unless they look as if they might pose a danger or require our attention. How our brains sort out in an instant whether we ought to pay attention is testament to its amazing power.

More generally, thousands—millions—of things occur at the edge of awareness—visual, auditory, olfactory, tactile, gustatory. If you pay attention, for example, you will likely hear at some level the crickets of tinnitus in your ears. Or you’ll notice a low level of smell you’ve been ignoring. Or you’ll notice the feel of your clothes, which otherwise you ignore unless they’re wet or binding somewhere. And mostly, you don’t pay attention to taste unless you’re eating or drinking, or you’ve been on a thirty-hour travel ordeal through the world’s airports, and your mouth tastes like the dirty laundry basket.

But the point is, we ignore huge amounts of sensory input because it is a distraction. It has nothing to do with what we are doing. We have to get on with our day, and those things don’t matter to us. The brain is essentially a reductive organ, as Aldous Huxley said in Doors of Perception. It filters out massive amounts of stimuli that, if we paid attention to, would keep us from getting anything done.

Now here’s a fantasy/sci-fi kind of thought. Suppose there are entities that exist in the periphery of our perception, knowing we won’t look, we won’t listen, and if we do, they can slip back into oblivion as if they were never there. Or if you really want to descend into paranoia, suppose these entities are always behind you when you are alone, and fast enough to move out of the way when you turn to try to catch them. Ha.

Now suppose those entities have always been with us: faerie, Sidhe, leprechauns, interdimensional beings of various sorts. Why would they be here?

Could be a story in this.

Every father of a daughter sooner or later wonders how he had a hand in creating this exotic creature, a female being, a daughter. He’s flummoxed. But of course, he’s delighted because she’s beautiful.

When she’s a kid, the mystery is there, but not preeminent. It’s when she turns into a teenager that things get mysterious. Boys come around, which is not mysterious or surprising, just irritating. Under cross-examination, they profess good intentions, but you know. You were once a boy. Still are, just showing some wear. No, the mystery part is that they show up without you knowing anything about it ahead of time. Your wife seems to, and she and your daughter share these mysterious smiles. That’s when you realize you are clueless.

The day comes when a new male comes into the picture. You’ve never met him, nice guy and all, but he behaves around your now-adult daughter as if he is quite familiar with her. You would like to demand to know exactly how familiar, but you don’t, because she and her mother are sharing one of those conspiratorial mysterious smiles.

Then comes the wedding announcement, which catches you completely flat-footed. You thought she would be your little girl forever. You realize there is a gulf between fathers and daughters that perhaps can’t be bridged. Except by affection.

You put on your tuxedo and do your part with smiles, hugs, and without comment.

Then you have a granddaughter, and the cycle begins again.

I have just published "The Adventures of Sara Springborn and Mr. Wollo Bushtail, or Wollo's Journey."

This is the second edition of "The Adventures of Sara Springborn and Mr. Wollo Bushtail," published in 2001. It has several story changes and key edits. Plus, it has a Kindle version.

Those of you who had put the previous edition on your to-read shelf can now get the newer, less expensive paperback version ($10 vs. 14), or the ebook ($2.99).

Here's the new book: Wollo's Journey

Headed Off to New Zealand

I probably should start – I’m terrible at this marketing and promotion stuff – by telling you that my latest book, Vengeance, is free on Amazon this weekend (Feb 3, 4, 5) in E-book format. Download to your heart’s content. If you like it, please write me a review. And if you hate it, persuade people you don’t like to buy it, preferably the expensive paperback ($9.99) vs the E-book ($2.99) (:-).

But what I’m more interested in is the fact that I’m headed off to New Zealand next week. Three weeks in the land of the Lord of the Rings. Mountains, trout fishing, glaciers, penguins. And I’m really interested in how it will later appear in my writing.

As always, I’m working on my next book, this one also a Tip Tungate murder mystery, and I’m curious to know what subconscious images of New Zealand and things that happen there will bubble up. Which is kind of the way writing works at times. Images, especially of characters and settings and how they relate, appear spontaneously and drive action. Not always, of course. Once you get started on a story, you create some images. But it’s the ones that come of their own that haunt you, that drive you, that insist upon appearing on your page.

We’ll see. I’ll let you know. Sedalia, seat of Howarth County, Indiana, “not far north of the Ohio River” has its own charms, but no mountains, glaciers, trout, or penguins. But somewhere in the new book, somehow, something from New Zealand will pop up.

The new book, by the way, is currently titled Prophecy . I hope to release it in October.

William Crow Johnson

If you haven’t read Sedalia, Indiana, now’s the time. The Ebook is on sale for $0.99 Oct. 30 through Nov. 3. It’s a book of connected short stories about the characters in Sedalia, Indiana, mythical seat of mythical Howarth County, “not far north of the Ohio River.”

Besides being cheap and then entertaining you for a few hours, Sedalia lays the groundwork for Vengeance, a thriller also set in Sedalia, with some of the same characters. Big, easy-going Sheriff Earl (Tip) Tungate is the main one, and finds himself faced with a series of seemingly unconnected and senseless murders. In the end, he prevails mainly through old-fashioned grit.

