Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 9 Read online

  Thank you again for your interest.

  Most sincerely,

  Martha Hudson

  * * * *

  My dear Mrs Hudson,

  I am a professional chef at the Harwichport (MA) Inn. I have thoroughly enjoyed the recipes you include from time to time in your columns… especially the Tuna Varenka, which I have served to our customers to great success.

  I wonder two things… first, whether you trained as a cook in your younger days, and if so, where? And secondly, might you suggest another good seafood recipe, which we would like to place on our menu and name it after you, if that idea does not displease you?

  With culinary greetings,

  Joseph T. Lavinson

  * * * *

  Dear Mr. Lavinson,

  You do me honour with your compliments, and I thank you humbly for your kindness. I feel unworthy of such praise from one such as yourself—a professional chef, upon my word—but thank you for your generous comments.

  In fact, my aunt was married to a Frenchman, and though I received no formal training, I spent many a happy hour at her side, learning the secrets of French cuisine, such as the difference between a béchamel and a veloute sauce, how to make a soufflé rise (the secret is in the whipping of the egg whites, as well as a pinch of cream of tartar), and the creation of duxelles, that heavenly mixture of mushrooms, shallots, onions, and herbs in butter, which figures so prominently in Beef Wellington. (I find wild mushrooms have more flavour than cultivated ones, if you can get them.) I say with some pride that Mr Holmes and Dr Watson have always enjoyed my own version of that classic dish, though I don’t suppose they know I learned it from my aunt. Mr Holmes, while always courteous, seldom inquires about my personal life unless he thinks it may have relevance to a case he is working on.

  English cuisine, such as it is, can be a hearty but plain affair, which is why my childhood experiences with my aunt have stood me in good stead in satisfying and hopefully pleasing my tenants, the longest (and most dear) of which is of course Mr Holmes. I humbly offer another of my recipes for your enjoyment, Hudson Sole (since you suggested naming it after me.) Such a delicate and tender fish requires a more subtle treatment than mackerel or cod, I think, so this recipe is designed to coax out its natural, refined flavour. This is a recipe Dr Watson is especially fond of, and I usually make it with fresh Dover Sole.

  Very truly yours,

  Martha Hudson

  * * * *

  HUDSON SOLE

  Four fresh sole fillets

  Butter, 4 oz.

  Fresh Cream, 6 oz.

  Shallots, 2 large

  Cream Sherry, 6 oz.

  Fresh parsley, one bunch, coarsely chopped

  *

  Sauté shallots and set aside. Place sole, butter, cream and sherry in baking dish; sprinkle with shallots and half of the parsley. Bake at 350 degrees for approximately 20-30 minutes, checking after 20 to see if fish is done. Do Not Overcook. Remove from oven when done and sprinkle with the rest of the parsley. Serves Four.

  CARTOON, by Andrew Genn

  BONEYARD, by Marc Bilgrey

  Dave laughed as he pulled Rachael by the hand through the dark cemetery. They stopped for a minute under a tree to catch their breath; as they did, Rachael looked up at the moon. In that instant, a bat swooped by.

  “I’m not sure this was such a good idea,” said Rachael.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” Dave asked.

  “Maybe just a little,” said Rachael.

  Dave surveyed the area, then pointed to a spot about two hundred feet from where they were standing. “There,” he said, “that’s where we’ll do it. Right between those two big gravestones.”

  “Maybe we should go back to the car.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re the one that always said you wanted to do it in a cemetery.”

  “Saying it and actually doing it are two different things.”

  Dave squeezed Rachael’s hand and led her to the place he had pointed to. “Well,” he said, “let’s get down to business.”

  “How about a little romance?”

  “This isn’t about romance, it’s about lust and the thrill of doing it in public.”

  “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “Of course it does,” said Dave, “it’s a graveyard.”

  Rachael stepped over to the large headstone and read the name, Smith. “Oh, great,” she said, “well have the whole family watching us.”

  “Nobody’s watching us, they’re all dead.” Dave sighed. “You’re taking all the spontaneity out of it.”

