Black Cat Weekly #157

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE CAT’S MEOW

ROUGH MORNING, by H.K. Slade

THE THREE QUARTERS CLUE, by Hal Charles

A DAY AT THE BEACH, by Susan Dunlap

MUFFINS AND MALICE, by Ken Foxe

THE MOVING FINGER, by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

HOW JACQUEREL FELL PREY TO ANKARRAH, by Janet Fox

SOLITUDE, by John S. Glasby

THE ORDEAL OF LANCELOT BIGGS, by Nelson S. Bond

AND A LITTLE CHILD, by Marcia Kamien

STRANGERS TO STRABA by Carl Jacobi

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

Rough Morning is copyright © 2024 by H.K. Slade and appears here for the first time.

The Three Quarters Clue is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

A Day at the Beach is copyright © 2018 by Susan Dunlap. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May/June 2018. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Muffins and Malice is copyright © 2024 by Ken Foxe and appears here for the first time.

The Moving Finger, by Natalie Sumner Lincoln, was originally published in 1918.

How Jaquerel Fell Prey to Ankarrah is copyright © 1980 by Janet Fox, originally appeared in Space & Time #55 (April 1980). Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Solitude is copyright © 1963 by John S. Glasby. Originally published in Supernatural Stories No. 79 under the pseudonym Michael Hamilton. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Phil Harbottle of the Cosmos Literary Agency (UK).

The Ordeal of Lancelot Biggs, by Nelson S. Bond, was originally published in Amazing Stories, May 1943.

And a Little Child, by Marcia Kamien, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, September 1954.

Strangers to Straba, by Carl Jacobi, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, October 1954.

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR & PUBLISHER

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

EDITORIAL BOARD

Thomas A. Easton

Ryan Hines

Vicki Erwin

Paula Messina

Richard Prosch

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Another week, another issue—this time featuring terrific originals from H.K. Slade (part of his Friday Hampton/Ambrose Broyhill series, courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Ken Foxe (a crime story set at rival coffee shops). And we have modern tales by Susan Dunlap (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), Janet Fox (a sword and sorcery tale featuring her master thief, Jaquerel), and John S. Glasby (dark fantasy from a British master).

For our mystery novel, we have Natalie Sumner Lincoln’s classic The Moving Finger. Rounding things out, we have classic science fiction from Nelson S. Bond, Marcia Kamien, and Carl Jacobi. Of course, no issue would be compelte without a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

Here’s the complete lineup—

Cover Art: Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Rough Morning, by H.K. Slade [Michael Bracken Presents short story, Friday Hampton/Ambrose Broyhill series]

The Three Quarters Clue, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

A Day at the Beach, by Susan Dunlap [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Muffins and Malice, by Ken Foxe [short story]

The Moving Finger, by Natalie Sumner Lincoln [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

How Jaquerel Fell Prey to Ankarrah, by Janet Fox [short story, Jaquerel series]

Solitude, by John S. Glasby [short story]

The Ordeal of Lancelot Biggs, by Nelson S. Bond [short story, Lancelet Biggs series]

And a Little Child, by Marcia Kamien [short story]

Strangers to Straba, by Carl Jacobi [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

ROUGH MORNING,

by H.K. Slade

A Friday Hampton/Ambrose Broyhill Mystery

Senior Officer Friday Hampton staggered to the door, spent and bedraggled after another fourteen-hour overnight shift. The job had only gotten worse over the last few years, more calls and fewer officers to take them. She’d started her career on a squad of twelve. Now they were five. She fumbled her key into the lock, drunk with exhaustion. Finally, she was home. No AVL dispatch, no incessant radio traffic, no body cameras. She could even turn her city phone off. She opened the door to her sanctuary and took a deep breath, only to be hit by the double barrel stink of old Chinese food and teenage body-odor.

Her living room could have been the centerfold for Frat House Quarterly. Empty Coke cans, overflowing ashtrays, piles of junk food, and, at the middle of it all, her fifteen-year-old nephew sat playing video games. Friday reached over and ripped the blinds open. Sunlight poured into the stale room, and the teenager shrieked and flinched back from it.

