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    Black Cat Weekly #80
    Black Cat Weekly #80
    Black Cat Weekly #80
    Ebook449 pages6 hours

    Black Cat Weekly #80

    By Phyllis Ann Karr, Hugh Lessig, Jim Thomsen and

    ()

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    About this ebook

       Our 80th issue has some great tales for you, starting with an original mystery by Hugh Lessit (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and a great reprint by Jim Thomsen (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Plus we have a pair of detective novels, the first featuring New York-based private investigator Nick Carter, and the second another original Hardy Boys mystery. If you read the later editions, you will be shocked to find how much was changed from the originals. These are not the watered-down Hardy Boys most of us read as kids. Give it a read.


       On the science fiction and fantasy side, we have a Frostflower & Thorn tale by Phyllis Ann Karr, as she brings her famous duo to a world created by M. Coleman Easton...in collaboration with Easton. Great fun. Plus classic SF by Mike Curry, Robert Silverberg, Robert F. Young, and Murray Leinster.


       Here’s this issue’s complete lineup:


    Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:


    “The Shade Tree Mechanic” by Hugh Lessig [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
    “Clear as Glass” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
    “The Ride Home,” by Jim Thomsen [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
    The Little Glass Vial, by Nicholas Carter [novel]
    The Tower Treasure, by Franklin W. Dixon


    Science Fiction & Fantasy:


    “A Glassmaker’s Courage,” by Phyllis Ann Karr and M. Coleman Easton [short story]
    “Metamorphosis,” by Mike Curry [short story]
    “Come Into My Brain!” by Robert Silverberg [short story]
    “Bbruggil’s Bride,” by Robert F. Young [short story]
    The Gadget Had A Ghost, by Murray Leinster [novella]

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWildside Press
    Release dateMar 12, 2023
    ISBN9781667681757
    Black Cat Weekly #80

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      Book preview

      Black Cat Weekly #80 - Phyllis Ann Karr

      Table of Contents

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      THE CAT’S MEOW

      TEAM BLACK CAT

      THE SHADE TREE MECHANIC, by Hugh Lessig

      CLEAR AS GLASS, by Hal Charles

      THE RIDE HOME, by Jim Thomsen

      THE LITTLE GLASS VIAL, by Nicholas Carter

      CHAPTER 1

      CHAPTER 2

      CHAPTER 3

      CHAPTER 4

      CHAPTER 5

      CHAPTER 6

      CHAPTER 7

      CHAPTER 8

      CHAPTER 9

      THE TOWER TREASURE, by Franklin W. Dixon

      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

      CHAPTER 15

      CHAPTER 16

      CHAPTER 17

      CHAPTER 18

      CHAPTER 19

      CHAPTER 20

      CHAPTER 21

      CHAPTER 22

      CHAPTER 23

      CHAPTER 24

      A GLASSMAKER’S COURAGE, by Phyllis Ann Karr and M. Coleman Easton

      METAMORPHOSIS, by Mike Curry

      COME INTO MY BRAIN! by Robert Silverberg

      BRUGGIL’S BRIDE, by Robert F. Young

      THE GADGET HAD A GHOST, by Murray Leinster

      CHAPTER 1

      CHAPTER 2

      CHAPTER 3

      CHAPTER 4

      CHAPTER 5

      CHAPTER 6

      CHAPTER 7

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

      Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

      *

      The Shade Tree Mechanic is copyright © 2023 by Hugh Lessig and appears here for the first time.

      Clear as Glass is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

      The Ride Home, is copyright © 2011 by Jim Thomsen. Originally published in West Coast Crime Wave. Reprinted by permission of the author.

      The Little Glass Vial, by Nicholas Carter, was originally published in Nick Carter Weekly, October 6, 1900.

      The Tower Treasure, by Franklin W. Dixon, was originally published in 1927.

      A Glassmaker’s Courage, is copyright © 1988 by Phyllis Ann Karr and M. Coleman Easton. Originally published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Vol. I, Issue 3.

      Metamorphosis, by Mike Curry, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, August 1953.

      Come Into My Brain! by Robert Silverberg, was originally published in Imagination, June 1958.

      Bbruggil’s Bride, by Robert F. Young, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, March 1960. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

      The Gadget Had A Ghost, by Murray Leinster, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1952.