  Rachael turned to Dave. “You said this would put some spice back in our sex life, but now that we’re here I…”

  “Forget it,” said Dave, “just forget it.”

  Rachael glanced at the moon and said, “I want to go home.”

  “So go home,” said Dave, both disappointed and angry. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not going to stay here.”

  “Why not?” said Dave, feeling more angry by the second. “This is where our marriage belongs. These dead people have as much of a sex life as we do.”

  “Go to hell,” said Rachael, walking away.

  “If I was in hell at least I’d be getting laid.”

  Dave watched Rachael disappear over a hill. A few minutes later he heard a car pull away. I try to liven up our marriage, thought Dave, as he began walking, and this is the thanks I get.

  Dave wondered if he should stay at a motel in the area or call a friend when he got back to the city. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill he was already feeling better.

  That’s when he saw the woman in the black dress. She had shoulder length blond hair, high cheekbones, red lipstick, and a shiny string of pearls around her neck.

  “Hello,” said Dave, as she approached.

  “Hi,” she said, “I don’t usually see anyone here at this hour.”

  “Do you work here?” Dave asked.

  “No, I was just visiting my husband’s grave. I come here sometimes, at night, it’s quiet. My name’s Linda.”

  “I’m Dave. If you don’t mind me asking, how long ago did your—”

  “He died twenty years ago.”

  “You must have really loved him.”

  “He was much older than me. I respected him a lot. What about you?”

  “Uh,” said Dave, “I was just sort of looking for someplace peaceful to do some thinking.”

  “It doesn’t get more peaceful than this,” said Linda, as she gestured to a stone bench that was part of a nearby grave site. “Come sit down and talk to me.”

  Dave sat down, smelling Linda’s perfume. It had the scent of honeysuckle.

  Linda asked Dave about himself. He told her about his marriage and the lack of love he’d been feeling for the last couple of years. A few minutes later, Linda took Dave’s hand in hers and gently kissed him on the cheek, and then on the lips. Soon they were on the grass, making love. Afterwards, they held each other.

  “Where do you live, Linda?” asked Dave.

  “My home is here,” she replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m Linda Smith, you were looking at my gravestone before.”

  “No,” said Dave, “seriously.”

  Linda sat up and looked off into the distance. Her eyes widened. “It’s my husband,” she said, “and he’s coming this way.”

  “But you said your husband is dead.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dave turned to see a figure standing at the top of the hill, silhouetted in the moonlight.

  “Linda!” yelled the man. “You miserable slut! You better be alone or I won’t be responsible for the consequences!”

  Dave ran across the cemetery toward the main gate, but, as he approached it, three men in dark suits stepped out from behind trees and blocked his path. Dave turned to go back in the direction that he’d come from, when he saw Lin
da walking toward him.

  “They don’t look too happy,” said Linda.

  “Who are they?” Dave asked.

  “I was married to all of them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It was a few years before your time, Dave,” she said. “They called me the Black Widow, though they could never prove a thing. That’s because I always used a different method, arsenic on one, sleeping pills on the other…”

  “How am I going to get out of here?” Dave asked.

  He felt Linda’s soft fingers touch his shoulder. “What’s your hurry, Dave? I’m really starting to grow very fond of you…”

  BULLY FOR YOU, by Carla Coupe

  I hate bullies. Always have, always will. They’re one of the few things that can distract me as I work.

  I pegged Frank DeMezzo as a bully the minute I set eyes on him. He looked like a Hollywood actor—one you’d see testifying before Congress about human suffering, or holding the hand of a frail child in a TV commercial. But the bully seeped from his pores, flashed in his eyes as he brushed past me in the hall, sending the stack of thankfully empty lunch trays I carried clattering to the floor.

  “Watch it.” He threw the words over his shoulder, like litter from a car window. Sparing me a glance, he wiped his hands on a handkerchief, smoothed his well-cut jacket, then entered his mother’s room.

