Mystery Tribune / Issue Nº11: Fall 2019

ISSUE NO. 11

MysteryTribune

FALL 2019

MysteryTribune

P.O. Box 7638, New York, NY 10116 / email [email protected]

To subscribe go to mysterytribune.com or call (347) 770-1361

Publisher

Ehsan Ehsani

Managing Editor

Fanny Kellerman

Contributing Editor(s)

Scott Adlerberg, Charles Perry, Tobias Carroll

Cover Illustration

Errata Carmona

Design and Art Direction

Leo Lipsnis

Subscriptions and Advertising

Rachel Kester

IT Manager

Jack Rodriguez

Contributors

SJ Rozan, Ewa Mazierska, Nick Kolakowski, Brendan DuBois, Richie Narvaez, Todd Robinson, Chris McGinley, Scott Adlerberg, Daniel Kraus, William R. Soldan, Jessica Almeida, Sergey Nehaev, Tobias Carroll, Charles Perry, Kristen Lepionka

Contents

ISSUE NO. 11

FALL 2019

Editor’s Note

Ehsan Ehsani

Publisher and Managing Editor

This October I had so much fun in Dallas with other mystery fans and writers during Bouchercon 2019. I met many of my buddies there and met new friends.

Bouchercon and the warmth and the energy of the participants reminded me why I love this genre: yes, it’s partly because of the thrill of reading great stories. But it’s also about the great community that generates, distributes and admires these stories. I enjoyed the company of fellow mystery lovers so much in Dallas and can’t wait to see them again in Sacramento next year.

One of mystery writers I met in Dallas whose work is a must-read for every mystery reader is Brendan DuBois. I’m so glad we got the opportunity to present you with yet another short story from him in this issue. From The Widow’s Walk, like all Brendan’s stories, is a cutting-edge mystery.

Also in this issue, we have a rather long piece from Todd Robinson. He published the multi-award-winning crime fiction magazine Thuglit for 10 years and is a very entertaining guy. His story which has a smart #metoo angle is a noteworthy read.

When it comes to non-fiction, we have an interview with Daniel Kraus who co-authored The Shape of Water with Guillermo del Toro based on the same idea for the Oscar-winning film and also great essays by Tobias Carroll and Kristen Lepionka.

Lastly, I’m sure you will enjoy our art and photography and comics sections that are furnished with stunning imagery. I hope you feel as excited as me about this latest edition and I appreciate if you spread the word about us and recommend Mystery Tribune subscription to friends and family.

Fiction

From the

Widow’s Walk

by Brendan DuBois

After the matter concerning my husband was officially and supposedly concluded, I was offered a house anywhere in the United States for my recovery, and I chose one on the coast of Maine. My only requirement was that it contained a widow’s walk, and a real one at that.

What do you mean, a real one? I was asked.

One that’s on the coast, with a good view of the ocean. Anything inland and it’s just a pretty cupola on top of a house.

When my husband’s case officer asked me why it had to be a widow’s walk, I replied, Because I have a sick sense of humor.

That didn’t seem to impress him in the least, but he did say, You understand, of course, that in exchange for these services, we expect full cooperation in the matter concerning your late husband.

My editor might disagree, I said.

The case officer smiled the smile of one who is in utter, complete and total control. If you’re nice, I’ll show you your editor’s gonads. I keep them in a lockbox in my desk.

Doesn’t mean I can’t publish somewhere else later, I said. Other newspapers, a little alt weekly, or an Internet blog.

Don’t push it, he said. We’ll be ahead of you and block you at every turn. There’s a war on, remember?

How can I forget? I said, gesturing to the hospital room in which I was currently residing, along with my wounded body.

Just wanted to be sure, he said. No misunderstandings.

Not a one, I said.