Kirkus Reviews said . . . “Tungate is a brilliantly constructed character. Neither valiant paragon of virtue nor deeply flawed antihero, he is rather a somewhat out-of-shape Everyman, who, like some Midwestern Columbo, craftily allows people to underestimate him.”

Here are the books:

Sedalia, Indiana
Vengeance

Since you probably don’t know, I’ll tell you. It’s a men’s cologne popular among horny high-school boys back in the Sixties. There was another one called English Leather, but it didn’t have the James-Bond-style cachet of British Sterling.

Both were supposed to help get you girls. They would cover up the sweaty, testosterone stink of seventeen-year-old boys and somehow magically make girls go for you. They would impart to you the coolness of the British. You would be like the Beatles or Sean Connery. Girls would swoon. You would get to third base. Possibly even hit a home run.

It didn’t work. You would ride around in a car with five other guys, all reeking of British Sterling or English Leather, all looking for girls who would somehow magically present themselves, somewhere. You might even make it in to an Ohio dance hall with a fake ID and swill some 3.2 beer, but somehow the girls weren’t attracted. You actually had to approach them and engage them in conversation or ask them to dance.

The problem of course was that they knew what you were after, and it wasn’t conversation. And if you actually got one to dance with you, if the fact that you had no idea how to dance didn’t drive her away, the stench of your British Sterling did.

Ah, well.

So why did I still have this half-used bottle of British Sterling in my medicine cabinet? Well, maybe it falls into the category of those underpants my wife said when we got married that I’d had since I was in the Boy Scouts. She had no proof, of course. She wasn’t around when I was in the Boy Scouts. But the underwear didn’t have that many holes. It still had utility. Perhaps unlike the cologne.

So why did I still have the perfume, and why did I finally decide to throw it away?
Well, I suppose I still had it because it was some sort of icon of my youth. It was a keepsake. A memento. I still have boxes of such stuff, possibly because my wife and I have only lived in two houses in our forty-two years of marriage. Once a decade or so, she will flog me into looking through them to see what I want to save. It’s always been everything. When I would handle the talismans of my youth, I would get a tingle, a brief moment of grace suffused with happiness and regret.

What’s changed? Probably the biggest thing is that we’ve now cleaned out our parents’ houses when they died. That’s a killer task if you’ve never taken it on, mainly because of the sheer volume of stuff they saved. But also because of the sadness. You find their boxes of mementoes, whose contents mean nothing to you: pictures of people you don’t know, old coins and ticket stubs, maybe a dried and pressed flower, an empty Shalimar bottle. And of course, the bundle of old letters tied with a satin ribbon. Which, if you have any class at all, you will not untie.

So, since the magic of the British Sterling is gone – let’s face it, at my age, it’d have to be some pretty hefty magic – and the magic was imaginary in the first place, I’ve decided to do my kids a favor and throw the stuff away. My medicine cabinet now has an extra four cubic inches of space.

Of course, there are still those boxes and boxes of mementoes, but there’s still time.

I hope.

I am in DC this week, absorbing the history preserved and memorialized here in a hundred different places, from the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials to General Washington’s sword and dress uniform in the Smithsonian American History Museum. Not to mention Abe’s and General Sherman’s hats. Something about those humble items makes it real that our whole enterprise has been run by real people.

It is all at once humbling and inspiring. I sat and looked at the actual Star Spangled Banner for ten minutes, thinking how that very battle could have gone either way, how our ongoing democratic experiment and the success to date of our country are the result of effort, of things going right because of that effort, when in fact, things could have gone wrong.

We take it all too much for granted. And I think we’ve let it become too much a situation where we citizens are no longer as sovereign—or as involved—as we used to be. We’ve farmed it out. We vote, yeah, but we’ve abdicated too much responsibility onto too many extremely well-paid bureaucrats in DC who now write the rules that have the force of law we now live by.

I couldn’t help thinking as I walked by the two-block-long EPA building that that agency didn’t exist until Richard Nixon created it. Now it fills a gigantic Greek/Roman revival building two blocks long. I’m not against environmental protection, believe me on this, and they’ve done some very good things. You can now see across LA, and factory owners no longer routinely dump hazardous effluent into streams. But two blocks long? Full of bureaucrats who almost certainly make a salary at least a couple of standard deviations above average? On our dime? And I know from my experience as a middle manager at a Fortune 200, when you have a budget and an organization under you, you try to build it. You try each year to get more. You’re human. It’s what you do.

Anyway, enough of that. DC is full of young, beautiful people, intensely going about their business—probably our business—jogging, talking on their cell phones, politicking over beer in cafes where a hamburger costs fifteen bucks, striding purposefully along DC’s broad streets with their ID badges swinging. And it’s full of Chinese tour groups, families with a hijab-wearing mom, families speaking Spanish—a smiling young mother said “Hola” to me as we were jockeying for a look at the White House—turban-wearing Sikhs, Japanese groups following a flag-carrying leader, and church groups of scrubbed-up kids who, like me, are also from Podunk. In short, it’s an energizing look at our lively cross section.

May we all continue forever to be citizens, not subjects. We are the ones who must make it so.