Have you even been to bed? she asked, only avoiding an all-out rage courtesy of her incredible fatigue.

The teenager crossed his arms and collapsed back into the couch. Have you?

This, she thought, is why I don’t have kids of my own. I was working, Mario, not playing video games. Friday felt the frustration building inside, and it scared her. She was all the boy had, and if she spoke the words she really wanted to say, she’d never be able to take them back. I need some sleep. Pick up this place before I wake up, or I swear I will send you back to Nebraska to live with your mother and her boyfriend.

As she walked down the hall stripping off her equipment, she heard Mario ask in his sulkiest tones, I don’t see why I can’t live with my dad.

The statement was stupid, but Friday was learning that a teenager’s ability to ignore life’s realities had no upper limits. She finished pulling her vest off her shoulder, then turned to answer her nephew. Because he’s in prison, Mario. Exactly where you’re heading if you don’t get yourself together. Get this place cleaned up and I’ll take you to lunch in a few hours.

She made it back to her bedroom and dropped her duty belt and the remainder of her gear into a pile on the rug at the end of her bed. Friday turned to close the door just in time to catch the teenager’s response: Whatever.

He makes a good point, she thought. Whatever, indeed. She shut and locked the door, stripped off the rest of her uniform, and crawled under the covers. Friday was asleep before the sheets settled.

Four hours later, she awoke groggy and disoriented, as she often did coming off a night shift. She had another eight hours of sleep in her, but her stomach demanded that she wake up and eat something. Friday stumbled into the bathroom to wash the sand out of her eyes. Normally, it took almost a minute for the hot water to work its way through the pipes, but the water was scalding. It filled her with hope that Mario was running the dishwasher. Or the washing machine. Or, miracle of miracles, both.

Friday’s hopes were dashed when she stepped into the living room. Things were mostly the same except for a teenager-size dent in her couch cushions. Mario! she shouted. Nothing. She checked his room and the bathroom. All empty. The front door was cracked open. Friday couldn’t remember if she’d bothered to lock it when she’d come home. It didn’t matter. Mario wasn’t in the house, so there was no sense getting worked up yet. There’d be time enough for that later.

She closed the door and began picking up her things; it would severely undercut Mario’s upcoming lecture if he could point to her mess. Friday grabbed her gear bag and made her way down the hall gathering the trail of clothes and equipment. When she got to her bedroom, she bent to retrieve her duty belt, and her heart caught in her throat.

The holster was empty. Her duty weapon, a departmentally issued SIG 226, was gone.

* * * *

Retired Detective Ambrose Broyhill strolled through the city park, not missing one bit of the forty pounds he’d lost over the summer. He owed it all to his best friend and walking companion.

Pretty doggy, a little girl said and reached out to pet Lilo. The girl’s mother jerked her back by the arm, and the child shrieked. Lilo looked up at Ambrose, his ears drooping, his tail tucked. Ambrose knelt down to pat the big dog on his giant head.

It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.

The mother, who was still dragging her crying child by the arm, muttered loudly, It’s dangerous. That dog’s a menace.

Ambrose harrumphed into his giant mustache and watched the crazy woman scurry away. You’re not dangerous, are you boy? As if waiting for the cue, Lilo licked the side of his face. His whippy tail began to twitch.

Ambrose wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket. Not unless someone is allergic to dog slobber.

It took a moment for Ambrose to figure out that the tingling sensation on his arm was his fancy new watch alerting him to an incoming call. He was old enough to remember when a battery-powered watch was considered high-tech. The thing on his wrist was something out of a James Bond movie. Normally, he ignored calls when he and Lilo were out walking, but his watch told him it was Friday Hampton. Ambrose would’ve shaved off his mustache before he’d even think about sending his old partner’s daughter to voicemail.

Friday. How’s my favorite crime fighter? Have they made you a detective yet?

Over the years, Ambrose had been something of a mentor to the young woman. At first, it had been out of a sense of loyalty to her father, and then later because he saw in her the potential to become a truly exceptional investigator. Overriding all of that was his genuine affection for the girl. Ambrose never got around to having kids, but the pride and concern he had for Friday was what he imagined fathers felt for their daughters. That connection, that history, allowed him to sense that something was wrong even before she started speaking.

