Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12

Art by Mark Evans

 
Doug Allyn’s 2011 story “A Penny for the Boatman” was a
standout not only for
EQMM
readers, who awarded it second place in the
2011 Readers Award vote, but for members of the Short Mystery Fiction Society,
who nominated the story for a best novella Derringer Award. In December of 2011,
for the first time, the Michigan author made one of his published short stories
available in a stand-alone Kindle edition (see “The Christmas
Mitzvah”).
 

 
“I’m pregnant,” Sherry said.

The
background noise in the restaurant suddenly seemed to fade a bit. I began doing the
math in my head . . . then stopped. It had been far too long.

“Well?” she
prompted. “Say something.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Or not. Which is
it?”

“I’m still working that part out.” She looked away, glancing around the
crowded dining room. The Jury’s Inn is a block from Hauser Center, the police
station where I work. As a local TV reporter, Sherry spends a lot of time here.
Everywhere she looked, people would smile at her and nod. She’s a petite blonde,
strikingly attractive, and a northern Michigan celebrity.

“Is there a
problem?” I asked.

“More than one. The biggest is my boss. Jack
Milano.”

“The station manager? What about him?”

“He’s . . . every
ambitious girl’s mistake, Dylan. We were at a convention, we were both a little
buzzed and got carried away. He’s tried to follow up on it since, to make more of it
than it was, but he’s married.”

“Have you told him about your
situation?”

“I dropped it on him as soon as I found out,” she said, with the
imp’s grin I remembered all too well. “I was hoping it would scare him
off.”

“Did it?”

“I wish.” She sighed. “Instead, he started blathering
about leaving his wife, starting a new life together. This could be a total disaster
for me, Dylan. The network is cutting back. If it gets out that Jack and I were
involved, New York would fire us both.”

“That is a problem.”

“And not
the only one,” she said.

“Rob Gilchrist,” I said.

“What?”

“Rumor
has it you’ve been seeing Rob.”

“Are you keeping tabs on me, LaCrosse? I’m
flattered.”

“Valhalla’s a small town. People talk. And Rob is a major
catch.”

“Now you’re being snide.”

“No, I mean it. You always wanted to
be on top of the heap. The Gilchrists are old money. Lumber mills, paper mills, you
name it, they own it.”

“My God, do you really think I’m that shallow?”

I
almost said yes, but didn’t want to start an argument. Fighting with Sherry is no
fun at all. She’s bright and perceptive, with a reporter’s instinct for the jugular.
Her gibes can pierce you to the bone. She’s always sorry after a spat, always
apologizes with tears, makeup sex, or both. But afterward, at three in the morning,
the barbs fester under your skin like snakebites. Because they’re at least partly
true.

“Okay, how can I help, Sherry?” I asked.

“I need some advice,
Dylan.”

“Why me?”

“Because we may be over, love, but I think you still
care about me a little. And I trust you. You were always terrific at keeping
secrets. Especially your own. So? Can you help me out here? What should I
do?”

“About Rob?”

“No, about my situation.”

“Ah.” I sipped my
coffee, considering that one for a moment. For a split second it occurred to me she
might be probing my feelings, hoping to restart our affair. Not likely. She said it
herself. We were over. A part of me still regretted that.

“I know how you feel
about your family, Dylan,” she said, leaning in, lowering her voice. “They’re
terrific. But I grew up in foster care. And it wasn’t wonderful. Being a mother is
an awesome responsibility. My mom, whoever she was, obviously wasn’t wired for it.
Nor am I.”

“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

“I still
want to know what you think. The truth.”

“Fair enough. I think that particular
decision belongs to the woman who has to make it. Have you told the
father?”

“No.”

There was something in her tone.

“Do you know who .
. . ?” I asked.

“No.” She shook her head miserably. “And don’t get all
judgmental on me, LaCrosse.”

“I’m the last one who could throw stones, Sherry.
But if you’re asking for advice, I think that should be your next move. You need to
know.”

“Why?” she asked. “What’s the difference?”

“If it’s Rob, that’ll
close the books on your boss, Milano . . . if that’s what you want. And it might
convince Rob to marry you. If that’s what you want. And if you decide to
lie—”

“Lie? About a thing like this? My God, Dylan, what kind of person do you
think I am?”

“You wanted advice.”

“I also asked you a
question.”

“And I’m saying that in affairs of the heart, the truth isn’t your
only option. If a new love asks you how many lovers you’ve had before, you don’t
necessarily owe him the truth, besides . . .” I paused a beat,
waiting.

“You can’t handle the truth!”
we said together, both of
us doing our best Jack Nicholson, turning a few heads at nearby tables. And for a
moment I remembered how much fun we used to have. Before we ran off the
rails.

“Fair enough.” She nodded, smiling now. “Your advice is right on the
money, as always, LaCrosse. Totally objective.”

That wasn’t quite true. When
you care for someone a lot, you never really
stop
caring. Or at least I
don’t. Sherry knew that. And she played on it sometimes.

“There is one more
thing you could do for me,” she said, stirring her coffee. Avoiding my
eyes.

“I thought there might be,” I said drily. “What is it?”

“Would you
check into their backgrounds for me, Dylan? Let me know if there are any land mines
I should avoid?”

“Hell, you’re a reporter, you can run a background check as
easily as I can.”

“Reading the news on local TV doesn’t make me Diane Sawyer,
LaCrosse. I can’t use station resources to check up on my boss, and I don’t have
access to the Law Enforcement Information Net.”

My ears perked up. “The
L.E.I.N. is for criminal suspects. I can’t use it for a personal situation. Why
would their names be on it, anyway?”

“I hope they’re not, but . . .”

“Is
there something you’re not telling me, Sherry?”