As promised, the house was on the Maine coast, and did in fact have a real widow’s walk, on top of its slate-gray shingled roof. My nurse said that it was built in the mid-1700s, and it was just north of Portland, Maine’s largest city. It was two-story, with lots of old books and empty bedrooms, an enclosed porch that had a good view of the ocean, and the aforementioned widow’s walk, which had a great view of the ocean. The house seemed to have belonged to an older person at one time, for there were wooden handrails along the hallway walls, flashlights in nearly every room, and a plastic chair for the bathtub and a handheld shower.

The case officer smiled the smile of one who is in utter, complete and total control. If you’re nice, I’ll show you your editor’s gonads...

A gravel driveway ending in a gate in the middle of a stone wall led away from the house, and two bulky landscapers with hearing devices planted in the ears always seemed to be at work there, with lots of wheel-barrows, shovels, and open zippered canvas bags.

I gave them a cheerful wave as I slowly made way about the tiny grounds on that first day, using two metal forearm crutches to help me along, my nurse Elayne keeping pace. Elayne was about ten years younger than me, quite pretty, with brown eyes and smooth olive skin, and black hair that she pulled back in a simple ponytail.

Back in the house, besides Elayne, there was a cook named Paul, who seemed to weigh about three hundred pounds and wore gray checked pants and a white chef’s jacket that was professionally cut to hide the bulky weapon strapped to his side. On my very first day in my new digs, Elayne said, Paul will cook anything you like. Anything at all.

How about a cake with a file in it? I asked.

Elayne smiled. Within reason.

On this gorgeous day, after a breakfast of croissants, scrambled eggs, coffee, juice, and sausage links, I suggested that we got out to the porch and catch some rays.

Elayne kept pace with me, and opened the door that led to the porch. Due to an earlier and unfortunate outburst from me, she knew better than to try to hold my arm and help me along. I slowly took my time, grimacing and gritting my teeth from the pain shooting up both legs, until I got out to the porch. We were on a high bluff that was full of rocks and crevasses, and where the constant motion of the incoming waves threw up high plumes of spray.

I slowly sat down in a cushioned white wicker chair, while Elayne sat next to me in the chair’s twin. She had on a flowered smock and white slacks, with comfortable white sneakers. I had on khaki shorts and a black T-shirt that had a large illustration of a U-2 surveillance aircraft on the back, with the Air Force squadron’s number and motto: In God We Trust, In All Others, We Verify. A souvenir from a story I had done two years ago at a supposed secret military base on the Arabian peninsula. Soft leather sandals covered my callused feet.

It was a gorgeous mid-morning in late June, and the air was warm and fine through the screens on the porch. Out on the ocean sailboats were tilted over as the sails caught the steady breeze, and I saw a cargo ship slowly moving in towards Portland harbor. In the distance to the left and right were similar homes, half-hidden by low brush and tall pine trees.

I stretched out my legs, as careful as I could. The left one was healing faster, because it hadn’t been as injured as severely. There were scrapes, scabs, and two impressive rows of black stitches. My right leg still had a heavy bandage around the upper thigh that had to be changed every other day by Elayne, which always meant a few more outbursts on my end.

Beautiful view, Elayne said.

Sure is, I said. Probably the best view in the entire Federal prison system.

She managed a laugh that didn’t convince me. Oh, come now, you’re not in prison.

Really? What do you call it? What have you been told about me and why I’m here?

I think the sharpness of my response startled her. Elayne’s face colored, and she said, All I was told was that you were a very important person. That you were in protective custody. That there was people out there who wanted... to do you harm.

I shifted my right leg, winced. One way of putting it. C’mon, Elayne, you know what would happen if I were to try to shuffle off to freedom by passing by those landscapers? The ones who’ve spent a week—at least—on a single rose bush? They wouldn’t let me pass. They’d say they were protecting me, that they had their orders... and meanwhile, here I am, stuck in a Northeast version of Gitmo. Cooler with pine trees, no palm trees, but a Gitmo, nonetheless.