      THE CAT’S MEOW

      Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

      Our 80th issue has some great tales for you, starting with an original mystery by Hugh Lessit (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and a great reprint by Jim Thomsen (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Plus we have a pair of detective novels, the first featuring New York-based private investigator Nick Carter, and the second another original Hardy Boys mystery. If you read the later editions, you will be shocked to find how much was changed from the originals. These are not the watered-down Hardy Boys most of us read as kids. Give it a read.

      On the science fiction and fantasy side, we have a Frostflower & Thorn tale by Phyllis Ann Karr, as she brings her famous duo to a world created by M. Coleman Easton...in collaboration with Easton. Great fun. Plus classic SF by Mike Curry, Robert Silverberg, Robert F. Young, and Murray Leinster.

      Here’s this issue’s complete lineup:

      Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

      The Shade Tree Mechanic by Hugh Lessig [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

      Clear as Glass by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

      The Ride Home, by Jim Thomsen [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

      The Little Glass Vial, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

      The Tower Treasure, by Franklin W. Dixon

      Science Fiction & Fantasy:

      A Glassmaker’s Courage, by Phyllis Ann Karr and M. Coleman Easton [short story]

      Metamorphosis, by Mike Curry [short story]

      Come Into My Brain! by Robert Silverberg [short story]

      Bbruggil’s Bride, by Robert F. Young [short story]

      The Gadget Had A Ghost, by Murray Leinster [novella]

      Until next time, happy reading!

      —John Betancourt

      Editor, Black Cat Weekly

      TEAM BLACK CAT

      EDITOR

      John Betancourt

      ASSOCIATE EDITORS

      Barb Goffman

      Michael Bracken

      Paul Di Filippo

      Darrell Schweitzer

      Cynthia M. Ward

      PRODUCTION

      Sam Hogan

      Enid North

      Karl Wurf

      THE SHADE TREE MECHANIC,

      by Hugh Lessig

      Cher Downey marched into my garage on lime green crocs and dumped a sawed-off catalytic converter on the floor with a defiant humph, as if to say, take that Klaus Richter, you’re not the only badass who can stir up trouble around here.

      I was tinkering underneath my 1976 Chevy Nova, so I saw the crocs first, her stride more suited to the Labor Day parade that marched through Booker three weeks ago. Then came her pink pants and a patterned smock with daisies or sunflowers. I rolled out on a creeper and stared into those flaring, dragon nostrils.

      I stole this thing, and I don’t care, she said, toeing the boxy metal piece. People will pay good money for it. I can get lots more, so let’s talk prices.

      I pushed up off the floor, ignored the first question that came to mind and asked the second. How’d you get it off the car?

      Reciprocating saw, she said with pride. Sliced it like a piece of pimento loaf.

      Her plump face was flushed red. You could blame it on the soupy haze squatting over this part of Virginia, from the shipyard in Newport News to the North Carolina state line, Booker being smack dab in the middle. But the heat wasn’t turning her mouth panicky at the edges or making those hazel eyes dart east and west. Some people require deep brooding and navel-gazing to reveal their troubles, some blurt it out in thirty seconds. I decided to play along.

      You are correct about catalytic converters being valuable, I said. They have rare metals. Platinum, I think, and maybe two others.

      Cher cocked a hip. I don’t care if they have adamantium and Wolverine stocks up on catalytic converters to grow his fingernails. I’m seeking financial gain.

      First off, he has claws, not fingernails. Second, why don’t we have some sweet tea and talk about your newfound criminal career? I got a pitcher in the mini fridge. When she snorted, I said, I’ll let you have my glass mug. It’s clean and frosted. Come on now, Cher. Drinking tea from a frosted mug on a day like this?

      She frowned. I suppose.

      We drank tea for a minute. Then another. That icy tonic worked like a dimmer switch on her mood. Shoulders sagging, she ran the mug over her forehead and rubbed her eyes from exhaustion or tears, maybe both. I need money real fast, Klaus, she said. I got fired two hours ago after Sam Cox accused me of stealing cash from a resident. He personally escorted me through the dining room in the middle of breakfast. She stabbed at her phone. I must have twenty emails from the old folks. Everyone’s worried about me.