“No, but . . .”

“But
what?”

She took a deep breath. “It’s . . . a little hard to explain, Dylan.
You know my background. I grew up tough. I’m a newswoman, which makes me a realist,
I think. But lately . . . I read a story in a college lit class once. ‘Something
Wicked This Way Comes.’ Ray Bradbury, I think. That’s how I feel. Like something bad
is coming.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably just a case of
raging hormones, but I’d feel better if you checked things out. I’ll pay for your
time. I know how pathetic a cop’s salary is.”

“I’d work for food, but I’ve
tasted your cooking.”

“Touché, love. Call me,” she said, rising to go. She
paused for a moment, looking down at me.

“I miss us sometimes,” she
said.

“Me too,” I admitted.

And for a moment, with her golden hair
haloed against the Inn’s wagon-wheel candelabra, I felt a sharp pang of loss. Sherry
was an exceptional woman, bright and fun and perky. And the neediest person I’d ever
known.

Heads turned as she walked out of the restaurant. They always
did.

We’d been wrong for each other, no question about that. Our affair had
flared like a Roman candle, and burned out almost as quickly. But it had been
intense while it lasted. For me, at least.

And now? We were less than lovers,
but more than friends. The French probably have a phrase for it. Exes
avec
regrets?
Something like that.

But when Sherry had spoken about
feeling uneasy, there’d been none of the usual mischief in her eyes. That bothered
me. Sherry was practically fearless. If she was worried about something, so was
I.

Besides, I’d told her a half-truth. As a detective on the North Shore Major
Crimes unit, there are legal restrictions on my ability to run background
checks.

Plugging a name into the Law Enforcement Information Network requires
a case number, a badge number, and my personal password. Every request is logged and
filed for future reference.

But the L.E.I.N. isn’t the only way to get
information. The Internet knows everything about everybody and it’s an open book if
you know where to look. St. Mark Zuckerberg had it right: The Right to Privacy is
like Santa Claus, a quaint little notion nobody really believes in anymore.

I
ran background checks on Jack Milano and Rob Gilchrist, off the books. And I turned
up a few interesting bits of information. I left a message on Sherry’s voicemail,
but she didn’t call me back.

Ever.

She was already
dead.

 
Six in the morning, I was toweling down after a shower when my
cell phone gurgled. My partner, Zina Redfern.

“Dylan? Are you
awake?”

“Sort of. What’s up?”

“We have a probable homicide and a major
problem.”

“Who’s the victim?”

“Sherry Sinclair. The TV
reporter.”

Dead air for a moment.

“Sweet Jesus,” somebody said. Me, I
suppose. All the oxygen seemed to go out of the room. “I’ll be there in—”

“No!
You stay right where you are. That’s an order.”

“You can’t—”

“It’s not
coming from me, Dylan, it’s from Chief Kazmarek. You can’t work the case, and you
know it.”

I wanted to argue, but didn’t. She was right.

“Okay. What the
hell happened, Zee?”

“Her car went off the Beame Hill turnout west of
Valhalla. It rolled down the embankment and went into the creek at the bottom,
upside down. The body’s been removed, and the state police forensics unit is already
working the crime scene.”

“What about the time line?”

“We aren’t sure
yet. At least twenty-four hours ago.”

The twenty-four was a rough guess, the
onset of her rigor mortis and its passing. “You said it was a probable
homicide?”

“There’s some damage to the trunk of her car, Dylan. Like it was
pushed over the embankment. But there’s no sign of a second vehicle, and the EMT
said her throat was bruised. The airbags deployed. He doubts she was killed in the
crash.”

I absorbed that. “What else?”

“You know what else. By North
Shore standards Sherry Sinclair was a celebrity, and it’s common knowledge you two
were involved at one point. That puts you on the suspect list, Dylan. You know the
drill, so let’s get you cleared. When did you see her last?”

“Last week.
Friday. We met for coffee, at the Jury’s Inn.”

“Socially?
Romantically?”

“Socially. We’ve been over for a while, but we stayed
friends.”

“With benefits?”

“Sexually, in other words?”

“In exactly
those words.”

“No, we haven’t been involved in that way for nearly a year.”
I’m pregnant, Sherry said. And I began doing the math . . .
Zee was
saying something.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You lost me. What did you
say?”

“As soon as we have a time of death, I’ll need an alibi statement. Chief
Kazmarek has ordered me to take the lead on the case. Van Duzen will back me
up. In the meantime, you have to stay clear of this, Dylan. Are we gonna have a
problem?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Dylan?”

“I’m
thinking.”

“Don’t think. You know the chief’s right.”

I didn’t say
anything.

“Damn it, LaCrosse—”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I promise I won’t
put you in a situation.”

“You’ll stay out of it?”

“I won’t put you in a
situation,” I repeated. Which wasn’t quite the same thing. And we both knew
it.

It was Zina’s turn to go silent.

“I can live with that,” she sighed.
“So. Now that you’re officially sitting on the sidelines, what have you got for
me?”

“For openers, you’re not looking at one homicide,” I said. “You’re
probably looking at two.”

 
As soon as I hung up, I threw on jeans and a
leather jacket, scrambled into my Jeep, and headed straight for the Beame Hill
turnout. I hadn’t promised to stay away, and Zee knew better than to expect
it.

Michigan’s North Shore counties are a study in contrasts. Along the
lakefront, real estate is sky high, posh condos and hotels are sprouting like
anthills, funded by Internet money. Newcomer money.

Ten miles inland you’re in
much rougher country, rolling, timbered hills, sparsely populated with
blink-and-you’ve-missed-it villages with ramshackle houses scattered along the edges
of the Huron State Forest, an untracked territory bigger than half the nations in
the U.N.