Poor Elayne. I don’t think she knew what to say next, for she pulled over a small round table and said, How about some cribbage?

I took pity on her, but later lost pity as I trounced her, game after game. It ended up with me winning four, and losing only one. Even though she had lost, I sensed she was pleased that the morning had passed without any more embarrassing statements on my part. When she packed away the cards and cribbage board, she looked at her watch on her slim tanned wrist. My, it’s getting close to lunch. How about if I go ask Paul what’s on today’s menu?

Why not? I replied, and spent a few more pleasant moments watching the sailboats and the cargo ship.

After lunch I insisted on climbing up to the widow’s walk, and Elayne only agreed if she were to come up with me, holding onto me so I wouldn’t take a tumble. I didn’t feel like a fight so we went to the middle of the house, down a narrow hallway with pale yellow and cracked plaster walls. Elayne opened a closet-sized door, which revealed an old, wooden, spiral staircase leading up. She reached in, flicked a light switch, and a single bulb dangling from a black cord lit up the stairwell. Getting up proved to be a real bitch, as the spiral staircase was both steep and tight. My shoulders brushed the supporting wood frame as I moved up, spider webs and dust getting into my mouth and eyes, and my legs felt like they were being gently caressed by flamethrowers, but I didn’t want to give Elayne the satisfaction of hearing me curse or moan.

At the top of the stairs was a square trap door, with a simple bolt. The bolt slipped back and I pushed the door up, and it went up and fell over with a satisfying slam! I muscled my way up to the roof—sweating through my T-shirt and khaki shorts—and I was panting pretty hard when I leaned up against a white wooden railing. Elayne joined me within seconds, face full of concern.

How are you feeling? she asked, closing the trap door behind her, gently lowering it down with a metal ring on one side.

Top of the world, I said, as I tried to catch my breath.

And in fact, for a few brief moments, I did feel like I was on top of the world. The widow’s walk was about ten feet to a square, with a small gray-shingled cupola in the center. The floorboards were warped and old, but I still felt comfortable walking to one end, leaning on my metal fore-arm crutches, and then walking back again under the watchful eye of my nurse. The breeze was steady and I had a marvelous view to the south of the old brick buildings of Portland, and I could make out beaches here and there along the rocky coast. At this height more of the ocean was revealed, showing a half-dozen tankers or cargo ships either sliding in or sliding out of Portland harbor. There were lobster boats at work and sailboats at play.

Hard to believe less than a week ago, I was in the middle of a desert in North Africa, dodging tribesman and al-Qaeda gunmen, looking for my husband.

Elayne stood next to me, brushing a few free strands of hair from her face. Great view.

Sure is.

Hard to believe less than a week ago, I was in the middle of a desert in North Africa, dodging tribesman and al-Qaeda gunmen...

So what’s the history of a widow’s walk? Why is it called that?

I looked to her. Guess you’re not from around here.

Nope. Ohio.

Oh, I said, trying to ignore the throbbing in both of my legs, the right one worse than the left. Story is, sea captains who had made lots of money in whaling or the China trade, they’d build these houses with the cupola on top and room to walk around. Then when it came time for their ship to return, their wives would stand up here, keep watch. This high up, they would often be the first one to spot the sails and the flags belonging to their husband’s ship. And they’d wait. And they’d wait. And they’d keep on waiting for their husband... sometimes forever.

Elayne crossed her arms in front of her. And if the ship never came back...

That’s the story. It was now a widow keeping view for their long-departed husband, walking back and forth, back and forth. Supposedly some of these homes are haunted, and at night, you can hear the floor-boards creak from the ghost of the widow, walking back and forth, back and forth.

Elayne glanced at me and there was such an expression on her face, that I had to laugh. Sorry, I said, and I laughed again. Those stories... they’re all bullshit.

Hunh?

"All bullshit. You get lots of these homes, built up and down the coast, nowhere near a harbor. You’ve got homes built like this, scores of miles away from the ocean.