      Cher is, or was, the head housekeeper at Red Bend Retirement Village, so named for the creek that curls around the property. She is the proud owner of a 2013 Hyundai Accent, a serial oil changer who pays me with honest money. She’s raising a five-year-old boy and has worked at Red Bend for several years. From what I know of nursing homes, that itself should merit an award.

      Who is the resident accusing you of stealing?

      James Marano. He’s new, and he’s out twenty dollars. You heard that right. I lost my job for twenty dollars. It’s a mystery.

      My eyes wandered past the workbench, where belts and hoses hung from metal pegs, and came to rest on a cork board tacked with thank-you notes that had nothing to do with cars and everything to do with life’s other problems. The more serious kind.

      Cher followed my gaze. I see the wheels turning, Klaus. When I said it was a mystery, I wasn’t asking to be one of your celebrated cases.

      You’re too proud to ask, so I’ll do the asking. This Marano, did you ever enter his room?

      Never mind.

      That means you entered his room.

      Damn it, Klaus. I’m out of a paycheck and that’s all that matters. I got a kid who eats like a Doberman. This morning, I used the last of the milk and crumbs from the cereal box to make Fruit Loop slurry. She gulped back a sob with the force of will. My job prospects in Booker are dead.

      She almost cried. Almost.

      It’s not like you had a future at Red Bend, I said. In my high school days, we always called that place the Dead End. I suspect you won’t miss the smell of urine, fruit compote, and hard bleach, am I right?

      You been out there recently?

      No, and I don’t intend to. I’ve seen plenty of people near death during my travels. I don’t need to see any close to home.

      Cher looked into dark, cool corners of my garage. Red Bend is trouble. I’m sure it’s too much for you to handle. Find a place to sell this thing and say hello to Wolverine while you’re at it.

      I held up my hand as she turned to go. Let me get this straight. You got fired this morning, which came as a surprise, then got escorted out, also a surprise. Yet you had the presence of mind to slice off someone’s catalytic converter immediately afterwards and come see me?

      No, Sherlock. I drove around for a while, calmed down, then googled side hustles. Stealing catalytic converters finished just ahead of Ponzi schemes and beat selling plasma by a mile. I went back to Red Bend, got the reciprocating saw from the utility shed and scoped out my victim. The vehicle was parked in a space labeled None of Klaus Richter’s Freaking Business. Now stop with the interrogation before I get a hair across my ass.

      But you didn’t steal the cash?

      She got up in my face, smelling of Juicy Fruit gum. Didn’t. Steal. A. Dime.

      Her Hyundai spit gravel as she sped away.

      * * * *

      I shouldn’t have badmouthed the nursing home. Just because it’s not a four-star hotel doesn’t mean you can’t be attached to the place. I decided to drive to the Dead End that afternoon to set things right for Cher and her cereal-chomping kid. My cork board had room for a few more thank-you notes, but it was getting crowded.

      That was my own fault, too.

      Two years ago, I returned to my hometown of Booker after a twenty-five-year hitch in the Marine Corps and another twenty as a private security contractor, seeing places where people have been hating each other since hating was a thing. Bosnia. Yemen. A few dark corners that never make headlines. It wore me out, playing whack-a-mole with one hotspot after another. So I came back here, where I led the Booker Badgers to the Jefferson League football championship in 1975. I bought a ramshackle farmhouse with a garage to fix cars on the cheap. I don’t do state inspections or fool with diagnostic computers. But you’ll pay less for a brake job than at the dealer, where some bro named Chad is pushing windshield treatments and undercoats. Men with soft hands and pressed khakis should never talk about cars on general principle.

      That was supposed to be my retirement: a string of simple fixes and people saying, Look at Klaus. Finally following in his daddy’s footsteps.

      Just as I started my life of leisure, Lois Kramer’s 14-year-old granddaughter disappeared with her cockapoo. The sheriff’s department organized a search, recruited volunteers, the whole nine yards. Thing is, no one asked why it happened. Sure, they asked, but they didn’t press. Lois was my chemistry partner in eleventh grade and helped me get a C-minus, a Herculean feat on her part. She had adopted her granddaughter from Guatemala, but you didn’t say step-granddaughter around Lois without getting swatted. That kid was family. Over coffee, I sat with Lois and waited for the knot in her gut to unwind. It turns out Mr. Kramer was smacking that poor child into next week and doing a number on Lois every so often. Lois knew where the kid might be hiding and preferred she stay away. I found her at a campground outside of Norfolk, hungry but healthy. The cockapoo was two rows over, mooching granola in a microbus crammed with neo-hippies who tumbled out like clowns upon approach.

