Bill Crider - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 1. Whole No. 797, January 2008

Her hands closed on his wet shoulders. He tried to shrug them away, but her anger thrived on their potato-chip flabbiness. “Go on,” she said, her voice incredibly even. “Tell me more.”

“You’re a Playboy reject. Look in the mirror, bitch. You’re laughable. You really lost that movie because you can’t act! That’s what Dad says!” He laughed again, his hands almost playfully trying to claw hers away. “You got a smell comes off the screen! Don’t you know that? You stink! You’ll never make it!”

There was no strength in his soft, Big Mac arms. It was easy to hold his head under water, his words just a gurgle now, the frantic pleas trapped in the pitiful air bubbles escaping from his almost-closed, hate-filled mouth.

When she went back in the house she found herself surprisingly calm. Already she had her story: She had left him there practicing his breast stroke and when he had overexerted himself he had called for help, but unfortunately no one heard. She was sure she had been careful enough to leave no marks on his shoulders.

Arnold was devastated. The police told him accidents happen when children are left unsupervised. Megan tearfully accepted the blame, and her husband’s pathetic anger, but she knew she was home free. All their friends came over to commiserate that night and Arnold drank himself into a tearful oblivion.

It was almost a day and a half later when the police returned.

They showed her a vivid, graphic photo of her drowning Toby in the pool.

It immediately metastasized into a major media event, with Arnold refusing to pay her bail. And Gino Benedetti, her nemesis, from his elm-tree vantage point, had finally realized his dream... the cover of People magazine.

(c)2007 by William Link

The Internet is always changing. New blogs come along every day, while blogs that I’ve been reading faithfully disappear. Reader’s Almanac is a case in point. I touted it last issue, and now it’s history, though Bill Peschel promises that something else will appear in its place, maybe by the time you read this. Stop by www.planetpeschel.com and check if you’re so inclined.

Jochem Van Der Steen is a Dutch writer ( White Knight Syndrome ) who often writes in English. He maintains the Sons of Spade blog (sonsofspade.blogspot.com), which is devoted to “spotlighting the fictional P.I.” The site features mostly reviews of private-eye novels and interviews with their authors, including people like Dave White and Shamus winner Andy Straka. If you like P.I. fiction, you’ll want to be sure to bookmark this site.

James Reasoner’s not Dutch, but he knows his P.I. fiction, being the author of the legendary Texas Wind . He’s also the author of Dust Devils , a superb crime novel that recently received a starred review in Publisher’s Weekly . Reasoner has published hundreds of Westerns under many names, including his own. The most recent is Death Head Crossing . He’s published dozens of short stories, too. His engaging Rough Edges blog (jamesreasoner.blogspot.com) gives monthly updates on his writing progress and has regular reviews of the books he’s read and movies he’s seen. These aren’t always mystery-related, but they’re always well worth your time.

The Lady Killers don’t really kill ladies. They’re women who kill people in their books, and The Lady Killers is the name of their group blog (theladykillers.typepad.com). Their own names are Jane Finnis, Cara Black, Rhys Bowen, Mary Anna Evans, and Lyn Hamilton, and variety is the name of their game. Evans and Hamilton write archaeological mysteries, but Hamilton’s have various exotic settings while Evans writes about the American South. Black’s novels are set in Paris. Bowen’s historicals are set in New York at the beginning of the twentieth century, and her contemporary mysteries are set in Wales. Finnis’s series is set in Roman Britain. So you can imagine the entertaining assortment of topics they discuss in their blog entries. There’s always something new.

Detectives Beyond Borders (detectivesbeyondborders.blogspot.com) is maintained by Peter Rozovsky, a Philadelphia copyeditor who has a great interest in mystery novels by writers from other countries. If you’re a fan of “Passport to Crime,” you’re certain to be interested in Rozovsky’s comments on writers like Gianni Mura, Fred Vargas, and Jean-Claude Izzo, among others.

Joyce Carol Oates’s most recent book (Harcourt, August 2007) is The Museum of Dr. Moses: Tales of Mystery and Suspense . The collection received a starred review from Publishers Weekly , which said, “Powerful narratives, a singular imagination, and exquisite prose make this a collection to relish.” Three of the volume’s ten stories previously appeared in EQMM . Ms. Oates’s latest novel is The Gravedigger’s Daughter (Ecco).

It began innocently: He was searching for his wife’s passport.

The Chases were planning their first trip to Italy together. To celebrate their tenth anniversary.

Leonard’s own much-worn passport was exactly where he always kept it, but Valerie’s less frequently used passport didn’t appear to be with it so Leonard looked through drawers designated as hers, bureau drawers, desk drawers, the single shallow drawer of the cherrywood table in a corner of their bedroom which Valerie sometimes used as a desk, and there, in a manila folder, with a facsimile of her birth certificate and other documents, he found the passport. And pushed to the back of the drawer, a packet of photographs held together with a frayed rubber band.

Polaroids. Judging by their slightly faded colors, old Polaroids.

Leonard shuffled through the photographs, like cards. He was staring at a young couple: Valerie and a man whom Leonard didn’t recognize. Here was Valerie astonishingly young, and more beautiful than Leonard had ever known her. Her hair was coppery-red and fell in a cascade to her bare shoulders, she was wearing a red bikini top, white shorts. The darkly handsome young man close beside her had slung a tanned arm around her shoulders in a playful intimate gesture, a gesture of blatant sexual possession. Very likely, this man was Valerie’s first husband, whom Leonard had never met. The young lovers were photographed seated at a white wrought-iron table in an outdoor cafe, or on the balcony of a hotel room. In several photos, you could see in the near distance a curving stretch of wide, white sand, a glimpse of aqua water. Beyond the couple on the terrace were royal court palm trees, crimson bougainvillea like flame. The sky was a vivid tropical blue. The five or six photographs must have been taken by a third party, a waiter or hotel employee perhaps. Leonard stared, transfixed.

The first husband. Here was the first husband. Yardman? — was that the name? Leonard felt a stab of sexual jealousy. Not wanting to think But I am the second husband.

On the reverse of one of the Polaroids, in Valerie’s handwriting, was Oliver & Val, Key West, December 1985.

Oliver. This was Yardman’s first name, Leonard vaguely remembered now. In 1985, Val had been twenty-two, nearly half her lifetime ago, and she hadn’t yet married Oliver Yardman, but would be marrying him in another year. At this time they were very possibly new lovers, this trip to Key West had been a kind of honeymoon. Such sensual, unabashed happiness in the lovers’ faces! Leonard was sure that Valerie had told him she hadn’t kept any photographs of her first husband.