I need help, detective.

She called him detective. That meant it was work. Her voice was shaking. That meant it was bad. Friday didn’t need the doddering old retiree who ambled around the park with his dog. She needed the senior homicide detective who’d sent more murderers to prison than anyone else in the history of the department.

Leaning on Lilo for support, Ambrose rose to his feet and put on his game face. Tell me what you’ve got, Friday. I’m here.

* * * *

Friday roamed the neighborhood, Detective Broyhill in the passenger seat of her old hatchback scanning the police radio, his dog Lilo in the back with his face pressed up against the rear window. Friday’s head whipped back and forth, vainly searching for the distinct purple and gold of Mario’s prized Minnesota Vikings jacket. In the four hours she’d been asleep, he could have biked to almost anywhere in the city. Except that the water had still been hot. That meant he hadn’t been gone more than a half hour, and that gave her a search radius of four or five miles. They’d already checked the park, the corner store, the abandoned office building where Mario sometimes went to skate with his friends; nothing.

Friday’s options were narrowing to one.

They stopped at a red light, and Friday pounded the steering wheel, muttering, Shit, shit, shit, in time with the blows.

Detective Broyhill cleared his throat. Friday, I think it’s time. You need to call this in. He offered her the handheld radio, but she refused to look at it.

I can’t. If I can get the gun back, we can work this out. If Mario gets arrested for larceny of a firearm… She shook her head. Staying with me was a Hail Mary. If he goes back to his mother, he’s done. Prison or the morgue in five years.

Friday was well aware of the consequences of her decision. If Mario used her gun to do something stupid, it would be the end of her career, and that meant more to her than most non-police could even imagine. Being a cop wasn’t something Friday did to pay the bills; it was who she was. It was her purpose, her connection to her father, the thing that made getting up in the morning make sense.

And she was willing to risk it for her nephew.

Life had never done Mario any favors. He was a good kid despite never having anyone to show him what good looked like. He just made stupid decisions.

Detective Broyhill set the radio back in his lap. He probably could have won an argument, could have convinced her to report the stolen gun. He was the smartest person Friday knew. Instead, he simply said, Head to the nearest grocery store. Teenagers in trouble always seem to end up behind the Food Lion.

The light changed and Friday had no more than taken her foot off the brake when the radio crackled to life.

Two-One-Seven, Dispatch. Friday recognized the voice. It was Solita, one of the crusty old-line cops who threaded the needle between unpromotable and unfireable. Send me a couple check-ins to the basketball courts at White Hollow Middle. I’ve got a ten-ninety-nine vehicle. Four juveniles detained.

Friday’s heart sank. White Hollow Middle School was a mile from her front door. It had to be Mario.

Detective Broyhill put a hand on her shoulder. No sense worrying until we get there.

* * * *

Ambrose’s eyes went immediately to the four teenagers sitting on the curb, feet kicked out, hands on their laps. A sergeant stood guard while an officer searched the vehicle. The radio in the car was on, pumping out some sort of hyper aggressive hip-hop that Ambrose wasn’t familiar with. The setup wasn’t that different from back in the day, except that back in his day there would have been different music and more officers.

The sergeant looked up at their approach. Ambrose thought he recognized the man, though he’d lost a lot of hair and added an extra chin since he’d last seen him. Justin Dale, maybe? Or was it Dustin Hale?

Hampton? the sergeant said. What are you doing here? And is that Ambrose Broyhill? As I live and breathe. I haven’t seen you since that double homicide in Bison Park. What’s that been? Ten, twelve years?

Friday pointed to the smallest of the teenagers, a scared-looking kid with a leather Vikings jacket. That’s my nephew in the end there, Sarge.

He’s got good taste in football. Poor taste in friends.

The sergeant waved them over. When the three were behind the teens, he lowered his voice and said, Solita rolled up on them all hanging around this stolen car. Got reports it was used in that shooting up on the north side last night. Doesn’t look good.