      The child-beating Mr. Kramer ran a real estate business and plastered his face on billboards from here to North Carolina. Word spread that I helped Lois find her granddaughter and might have broken Mr. Kramer’s handsome nose in the process, with a promise to break something else if that girl had so much as a hangnail ever again.

      After that, people started asking me to fix problems apart from cars. Problems like Josh Moore, a smart-ass punk who became a pharmacist and dealt drugs to kids from the back of his store, always talking a blue streak about how great he was. One day, he showed up for work with his jaw wired shut. The Lister Brothers moving company tended to misplace their customer’s antiques, which showed up on eBay. That required a minor episode of breaking and entering, photographing merchandise in their warehouse, and plastering the images on telephone poles around town. In Booker, pictures on telephone poles can work better than YouTube.

      It’s not that the police don’t care, but they’re underfunded and must deal with a Booker tradition that goes back to when I was a kid: When controversy looks you in the face, you tamp it down. Booker has been run by the same seven or eight families for years now, and they like everything neat and clean, even when it’s dirty.

      Sooner or later, I suspect the town fathers will tire of me breaking noses of prominent businesspeople and posting embarrassing pictures on telephone poles. But they’re leaving me alone for now, and it was a nice day for a drive. I fired up my old Nova and kept saying Red Bend, Red Bend, so I wouldn’t insult the help when I arrived.

      * * * *

      Pulling into the parking lot of the retirement home, I wondered if I missed a turn. Gone was the place I ridiculed as the Dead End, a squat brick behemoth that looked more like an East Berlin bus terminal circa 1954. In its place was a sandstone and gray building with modern, sloping lines, ringed by manicured shrubs and featuring a smoked glass atrium. The entrance brought me past hanging plants to a receptionist desk staffed by an elderly woman with a disarming smile and a hair color not found in nature.

      This isn’t like the place I remembered, I said by way of introduction. Is this building new?

      If by new you mean fifteen years ago. According to her name tag, she was Rebecca, a senior communications associate. Are you looking to move in?

      The hell. I’m sixty-three.

      We accept fifty-five and over, so feel free to look around. And we don’t tolerate language here. Otherwise, how can I help?

      She gave me Jim Marano’s room number and pointed to a softly lit hallway with pastel-colored walls, floral prints, and handrails. The air smelled of dryer sheets. Elevator music tinkled in the air. Halfway to my destination, a man yelled my nickname from high school.

      Richter the Rifle. Hold up.

      An old man on a walker was catching up to me. I recognized him as Matt Gardner, a longtime accountant who at one time prepared income taxes for half the town. In the 1970s, Gardner Accounting sponsored the most valuable player award after Booker Badger home games. I’d won a few of those, and somewhere in moldy newspaper archives are photos of me and Mr. Gardner shaking hands and hefting a plaque. He owned an Oldsmobile larger than some back porches, and I installed brakes on it six months ago. He smiled gamely while pushing that walker.

      I didn’t realize you lived here, Mr. Gardner. You hurt yourself?

      Total hip replacement. He patted his side. Too bad you can’t put shocks on a walker, because this thing can’t take turns. He looked past me and waved to someone. Ray? Look who’s come to visit. It’s Richter the Rifle in the flesh.

      The second man who approached was all of six-foot seven inches tall. Age had whittled him down a peg or two, but I recognized him immediately. Ray Stanton was the superintendent of Booker Area School District when I was in school. He ran the district as a relatively young man and would be in his mid-eighties now. He reminded me of a wizened stork.

      Well now, Klaus, Stanton drawled. You got a hall pass to be out between classes?

      No, sir. I was always bad at that.

      He clapped me on the back. What brings you here, son?

      Jim Marano. They said his apartment was the down the hall.

      The two men exchanged glances. I asked if I needed to know something about the guy. They shrugged their shoulders as if the topic was somehow uncomfortable, but Matt asked me to stay for lunch. He said half the residents would remember me from high school.

