Питер Ловси - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

To Huddleston’s credit, he recognized how dire his situation had become, and he glumly accepted what Julius told him. “I’ll confess to killing Jim,” he said.

“Did the people who blackmailed you into committing the crime ever give you the name of who you were doing this for?”

“I’m not talking about that. They made certain threats, and I believe them.”

“This is for my own edification only,” Julius said. “You can tell the police that Duncan caught you stealing the case of Lafite Rothschild, that you promised you’d return the wine to him so that he could bring it back to the store, and instead you brought back counterfeit wine, murdered Duncan, and attempted to frame Prescott. All of which is true to an extent. I won’t contradict you on any of that. But I want to know if during your dealings with these people you ever heard the name Desmond Grushnier.”

Huddleston looked even glummer as he shook his head. “No names were ever given. That’s the truth.”

“Did they know you were going to kill Duncan and try to frame Prescott?”

“No. It happened pretty much as you said. Jim had seen me taking the Lafite Rothschild out of the store and he tried being a nice guy and giving me a chance to return the wine. The problem was I was told what would happen if I didn’t make Blinky sell the store, and it was more than just exposing me. So I did what I did.”

“Blinky?”

Huddleston showed a crack of a smile. “Our nickname at the store for Prescott.”

Griff looked stunned when he came to Julius’s office later and read Huddleston’s signed confession, and he was mumbling to himself as he led a handcuffed Virgil Huddleston away. After they were gone and it was just Julius and me, I told him that his nickname should be Lucky.

“When you gave me that list of states and a time frame to look for newspaper articles featuring pictures of a younger George Easter, I thought you were nuts, at least until I realized why. Still, solving a murder because of a guy’s nickname is as lucky as it gets. Do you want me to try to arrange another poker game now that your luck’s red hot?”

“Perhaps later. For now I need you to call Desmond Grushnier. Were you able to get his number when he called last?”

“Yeah, he rerouted it through two other numbers, but I was able to get it. Are you sure?”

“I’m afraid so, Archie. I’m not done with the job I accepted.”

I did as Julius asked, and when Grushnier picked up, I patched him through.

Julius said, “I’m afraid whatever plans you have for that block of buildings are no longer possible.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grushnier said, his voice venomous enough that it would’ve made my skin crawl if I had any.

“Of course you do. But to save us the trouble of dancing around the subject, Virgil Huddleston, a.k.a. George Easter, was arrested for the murder of Jim Duncan. While I didn’t give the police your name, I informed them that the reason for the theft of the wine and Duncan’s subsequent murder was to acquire Prescott’s building. Forensic accountants will be working to untangle the web of shell companies that you created. Your only hope now is to rid yourself of those buildings, and it might even be too late for you to do that.”

There was an icy silence for 11.8 seconds, then Grushnier’s voice was even icier as he told Julius, “Next time I certainly will let you blow up.”

He hung up then.

“Was that wise?” I asked.

Julius shrugged as much as a quarter of an inch. “Solving Duncan’s murder by itself wouldn’t have helped Prescott,” he said. He had made his way to the kitchen and he took from the refrigerator the chilled bottle of Moscato wine that he’d been coveting earlier. “I needed to make sure Grushnier leaves Prescott alone from this point on, and now he will. I never told you the reason Grushnier warned me about the bomb that time. It wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart. Before your arrival, I had put together a dossier of crimes I suspected Grushnier of having committed, and I let him know that this dossier would be delivered to the appropriate authorities upon my death. He knows that I don’t go out of my way to be a thorn in his side — that I only interfere with his affairs when we have conflicting interests. Still, the day he found out about the bomb hidden in my wine cellar, he must’ve been debating until nearly the last moment whether or not this dossier could hurt him. Fortunately, he decided not to take the chance.”

Julius had pulled the cork out of the wine bottle and he poured himself a glass.

“Sometimes, Archie, you have to make your own luck.”

Only a fool would’ve argued with him. And I wasn’t programmed to be a fool.

© 2018 by Dave Zeltserman

Anna Scotti is a writer and teacher whose work has appeared in many literary magazines, including The New Yorker, The New Guard Literary Review, and The Los Angeles Review. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice, and received the AROHO prize for short fiction, as well as several poetry prizes. She teaches middle-school English at a French International School.

Krikon the Ghoul Hunter’s eyes adjust very slowly to the darkened room. His lids are slits to allow just a small amount of light, just enough to detect movement. If he opens his eyes wide, the hunted might catch a glint of moisture or might sense his gaze. Ghouls have hyper senses; they feel and see as we do, but better. Their sense of smell is sharper. They can detect motion as a cat does. They can feel movement in still air if a cricket grinds his legs together, if a spider drops from the ceiling to the floor.

Krikon is alone; his companion has stayed behind until he can ascertain safety. He hears her in the garage and curses soundlessly. The living room is clear. Krikon moves swiftly to the cracked bedroom door. The air within is thick with dust and something else. Krikon grasps the dagger at his waist. He strokes the hilt. A knife will be effective only if the ghoul is in corporeal form, but the knife makes him feel safe. He touches the gold cross at his neck. He touches his lips. He presses his hand flat against the door.

“Daniel?” The companion’s voice is sharp in Krikon’s ears, accustomed as they are to softness. He hears the door from the garage to the kitchen slam. The companion calls again, but Krikon ignores her. Females are useful in various ways, some of which Krikon does not yet understand. This female drives the car, prepares food, and tends to Krikon’s wounds, which are not infrequent. She provides companionship. But she does not understand the ghouls and how they hide and what they do. She says that if she refuses to believe in them, they cannot harm her.

Krikon moves around the room swiftly, touching surfaces, kneeling to check under the bed, feeling the lengths of the curtains up and down before he peeks behind them. This room has two closets; one for the male provider and another for the female. It is this larger one Krikon checks first, scanning the rows of purses displayed on white laminate shelves illuminated from below by tiny LED bulbs. He touches the cross at his neck and runs his hands up and down the divided canvas rack that holds dozens of shoes. They smell faintly of leather and feet, not an unpleasant odor, but not as pleasing as the perfume that wafts from the upper rail that holds jackets and blouses. The female provider’s closet is clear; the air is light and still. No ghouls.

As Krikon moves to the smaller closet, anticipating the warrior odor of leather and wool and spicy potpourri, the companion calls again. She is closer, and her voice is as sharp and shiny as the blade at Krikon’s waist.