  Brooke, another “housekeeper”—we were glorified maids, really—dashed down the hall to help. “It wasn’t your fault, Sarah,” she muttered. “That Frank is a piece of work. How such a nice woman could have such a jerk for a son .…”

  Later, I passed the open door to Maria DeMezzo’s room and glanced inside. Frank sat in the one comfortable chair, facing the window that overlooked Sunny Meadow Nursing Home’s soft, green lawn, bordered with daffodils and tulips. A woman’s voice quavered a question.

  Frank’s “don’t be ridiculous, Mother,” echoed down the hall. “We discussed this last week, and you agreed I was right .…”

  Yes, I hate bullies. And Frank DeMezzo topped my list.

  “Thank you, Sarah. That’s much more comfortable.” Soft-spoken and graceful, Mrs. DeMezzo leaned back in her bed. Frank obviously inherited his good looks from her. I tucked the wool blanket in at the foot, smoothed the lacy coverlet.

  A bang at the open door, metal on wood. “Maria? Did you tell Frank about the money?”

  Maria’s eyes fluttered shut for a second and she released a small sigh. “Hello, Annabelle. No, I haven’t.”

  The metal walker banged against the door frame again. Annabelle Quince shuffled in, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun, her fuzzy black cardigan buttoned to her chin. The cardigan snagged on the door lock, leaving behind a clump of black fluff. She gave me the once-over. “So you’re the new girl.”

  Girl. At forty-three. Not because I was young by comparison with the inhabitants of Sunny Meadows. No, because I was a maid. I bit my tongue, held my temper in check. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. Not yet.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Sarah Reilly.”

  Annabelle looked at the bed, then at me. “You’re just as careless as the last one. Listen, girl. For the amount my no-good son’s paying to keep me here, I want a nice, smooth bed, too.”

  Mrs. DeMezzo frowned, a crease appearing between her arched eyebrows. “Now, Annabelle. Sarah is new, but I’m certain she did an excellent job.”

  I’d just made up Annabelle’s bed, taking care that it was every bit as smooth as Mrs. DeMezzo’s, but I kept my voice soft, my eyes down. “I’ll remake your bed as soon as I finish here, Mrs. Quince.”

  “I’ll be checking up on you.” She hobbled around the low, well-padded club chair to the wing chair in the corner and groaned as she eased herself onto the high seat. “I’m telling you, Maria, if you don’t stop giving that boy money, he’ll end up draining you dry.”

  I closed the curtains, shutting out the twilight that deepened into night. Frank took money from his mother? Didn’t surprise me. In the bathroom, I refolded the towels and wiped the sink and toilet seat. Both showed evidence that Frank had used them. A blind man had better aim.

  “It’s difficult for him.” Mrs. DeMezzo sounded worried. “The banks are being unreasonable, and he can’t expand the business without—”

  “Business!” Annabelle barked a laugh. “I don’t care what he tells you, he’s not using it for business. Look at those suits! And his car. You said he just moved into a bigger house, with a pool and media room, whatever that is. He’s spending money like water.”

  “He’s my only child. I can’t disappoint him.”

  “Listen to me, Maria. I know how to deal with children. If you don’t say ‘no’ now, he’ll take you for everything you’ve got, and you’ll end up in some rat-infested home with…” She paused. “Cockroaches.”

  “Cockroaches?” I could hear the loathing in Maria’s voice. Annabelle certainly knew Mrs. DeMezzo’s buttons.

  “And fleas.”

  I slipped out of the room, grabbing the fluff trapped in the lock. Annabelle was as much a pig as Frank.

  “Mother! You can’t be serious!” Frank’s shout carried down the hall to the tiny closet we used as our housekeeping room. “You promised me that fifty thou—” A door slammed, cutting him off.

  Brooke handed me a stack of towels from the cart and grinned. “That’s a first. I guess Frankie won’t be able to buy himself another new sports car with Mom’s money.”

  “A new sports car? Must be nice to have such a generous mother.”

