Lisa Atkinson - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 5. Whole No. 801, May 2008

“Because we haven’t found him yet,” the inspector whipped back crossly. “It doesn’t make him mock. He could be that waiter at Romanos or any other of the hundreds of aging Italians in London.”

“But what if he isn’t?” Auguste said.

“Dead, you mean?”

“Isn’t made of real turtle. Suppose he always was mock, and a purée of turtle herbs was added to confuse us. Mary Bracket was a child at the time of the murder. She said her mother had told her the story. Who told the mother, though? And who told Montague Phelps? Remember that after the crime, the mother made some investigations herself and then left London with her daughter, who has only just returned here.”

“So she’s a mock turtle, is she?” Egbert was getting impatient. “Get to the point, Auguste. You mean Miss Bracket saw Fantino in London?”

“No. She saw the distressed gentleman. He implied but didn’t say he’d seen the murderer he feared.” In his mind’s eye he could see Phelps nodding approvingly.

Egbert Rose clutched his head. “You mean Phelps was Fantino?”

“There was no Fantino. Did anybody at the Yard check to see if there was such an actor? Even if there was, he didn’t kill Adolphus Bracket. Once begun, the myth of Fantino just grew. Actors at his level were coming and going all the time. There was no proof in fact that Adolphus Bracket had been killed by someone at the Albion. But there was a deep suspicion in the widow’s mind which she passed on to her daughter. The daughter returned to London and saw Montague Phelps. The soup that had been simmering in her mind for nineteen years now boiled over.”

“So who did kill Bracket?”

“The distressed gentleman, Montague Phelps,” Auguste said sadly. The old rogue had been not a lovable rogue at all, but a most unlovable murderer, who had killed the man whom he believed stood in his way to advancement.

Egbert Rose looked taken aback. “So who murdered him?”

“A greatly distressed daughter, Inspector,” Auguste replied reluctantly, as he had liked Mary Bracket. “Through the need for revenge on the man who had, in effect, taken both parents from her so early.”

Egbert Rose thought about this carefully, and then sighed. “The trouble with you, Mr. Didier, is that you will complicate things. I come here about one murder, and you serve up the most likely solutions to four.”

“A salmagundi of four turtles, Inspector,” Auguste said indignantly, “and none of them is mock.”

© 2008 by Amy Myers

Nancy Pickard’s most recent suspense novel, The Virgin of Small Plains, was published to rave reviews and garnered a slew of awards, including the Reader’s Choice Award, the Agatha Award, and nominations for the Edgar, Dilys, and Macavity awards. The paperback edition of the book appeared in 2007. Lately, the Kansas author has been taking time to write short stories; we’ve got another of her clever tales in store for later this year!

My dear niece Sarah,

While I do appreciate your mother’s effort to encourage you to write thank-you notes, I regret to say that your latest one was a bit of a mess. I mean this literally, not cruelly, dear. I realize you are “only” ten, but that is no excuse for sloppy work. Even a child such as yourself, with a so-called “learning disability” can surely do better than that.

Let me list the ways:

1. Wash your hands before you begin. Fingerprints, at your age, are no longer “precious.”

2. The book I gave you is en-titled Anne of Green Gables,not Ann of Green Gables.Proofreading is next to cleanliness, my dear.

3. You wrote that you read the book and “loved it,” but a few examples of things you liked would go a long way toward proving the truth of that claim.

4. Do not ask an old woman, “How are you?” The answer is rarely, “Fine.” Write, instead, “I hope this finds you well.”

I hope this letter finds you willing to do better next time.

Your loving Great-Aunt,

P.S. Please tell your mother not to waste her budget on such fine stationery next time. You are but a young girl. Dime-store writing paper will do just fine for you.

Phyllis Shank laid down her fountain pen, folded the notepaper in half, and inserted it in its matching envelope, which she then addressed, sealed, and stamped. She had only two more mailings to prepare on this lovely, sunny Saturday morning in June, and a stack of similar notes already completed. She would have looked forward to this weekly task were it not for the sad fact that the world needed so much improvement and she had so little time to devote to it, what with her gardening and volunteer work now that she was retired from teaching. But at least now that she was no longer molding 9th-grade minds — or what passed for minds — she had this opportunity to address others who might benefit from her counsel.

Dear Mrs. Carson,

Your novel, Love’s Mystery, came highly recommended to me by a person I had long considered to be a friend. After reading only the first chapter, I now know two things that I did not know before:

1. No one who would recommend any of your books to me could possibly know me very well. Apparently, she is not the friend I thought she was, a mistake for which I do not blame her, but only myself. You may rest assured that I have also written to her to tell her so.

2. Publishing standards have declined shockingly, which I pointed out in my letter to your publisher. It is clear that you have some talent, which makes it even sadder that you would waste it on such a tasteless story with such offensive language in it. I’m sure you do not use those words in your own life, so I cannot imagine why you would inflict them on your would-be readers.

I regret to tell you that I will never check out any of your other books from the library, nor can I in good conscience recommend them to my acquaintances.

Yours truly,

Proofread. Fold. Insert. Address. Seal. Stamp.

From the stack of offenses she had collected from the past week, Phyllis picked up the thickest pile. It was composed of several articles from the local newspaper, each article marked up with strong red ink — grammar, punctuation, and spelling corrected, questions of fact circled, composition corrected with examples of improved style. When necessary, beside the reporter’s byline she wrote in legible block letters, “AAH?” which stood for “Affirmative Action Hire?” She did not have to explain the acronym, or even pen an accompanying note for this mailing, because the editor, Marvin Frolich, could count on receiving a full packet from her every Monday. He was, by now, after several years, cognizant of her abbreviations. The source of this latest mailing would pose no mystery to him.

Phyllis sat back, satisfied with her morning’s labor.

Then she gathered the creamy white envelopes into a neat stack and marched them outside to her mailbox for her post woman, Diane Stevens, to pick up. Phyllis always tried to time her arrival at the box with Ms. Stevens’s arrival, so that she could let her know of any problems with previous deliveries, or remind the girl to tuck in her blue shirt or comb her hair. Yes, it was a hot job, and yes, it was no doubt difficult to keep one’s clothing tidy while carrying a heavy bag, but that was no excuse for arriving looking as if she had dressed in her truck. She was, after all, an official representative of the United States Postal Service and the residents along her route were her employers.

Lately, they seemed to miss each other, sometimes by what seemed to Phyllis to be only seconds.

This time, Phyllis lingered longer than usual by the mailbox.