We All Killed Grandma

Editors’ Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

From 1947 to 1956, Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries was a pulp imprint that published hard-boiled noir detective fiction. In those years, it published eighty-two titles, including novels by noir icon Mickey Spillane. In the summer of 2012, Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries was launched as a digital imprint, dedicated to discovering and publishing original crime short stories and novellas that capture the noir spirit in a fresh, modern way, as eBooks.

We at DGE are thrilled that we have the opportunity to introduce new characters to the world. From journalists to private eyes to hit men to cops, both clean and crooked, we couldn’t be more proud of the colorful cast of characters solving the mysteries under our imprint—and of the wonderful authors who’ve penned them.

But neither do we forget the characters and authors who came before. The original Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries was home to some incredible writers. From time to time, we will turn to our vintage DGE catalog to find a hidden gem we feel should be highlighted for a modern—and digital—audience.

Fredric Brown (1906–72) was one of Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries’ original authors. A writer of mysteries, science fiction, and more than two hundred and fifty short stories, Brown won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel with
The Fabulous Clipjoint
. He also has some highly accomplished fans, including Neil Gaiman, Ayn Rand, and fellow DGE author Mickey Spillane, who called Brown “my favorite writer of all time.”

In Brown’s
We All Killed Grandma
, Rod Britten’s first memory is speaking to the police on the phone, staring at the body of a woman with a bullet in her brain. His quest to recover his memory and find the killer puts him in grave danger: What does he know about the murder that his mind won’t let him remember?

We hope you enjoy this foray into DGE’s illustrious past. Find us online to see the exciting new writers we’ll be launching soon.

The Editorial Staff

Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries

www.duttonguiltedged.com

www.twitter.com/DGE_Mysteries

www.facebook.com/DuttonGuiltEdgedMysteries

T
HE
telephone directory had given me the address; it was an apartment building like any fairly new, medium-priced apartment building midway between downtown and the suburbs. Six apartments on each of six floors, the mailboxes showed. Each mailbox had a white card in a slot and each white card had a name. I looked over the names. Jensen, Raeburn, Steiner…Robin Trenholm, 3-C.

I pressed the buzzer button and the lock on the inner door buzzed; I caught it on the second buzz and went in. From the numbering on the mailboxes, 3-C would be on the third floor. There was an automatic elevator. Empty, waiting. I got in and pressed the 3 button. The doors slid shut and a moment later slid open again; I stepped out into a hallway. I found 3-C and pressed a button in the middle of the door; I got chimes. The door opened.

I knew it was Robin because, yesterday evening, Arch had shown me snapshots in a photograph album and said, “That’s Robin. And if you’re smart you won’t look her up. It’ll make things worse.”

Apparently I wasn’t being smart.

She was much prettier than the snapshots had showed her to be. She was tall, almost as tall as I, and slender. But not too slender; she had breasts and hips. She had a calm grave face, dark eyes, flawless olive skin, full lips that looked made for laughing and for kissing. Hair so black that it seemed to have a bluish tint. If it matters, she wore a yellow sweater and black skirt, black shoes, stocking-colored stockings.

And she stood there now with the door two-thirds open, neither blocking me nor inviting me in. I might have been as complete a stranger to her as she was to me.

“Robin?” I said.

“Yes, Rod.” Cool and impersonal. But not antagonistic.

“May I talk to you? May I come in?”

I could have counted at least ten seconds. Finally she said, “All right,” and stepped back.

I went in and glanced around. I was in a medium-sized living room, tastefully but not expensively furnished. The pictures on the wall were all prints, but good ones. Cézanne, Van Gogh, a terrifying Roualt. I liked them; probably I had chosen them. There were two doors besides the one I’d just come in; one no doubt led to a bedroom, the other to a kitchen. But they were both closed and I didn’t know which was which.

It didn’t matter; they were doors I’d never go through again.

Robin said, “Sit down, Rod. Since you’re here, you might as well sit down. And you look so silly standing there.”

I’d felt silly. I sat down. I decided I’d better say something.

I said, “Robin, I don’t know how well I can explain why I came here, why I want to talk to you. I’m not sure I understand myself. But I know I’m lost, disoriented. It’ll help to know as much as I can about myself—who and what I was before I got this damn amnesia. You’re probably the person who can tell me the most. We were married two years.”

Her eyes narrowed a little. “You remember that?”

I said, “I’m not playing games. I remember nothing before a few minutes after midnight Monday night. I know what I do know about myself because of what other people have told me. Mostly Arch, who tells me he’s my half-brother. I had to look up this address in the phone book. I knew you when you came to the door because of snapshots of you in an album. The amnesia is complete up to the time I mentioned; I remember everything since then, nothing before. If you can’t believe that, we’ve got no basis for discussion; I might as well leave.”

“All right, Rod. I believe you.”

“Then you’ll help me by answering questions? First—because it’s what I’m wondering right now, why did you doubt before you said you believed me? If you thought, or even suspected, that I’ve been faking this amnesia—
and you must have heard or read that I have it—have you been thinking I was a murderer? If I am, I might be faking. I can’t think of any other reason.”

“I didn’t think—that’s not a fair question, Rod. I didn’t really think you were lying; it was just that it caught me off guard, your knowing how long we’d been married. If I’d stopped to think, I’d have realized that you’d be briefed by now, by someone, on at least the major facts and dates of your life.”

“Tell me this, Robin. It’s probably my main question. Knowing me as well as you must have known me, could I have committed a murder?”

“Never, in your right mind. You were—I mean, are—”

“Stick to the past tense; it’ll be less confusing. You’re telling me what I was while we were married.”

“You were mild, gentle, unambitious, unaggressive. You never went hunting or fishing because you didn’t like to kill things. Does that answer your question?”

“I guess it does, as far as my right mind is concerned. But I was pretty drunk that night. Did I by any chance change character when I’d been drinking?”

“No, you got gently philosophical.”

I grinned. “I seem to detect a note of subtle sarcasm. I gather you’d have liked me better a little more pugnacious. But, well, thanks for answering the question. I seemed, too, to notice something about the way you said ‘unambitious’ a moment ago. Was that why you divorced me, Robin?”

“I’d rather not talk about that.”

“All right,” I said. “How much do you know about what happened Monday night, Robin?”

“Just what I read in the paper the next day. I tore out the clipping and put it in my purse. Do you want to read it?”