      Maybe some other time, I said. Good seeing you both.

      Jim Marano stood in his open doorway as I approached, having been alerted to my visit. After we shook hands, he shuffled to a comfy chair and popped the footrest. I picked the couch while his blue eyes examined me from head to toe.

      You were in the military, Klaus, he said. I can tell by how you carry yourself.

      Yes, sir. The Marines. I served twenty-five years. Ended up in Bosnia in the early Nineties. Then I worked for a security contractor for another twenty before returning to Booker. It’s always been home. How about you?

      I’m from the Midwest, but I trained in this part of Virginia and chose this area to retire. Been here a couple of months.

      Where did you train?

      Camp Peary.

      Camp Peary was north of Colonial Williamsburg, off Interstate 64. Its location wasn’t a secret, but the locals never made it inside the gate. The sprawling facility included what the CIA called The Farm. Their agents trained there. Marano waited for a reaction, then chuckled.

      Yes, I worked for the agency, he said. I’m supposed to kill you now, but I’d have to get out of this comfy chair, so you’re off the hook.

      I’m forever grateful.

      People always ask what the CIA was like, he said. For me, I looked at lots of pictures. Most taken from satellites, some a bit closer. Some very close. We were all about the Communist bloc during my first few years. Then the Berlin Wall fell, but we managed to keep busy.

      I bet you did. Who at Dead—I mean, who at Red Bend knows you worked for the CIA?

      Everyone and their brother. They have something called career night here. People give a talk about what they did for a living. I volunteered for two reasons. Number one, it was best to be up front. I don’t want to be Mister Mystery. Number two, the CIA has a generic presentation for job fairs and college recruiting functions. It’s non-classified, enough to pique interest. I was a big hit, although some people keep me at arm’s length.

      I thought of how Stanton and Gardner reacted when I mentioned Marano’s name. You had a theft of twenty dollars from your room, I said. Did it take place after your presentation?

      He blinked. Why are you asking?

      A woman lost her job over it, and she’s very upset. Says she didn’t take a penny from you. Her name is Cher Downey. Short, dark hair and a bit heavyset. She was the head housekeeper.

      Jim Marano closed his eyes and went quiet, if holding his breath. Then he popped out of his trance. His expression turned blank, as if he flipped a switch. Yes, I do know Cher Downey was accused of taking money from my room. Everyone saw her being escorted out. And I did report the missing twenty dollars. I keep my wallet and keys just inside the front door. But I don’t think she took it.

      Why not?

      I’ve become good at sizing up people over the years, Mr. Richter. She’s not the type. But I couldn’t prove she was innocent, so I let it go. I figured the people who run the place know best. Are you investigating this?

      Informally, I said. I’m not bad at sizing up people myself, and I suspect you’re not telling me something. That pause was a big tell. Not that you have to spill your guts. I realize we just met.

      Yes, he said carefully. We just met.

      Silence settled between us. Marano was stiff-arming me, but the guy struck me as solid. I handed him a Richter Repair Service business card and he promised to call me if something came up. I had no idea what that might be, but Cher’s warning niggled at the back of my brain. Red Bend is trouble. I’m sure it’s too much for you to handle.

      I’d love to see that presentation, I said. I did some intelligence work myself as a contractor and considered the agency as a career at one point.

      Mr. Marano slowly pushed up from his chair. I’ll have to find it on my laptop. Might take a while.

      No problem. Mind if I use your bathroom?

      From the main room, a short hallway led to two doors, bathroom and bedroom. I peeked in the bathroom, where towels hung straight from the rack. In the bedroom, a blanket lay in a perfect triangle across the bed. His shoes lined up like Army men. In the far corner, a whiteboard stood on an easel with black scribblings. One circle was labeled Red Bend. An arrow led from there to a second circle named Vlad, Russia. In the middle was a square with the words MedTek, followed by a question mark. A business card for MedTek was taped to the whiteboard. I carefully removed it.

      The MedTek logo looked like an EKG squiggle with the name printed underneath. On the back, someone had written If you must call, keep it on the down low. SC. According to the card, MedTek was headquartered in Norfolk with a branch in the Russian port city of Vladivostok. Taking out my phone, I snapped a photo of the card and replaced it. Darting back into the bathroom, I closed the door, flushed the toilet and ran the faucet. When I returned to the living room, Marano waited for me, arms crossed.