  She laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t know. But Mrs. D.’s always given Frank whatever he wants. Wonder why she’s grown a backbone now.”

  I didn’t wonder. Brooke and I walked down the hall together, and even through the closed door we could hear Frank’s muffled shouts.

  I frowned. “He sounds pretty upset. You think we should look in on Mrs. DeMezzo?”

  “Feel free.” Brooke checked her watch. “I’m taking the rest of these towels to the south wing, then I’m on break.”

  A familiar metallic thump drew our attention. Annabelle stood in the hall, banging her walker against Mrs. DeMezzo’s door. “Maria!” she bellowed. The other residents would complain; even deaf old Mr. Rangely at the end of the hall could hear that.

  Brooke rolled her eyes. “See you later.”

  “Maria!”

  I hurried toward Annabelle. “Is something wrong?”

  “Don’t be stupid, girl.” Annabelle banged the door again. “Open this damned door.”

  I juggled the towels into one arm and swung open the door.

  Frank’s voice cut off again.

  Annabelle clattered through the doorway, her cardigan catching on the knob. A wad of fluff drifted to the floor. “Afternoon, Maria, Frank. Just thought I’d drop by for a visit.”

  I tidied up the fluff and peeked into the room. Frank, his back to the window, scowled at Annabelle. Mrs. DeMezzo sat in the wing chair, her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap. The sunlight picked out the veins beneath her thin, pale skin.

  Frank pasted on a smile, but his tone was frosty. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Quince. If you’ll excuse us, my mother and I are—”

  “Oh, don’t mind me.” Annabelle stumped over to the club chair and settled herself with a grunt. “Your mother and I don’t have secrets.”

  Frank’s smile thawed and broadened. “Then you can convince her to help her only son. It’s a short-term loan, designed to—”

  “Forget it.” Annabelle sniffed. “I told Maria not to give you a cent. She’s going to end up in the poor house if she keeps financing your freeloading ways.”

  Frank stared. “You told her to .…” His face reddened. “Why you interfering, lying bit—”

  “Frank!” Mrs. DeMezzo gripped the chair arms. “How could you use such language to a…a friend!”

  “But Mother,” he turned to her, leaned down and covered her hand with his, “she’s ly— not telling the truth. Your comf
ort is important to me.”

  Annabelle snorted, and Frank glared. He turned back to his mother. “You know I wouldn’t ask, except—”

  “No, Frank.” Mrs. DeMezzo raised her chin. “Annabelle’s right. I’m not going to lend you any more money.”

  “But Mother—”

  “I can’t afford it.” She shook her head, bit her lip. “I know it’s hard for you, Frank, but—”

  “Don’t weaken, Maria.” Annabelle leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “You don’t want to get kicked out of here.”

  Clenching his fists, Frank took a step toward Annabelle. “You’re responsible for this. By God, you’ll regret interfering with me.”

  He whirled and barged through the door. I stepped away, but he knocked me aside, sending towels flying. Staggering, I grabbed his jacket. The pocket tore.

  With a curse, he pushed me away. I stumbled into the wall.

  I watched him stride down the hall and round the corner. After straightening my uniform, I knelt and began gathering up the towels.

  “Hear anything interesting?” Annabelle stood in the door, grinning.

  I flinched. I’d been so absorbed in my thoughts, I hadn’t heard her coming.

  She jerked her head at the towels scattered across the floor. “That’ll teach you to sneak around and listen at doors.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Don’t lie, girl. You’re as bad at lying as Frank is.”

  “But Frank threatened you, ma’am.” I looked up at her. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Him?” She laughed. “Frank talks big, but he’s a coward. Maria never taught him right. I beat respect into my boy, and I’d have done the same to Frank.” Annabelle waited until I collected all the towels, then crossed the hall to her room. “You made a mess of the bed again. Come back after my nap and do it properly.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  I managed to remake Annabelle’s bed between cleaning rooms and collecting laundry. Tighten the sheets, smooth the pillows. Annabelle wouldn’t find fault this time.