Marty DeBeck clapped his hands. “All right, let’s get this show on the road. You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you all together. The reason is, I’m a hopeless show-off.”
“That’s why we love you,” cried one of the actors.
Marty bowed. “Thanks, Loïc. Many of you have heard me express misgivings about wealth. About having all this.” While Marty waved his arm grandly, Tiffany stubbed out her cigarette after only two puffs and went over and stood beside Dean. “Well,” said Marty, pausing dramatically, “I’m keeping it.”
Cheers from the players.
“Sort of keeping it anyway.” A hush fell on the room. “I’m turning the house and fifty acres over to the Dutton Falls Players for a new playhouse.”
For twenty seconds no one spoke, and then, in tears, one of the actresses ran to Marty and hugged him. Others followed. When the commotion had finally subsided, Marty went on. “I’m also giving ten thousand dollars apiece to two people who, like myself, maybe didn’t love my brother but who nevertheless worked faithfully for him all these years.” He smiled at Trish and Tiffany, whose mouths had fallen open. “And finally, you, Rob.”
Clampitt stared at him.
“I’m not going to give you anything. Not outright anyway. But I will sell you something, at a very reasonable price, that you’ve wanted for a long time. Something my brother refused to sell.” A wry smile. “Probably because he knew how much you wanted it.” Knowing murmurs and sad chuckles from the group. Marty threw wide his arms and said, “Shincracker Hill.”
Rob Clampitt’s eyes were moist as he walked over and hugged Marty. When the applause died, Marty shouted, “Does anyone feel like a glass of champagne?”
The answer was a resounding yes.
Champagne corks bounced off the ceiling, glasses were clinked. After a while the actors excused themselves to look over the house and grounds. Dean was watching Rob raise his glass, with his left hand, for another sip. Rob saw him watching and with a slight frown moved away.
It was quiet in the library; Marty somber. “Poor Lacy,” he said. “He did have talent, but he could never harness it.” He walked over to a bookcase and patted a tennis trophy in the form of a player on a pedestal. “This was about the only thing he did well. There weren’t many his age who could beat him. In fact, around here, Rob, you were the only one.”
“Heck,” said Rob modestly.
“My brother always said you had the smoothest backhand he’d ever seen. Why don’t you show us your backhand, Rob.”
Reddening and grinning at the same time, Clampitt waved him away. “Seriously. Use that new racket.” Marty pointed to the black racket, a Wilson Sledge Hammer, leaning against the wall by the full-length mirror.
Suddenly, next to Dean, there was an exclamation. “That’s it!”
Looking both puzzled and curious Marty asked in a quiet voice, “What’s it, Trish?”
“Lacy’s new racket. He bought it the day he died and never had a chance to use it. I’ll bet a year’s earnings that if it was Mr. Clampitt who came over that evening, Lacy had him pick up the racket, try it out.”
Marty looked totally confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Rob edge toward the door.
“Prints,” said Trish excitedly. “That’s what we’ve been missing. His prints will be on the han—”
Her words were lost in the shuffle. Rob wasn’t edging any longer toward the door, he was sprinting, but he wasn’t fast enough for the Misfits’ shortstop. Like a gazelle, she went to her left, dived, hitting him at the knees with her shoulder. The two sprawled on the rug in a tangled heap over which Dean stood with his gun out.
“Okay, Rob,” he said. “Up.” He tossed the cuffs to Tiffany, who caught them in one hand and slipped them around Clampitt’s wrists.
Marty’s face was white. “You killed him,” he said to Rob.
A mad gleam, a crazed smile. “Yes, and it worked! I pleaded with him to sell me Shin—”
“You don’t have to talk till you get a lawyer,” said Dean.
“A lawyer?” Clampitt laughed scornfully. “I’d be better off hiring Donald Duck.” He turned toward the french doors and in a quiet voice said, “Shincracker. I loved that hill. Three-hundred-sixty-degree views, enough land for an eighteen hole golf course. A thirty room inn. Trails for hiking and cross-country skiing. People would’ve come from all over New England.” He gave a choked groan. “My life’s dream shot to hell. Oh well, maybe I’ll get a light sentence.” He turned to Marty. “Let’s face it, no one liked your brother. Look what my act got you and the Dutton Falls Players. By killing him, I performed a community service.”
Marty stared at him, unable to speak.
A forlorn laugh from Clampitt. “Lighten up, man. You look like Hamlet’s ghost.”
“Rob was pretty shrewd,” said Bunk, pulling a dart out of the quilt. “Forcing himself to have a cigarette with Lacy so we’d think the killer was a smoker. Wiping off his prints. He must have gone to some trouble to wipe off his shoes, too, after walking through the woods to Lacy’s house, because we didn’t find any trace of dirt or old leaves. But he goofed on that racket.” Bunk took aim with another dart.
“Did he ever,” said Dean. “Charlie laughed when I asked him check it. Said Rob forgetting to wipe his prints off the handle probably wouldn’t make any difference, that the chances of his leaving a usable print on it were one in a thousand, and he was right.”
“What do you know, I got Saddam’s mustache this time.” Bunk picked up another dart. “That Trish Hazelton is something else, isn’t she?”
“Maybe we should hire her.”
“The granddaughter’s something else, too.”
“Yeah.” Dean tried to keep from laughing as Bunk cocked his arm for another throw. He could see the chief was dying to ask about his date last night.
“What’s so funny?” said Bunk.
“Nothing.” Another long silence. Finally Dean said, “Aren’t you going to ask me how it went last night?”
“Last night?” Bunk appeared confused, but Dean didn’t think he was. “Oh, last night. That’s right, you had a date with the granddaughter. How’d it go?”
A slow grin spread across Dean’s face. “I found out what black lipstick tastes like.”
Bunk looked genuinely puzzled this time. He put down the dart and peered at his young lieutenant. “Are you okay? Listen, this has been a tough week. Long hours, lots of stress. Maybe you should take a couple days off.”
Missing Persons
by Jas. R. Petrin
Returning from lunch with his meal repeating under his ribs, Chief Robideau was in no mood to display charm at finding Mrs. Robideau and a woman who looked like a small, anxious poodle waiting for him in his office. He mumbled a greeting, sat down, and rummaged in a desk drawer for an antacid pill. Mrs. Robideau jumped to her feet and fastened a scathing look on him.
“Where have you been?” Then, preferring her own response, she added, “I know where. Out wasting time while criminals go skulking around. Sometimes I wonder why we pay our taxes!”
“One reason we pay our taxes,” the chief gently reminded her, “is so that I can continue to draw my salary.” He swallowed one of the tablets dry, peering blearily around for something to wash it down with.
“This,” declared Mrs. Robideau, indicating the small woman as if introducing a royal personage, “is Betty-Anne Bretton, and she has a crime to report. Hear that? A crime! Go on, Bets, tell him. If he tries to bully you, I’m right here.”