      Did you enjoy the tour of my bedroom? He asked.

      Before I could answer, he held up his hand.

      I don’t know why you’re asking questions, Mr. Richter, but you should leave. In another life, we might have been friends. Hell, we might be friends in this life if I get to know you better. But I’m not there yet. Something is going on in this place. I want to make sure you’re not part of it.

      I left without another word.

      * * * *

      Walking to my car, I resolved to do some homework and try Jim Marano when I was smarter about current events. He was right. We might be friends one day, but right now he wasn’t trusting me. I couldn’t blame him, seeing as how I blundered around his bedroom.

      Back home, web searches told me plenty about MedTek. When American businesses pulled out of Russia in protest of Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, MedTek not only stayed, it expanded its Vladivostok facility. Company officials said it would benefit American patients who needed hospital beds, stairway lifts, powered easy chairs and other company products so disabled people could live better lives. Quite the patriots, these folks.

      More recently:

      —MedTek was fined $300,000 for purchasing hospital bed components from a company with ties to Syria, which is banned from doing business with American firms.

      —A MedTek financial officer was charged with providing kickbacks to a supply company owned by men with ties to the Russian Mafia.

      —Workers fired from the Vladivostok facility told Der Spiegel that MedTek-Vladivostok is a money-laundering hub for organized crime, and the hospital business is a front. The workers were granted anonymity to speak on the record.

      By the time I made printouts and read everything again, it was six o’clock and I needed a beer, maybe two, but my brain kept churning. Sam Cox ran Red Bend and someone with the initials SC invited these gangster-loving jackasses to call on the down low. Was Marano investigating Sam Cox for cavorting with the Russian mob? That seemed odd. Number one, Marano was not an active CIA agent. Number two, he wasn’t exactly undercover.

      And where did Cher Downey fit in? Marano didn’t accuse her of stealing, so why did Sam Cox give her the bum’s rush?

      I finally drank those beers, fell asleep on the couch and woke up at sunrise. Sam Cox was next on my research list, and that required coffee, because the guy was as exciting as watching paint dry. After graduating from Booker High School in 2004 and Randolph-Macon College four years later, he returned to his hometown and worked in the hardware store owned by his father, Ron Cox. I found a brief story on the business page about the son joining the family business. Ron and I played football together. He was a big, brawling offensive lineman who never raised his voice, but you didn’t want to cross him. He died while I was overseas, and I regretted missing the funeral.

      Two years ago, Sam was named administrator of Red Bend. The story said he’d already been at the nursing home for ten years. I did the math: He must have started at Red Bend in 2009 to get a decade of experience, so he didn’t work for his daddy very long.

      Sam also popped up in community news. He served as announcer for the Booker Christmas Parade and emceed the annual July 4th Telethon that raised money for a regional medical center. An all-around good guy.

      I waited until after eight that morning and called Red Bend while brewing a second pot of coffee. I wanted to apologize to Jim Marano and see if we could start over. The woman who answered seemed confused when I asked for his room phone A few minutes later, a man’s voice came on and asked if I was a member of Marano’s immediate family.

      A chill ran up my spine.

      I’m just a friend, I said.

      Who are you, friend?

      I placed the voice: Jake Sterling, a sheriff’s deputy. Jake, this Klaus Richter. I put shocks on your wife’s minivan a while back.

      Hey, Klaus. Geez, I’m sorry. Jim Marano died this morning. Terrible accident. He was volunteering in the gift shop and fell off a step ladder, trying to stock shelves. Fell with a pair of scissors and stabbed himself in the neck. Bled out on the floor. I gotta go.

      * * * *

      I stifled a scream and stormed out of the house, replaying every second of my visit to Red Bend. I told Matt Gardner and Ray Stanton where I was headed. Rebecca the friendly senior communications associate knew as well. They seemed like good people, but nursing home residents trade in gossip as much as bingo, and word about my visit to Jim Marano could have easily spread.

      Did I get that guy killed?

      Opening the garage door, I stepped into the gloom and breathed the comforting smells of motor oil and metal. I walked in the dark, waiting for my eyes to adjust, circling the Nova, and running a hand across its familiar contours. Then I tripped on the catalytic converter and fell to my knees.