Friday pinched the bridge of her nose. Sergeant Dale, can I talk to my nephew for a minute?

He thought about it for only a heartbeat before nodding. Sure. See if you can get him to spill who was driving. We’ve got calls stacked and can’t spend all day out here.

Right. Friday’s mouth was a thin line. She marched a few feet away and Ambrose followed. Mario, over here. Now.

The kid scurried to obey. One of the other teens hissed something to him. Mario’s hands found his pockets and his chin sank to his chest. I didn’t do it, he blurted.

That’s what guilty people say. Friday crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. What is it you didn’t do?

I didn’t steal the car.

Yeah? Friday stepped in closer. What about my gun?

The comment hit the kid like a punch to the gut. Ambrose decided to hang back. Friday knew her nephew better. Her words meant more to him.

Mario squirmed, his eyes burning a hole in the asphalt. Friday didn’t let up.

Do you have any idea how deep in the shit you are right now? How far I’ve stuck my neck out for you?

The kid sucked his teeth. No one asked you to.

Friday suddenly became remarkably calm.

That’s right. No one had to. I did it because you’re family. Because I love you. Because everyone else in your life put themselves before you and I wanted you to know at least one person in this world has your back.

That did it. The kid’s upper lip went stiff as he tried to stifle a sob. He hunched his shoulders forward, shielding his tears from his friends on the curb. Aunt Fri, I didn’t steal your gun.

That’s unexpected, Ambrose thought as he watched the emotions playing out on the kid’s face. Every indicator he knew to look for, every instinct he still had said Friday’s nephew was telling the truth.

She must have heard it too, because there was a slight catch in her reply. Yeah? I guess it just evaporated.

I’m scared.

You should be.

Friday put up a good front. She had hard-ass down to a science. Ambrose was the only person there who knew her well enough to see how badly she wanted to hug the kid.

Now, she said, tell me everything that happened this morning. Everything.

Mario took a quick glance over his shoulder. The other three teens were still on the curb. Two of them had their heads down, nearly as scared as Mario, but the third watched them with the same suspicion Lilo reserved for squirrels and lawnmowers. The god-awful music from the car was loud enough that Friday and Ambrose were the only ones close enough to hear what was being said.

Calvin texted me, Mario said so quietly that his lips barely moved. He needed my help with something important. I told him I had to clean the house first, so if he wanted something quick, he needed to come over and help. We started, trying to be quiet so not to wake you up. I took out the trash, but when I came back in, Cal was pulling out of the driveway in that Nissan. Moving only his eyes, he pointed to the car the officer was searching, a practically brand-new Nissan Altima.

I thought he ganked the Play Station, but it was still there. It took me forever to figure out what he stole. When I saw that he popped the lock on your door and took your gun, I knew it was bad. I almost woke you up, but I figured if I could get it back before you saw it was gone… He gulped. I freaked out. I just didn’t want you to be mad at me.

The kid tried to sniffle, but his nose was too clogged for it to do any good. Ambrose offered him his handkerchief. Mario looked at it, confused.

It’s what old people use to blow our noses, Ambrose explained. You’ll understand in about fifty years. Don’t worry, it’s clean.

Cautiously, the kid dabbed at his nose and finished his account. I rode my bike around all morning before I found them. This is where Cal and Trey and all them hang out. I just pulled up to try and talk to him when the cop came screaming out of nowhere.

Ambrose could tell by the sour look on her face that Friday understood her predicament. She not only had to find the missing gun, but she had to prove that her nephew wasn’t the one who took it. It was one thing if a juvenile delinquent broke into her bedroom and stole her duty weapon; Ambrose had taken that report a half dozen times over his career, and the most he’d ever seen an officer get was a not-so-subtle suggestion to leave their equipment at the station until they could move into a better neighborhood. But if they charged her nephew, they’d go after her for failing to secure her firearm from a juvenile in her care. They might not make criminal charges, but given the political climate, she’d likely spend the rest of her career on patrol.

Time to start thinking like an investigator.