      Dammit, Cher!

      Cher.

      I scrambled up and found the light switch. Sam Cox had mysteriously fired Cher for stealing money from Marano, except she didn’t. Sam Cox knew a shadowy Russian company that sold health care equipment, and Marano was suspicious. Cher had warned me that Red Bend was trouble. A housekeeper hears things, and that woman was no dummy. I called Cher straightaway, hoping she hadn’t had an unfortunate accident with a reciprocating saw.

      Good morning, Mr. Richter. You got my money?

      Never mind. Where are you?

      At Chubby’s, having coffee and pie with my son.

      Stay out in the open. Don’t leave your seat. Don’t let your son wander. I’ll be there in five minutes.

      I found her in a corner both picking at the remnants of a huckleberry pie, one arm around her son. Judy, a waitress who had worked at Chubby’s Diner probably since the Eisenhower administration, took my order of eggs, bacon, and hash browns. I told her the boy could have anything he wanted. He asked for chocolate chip ice cream.

      Cher patted her son on the head. Scotty, go sit in the next booth and eat your mid-morning ice cream while I talk with this annoying man. After the boy settled himself, she leaned across the table and lowered her voice. You scared the bejeezus out of me with that phone call. This better be good.

      Jim Marano is dead, I whispered. I spoke with him yesterday and tried to visit today. They said he fell off a ladder with a pair of scissors and stabbed himself. He might have been investigating the nursing home’s connection to a shadowy Russian company. I know it sounds crazy.

      Cher went rigid and slapped the table with an open palm. She stood up, sat down, and took a few deep breaths. She acted like she wanted to hit something. She said, Let me guess. Marano showed you a business card from a company called MedTek with Sam Cox’s initials and a note to call on the down low.

      "I didn’t—no, he didn’t show it to me. I found it. Then he kicked me out for snooping."

      She studied her folded hands and tried to calm herself. Congratulations, smart ass. The guy has probably been to a dozen dangerous places around the world, but you got him killed in a one-horse town known for its textile mill. That takes talent.

      I leaned across the table, and my whisper came out like a hiss. I need to know what you know. You’re not sad that Jim Marano died. You’re pissed off. What did you hear over there?

      Judy brought ice cream for the boy and returned moments later with my heaping breakfast. Then the throaty rumble of an engine caught our attention and the three of us looked to the parking lot. I expected a Harley or a muscle car with performance mufflers, but it was Sam Cox and his minivan.

      That young man needs to get his muffler fixed, Judy mumbled as she walked toward the kitchen.

      Not a muffler, a catalytic converter, I said to Cher. You not only vandalized a vehicle, but you vandalized Sam Cox’s vehicle. Not very smart of you.

      Says the kettle, Cher shot back. You allowed yourself to be followed by a minivan. Now listen. We don’t have a lot of time.

      * * * *

      I hadn’t throttled a man in a long while, but I was still six-foot-four with a hard belly and a fighter’s balance. If young Sam Cox wanted to make trouble in a diner, he’d need more than his seersucker suit and an accounting degree from Randolph-Macon College. I eyed him through the window, but he stayed inside the van.

      He won’t make a scene in a public place, I said.

      "Because he’s scared of you? Like that’s a thing. Now pay attention. Although I was the head housekeeper at Red Bend, nursing homes are always short-staffed. We all do two or three jobs, and I also ordered medical hardware. A couple of months ago, I noticed these high invoices from MedTek, a company I didn’t know from Adam. We were paying through the nose for nightstands, rolling carts, four-pronged canes, wheelchairs and the like. When I asked Mr. Cox, he went all secret squirrel. Said not to pry. Then he walked out of his office and left me alone. I spied that MedTek business card, picked it up, and saw the writing on the back."

      Inflated prices might mean money laundering, I said. I looked up MedTek and they’re dirty as hell.

      Yes, thank you. I can use the web-nets, James Bond. MedTek has that place in Vladivostok, where our stuff came from. A financial officer at MedTek went to jail for dealing with the Russian Mafia. I don’t know the ins and outs of money laundering, but I know price gouging when I see it. I don’t shop at Costco for nothing.

      You tried to tip off Marano?

      "He put on that presentation about working for the CIA, so I figured he could do something. Before I could

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