Ambrose looked around until something caught his eye. He tapped Friday’s elbow and pointed out the nice-looking mountain bike leaning up against the basketball court’s fence. She nodded, immediately grasping his line of thought, and reapproached the sergeant.

Sarge, I think this is just a matter of wrong place, wrong time. That’s my nephew’s bike over there. He wasn’t in the car, wasn’t at the shooting last night. We can pull the chat logs from my game console and verify he never moved off the couch.

The sergeant slowly shook his head. I appreciate that, Hampton, but that’s a detective problem. We’ve got nine-one-one calls to answer. Unless we can find out who was driving, I’ve got to book them all under constructive possession.

Ambrose spoke up. Excuse me, Sergeant Dale, but did anyone actually see them driving the car?

No, the sergeant said, making an obvious effort to patiently indulge an old retiree, but the car is still running with the keys in it, the door is open, the radio is playing, and we’ve got all four of them within spitting distance. I don’t know what more we could do to tie them to the vehicle.

Ambrose was about to politely pick apart the sergeant’s reasoning when the officer searching the car shouted, Gun! I’ve got a gun under the front seat. It’s a nice one, too. SIG 226. Cleaned and loaded. Someone’s gotta be missing this one.

Friday groaned and covered her face with one hand. Well, fuck. That’s going to be mine.

* * * *

Do you have any idea how unbelievable that sounds? Solita yelled at Friday. His breath smelled like low tide.

Friday set her hands on her hips and bit her lip. She was worried, embarrassed, not a little bit angry, and still exhausted from the long nightshift. She tried to measure her words, but she knew it was a losing battle. Mario had nothing to do with this. Look, his bike is right there. Do you think he biked up here so he could hide my gun under the driver’s seat of a stolen car?

The too-old patrolman forced a laugh. No, I think it’s a lot likelier that your nephew stole the car and rode around with his buddies last night terrorizing the taxpayers while you and the rest of the D-squad douche bags were gobblin’ donuts. He could have left the bike up here overnight.

Except me and my gun were on patrol last night, she thought. Solita, I thought people were exaggerating when they said you were this much of an asshole.

Sergeant Dale held up a hand to stifle Solita’s impending tantrum. Oh, he is, but that doesn’t make him wrong.

Sergeant, Detective Broyhill interjected, there’s no lock on the bike. Maybe the area has improved since I retired, but judging by the graffiti and amount of broken glass in the middle-school parking lot, I don’t think it has. Would a bicycle that nice still be here after twelve hours out in the open like that?

Thank you, my friend, she thought, glad as always that he was in her corner.

It would be a minor miracle, Sergeant Dale admitted. But there’s enough probable cause that we’re going to take them all in. The courts can figure out who’s going to hold the bag for the car and the gun. That’s going to leave you in a bind with Internal Affairs, Hampton. He turned to the three teens. Unless one of you wants to man-up and tell me who was driving?

Calvin, Mario’s slimy little buddy from school, shrugged like he didn’t have a care in the world. We’ve never seen that car before. It was like that when we got here.

Detective Broyhill smoothed his mustache. None of you have been inside of it, even just to look around for loose change?

Calvin looked at them with dead eyes, his smile stretching ear to ear. Nope. We were playing ball.

So, where’s the ball? Friday asked.

The smile died. The little sociopath sneered at her. I ain’t saying another word. You can talk to my lawyer.

Solita stepped forward and slapped a pair of cuffs on Calvin. Oh, I’m sure we will. You’re under arrest for possession of a stolen vehicle and whatever else we can come up with before you get to jail. He jerked the teen to his feet and started searching him. House keys, cell phone, cash, lighter, cigarillos. He tossed everything in the teen’s ballcap and steered him roughly towards his patrol car.

Friday watched them go, feeling the situation slipping away. Her head hurt too badly for her to think straight, and the mindless repetitive bassline coming from the car speakers wasn’t helping. She needed another four hours of sleep and then ten minutes of quiet so she could work out how to save her nephew. Why couldn’t Solita shut off the stupid radio while he was in the car?

Friday looked to Detective Broyhill, silently pleading for him to pull one more dramatic reveal out of his hat. The edges of his mustache sagged, and his big, sad eyes told her he didn’t have the answer this time.

Wait a second, she said, faint hope kindling in her imagination. Sarge, do you mind if I just get a look at his stuff?

Give it up, Hampton, he said as he bent down to cuff Mario. Start working on getting him a lawyer and maybe think about reaching out to your union rep.

Please, Sarge. It won’t take a second.

Sergeant Dale stopped, straightened up, and finally waved his cuffs at her. Go on. Be quick. Solita, let her.

Friday jogged up to Solita. Reluctantly, he handed over the teenager’s hat. Enjoy the moment, Hampton. IA’s gonna be real interested in how your nephew was able to get ahold of your gun.

Ignoring him, she addressed the teen. Rough morning, huh, Cal?

What of it? he said and looked her up and down. As easy to see through as cling wrap, she thought. The teen was putting on a show for his friends now that he knew he wasn’t getting arrested alone. Friday rifled through the items in the hat until she found his phone. The lock screen was a photo of Calvin wearing an oversized Philadelphia Eagles jersey leaning against a Bentley Continental worth about three times her annual salary.

You’re a Birds fan.

Yeah, so?

Friday held up the phone so that he could see the battery charge was low. You’re almost out of juice. Let me turn off your phone for you so you’ll be able to use it once you get to the station.

Yeah, alright.

It took a second to find the power button on the unfamiliar model. She pressed it and held her breath as the phone cycled down. The screen winked, went indigo blue for a moment, then faded into solid, glossy darkness. Simultaneously, the god-awful music that had been incessantly playing since she’d arrived cut off mid-lyric.

Detective Broyhill chuckled behind his mustache.

Oh, Calvin, she said, pity almost undercutting her relief. Friday held up the phone to Sergeant Dale. Sarge, you can cut the others loose. You have your thief.

Calvin, obviously confused, looked back and forth between Friday and the sergeant. What? he asked.

What? Solita echoed.

What? Sergeant Dale repeated, unable to help himself.

Process the car, Friday told him. You’ll find his fingerprints all over the steering wheel and the gun, even though it wasn’t the one used in the shooting last night. You can add larceny of a firearm to his charges. I’ll fill out the paperwork once I get my nephew back home.

Solita wasn’t ready to give up. How the hell did you make that jump? he demanded.

Friday caught Detective Broyhill’s eye and the two shared a smile. He’d spotted it too.

If Calvin here was dumb enough to connect his phone to the Bluetooth on the car he stole, it’s unlikely he was smart enough to wear gloves when he took my gun.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

H.K. Slade is a writer living in North Carolina who specializes in police procedurals with occasional forays into Horror and Science Fiction. When not writing or working, he spends time designing an elaborate custom game each year for Halloween. You can find more of his work in Everyday Fiction, Mystery Weekly, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Dark Horses, as well as at his own website, hkslade.com.

THE THREE QUARTERS CLUE,

by Hal Charles

State Police Detective Kris Taylor had made many visits to the Upton home, but always in happier times. Her pre-teen and teen BFF, Meg, opened the front door, and Kris hugged her for the longest time.

Finally pulling loose, the detective said, Lots of good memories here and in the backyard playhouse your grandfather built.

To be sure we always played here, finished Meg in the rhythm of two old friends.

Where did you find him? said Kris.

In his study, Meg, said, leading the way.

The medical examiner should be here soon, the detective said as they entered the study. Big John Upton was lying face down on the desk, a large kitchen knife in his back. Beside his right hand were three quarters arranged in the shape of an L. Are those the same three quarters he had on his desk when we used to sneak in here and play?

Yep, agreed Meg. The first three he ever earned when he came over here from England and helped a man with a plastering job. That was the original basis for his construction company. Do you think that arrangement of coins means something?

I think your grandfather tried to indicate his killer before he died.

He was so weak, said Meg, that he could barely sit up. That’s why I checked on him this morning and called you when I found him like that.

I take it there were no surveillance cameras on the property.

"About five years ago, Grandad broke down and put cameras around