“So what happened in the house? I mean the ruin. Pately Hall?”
“Is that what it’s called?”
Karen Ovenhouse was a tall, slender woman; in terms of appearance she was more of a businesswoman than an undergraduate. The Cartier watch, the gold bracelet, the pinstriped suit. “Well, they got greedy, dare say, it’s the old, old story. I offered them ten thousand pounds each. For them and their background that’s very big money. They had to take zero risk, the plan couldn’t go wrong. We picked up the ransom using his van and got back to the house... When they found out how much money was involved, they wanted more. He, Big Max, came at me with the knife... I don’t know what happened... There was a struggle...”
“Very convenient,” Menninot said coldly. “In fact, the truth of it is that you got rid of them as soon as you had the ransom.”
“Believe what you want to believe. We had a fight and she hit her head. I thought she was dead so I made it look like suicide.”
“That actually killed her. At this stage, I have to caution you that if you do now mention anything...”
“No need.” Karen Ovenhouse held up her hand. “I’ll confess. I’ll confess to everything, the ransom, my own kidnapping... I’ll do ten years... half of it in an open prison. My million pounds will have nearly doubled by then and I’ll still be in my early thirties. I can cope with that.”
“You don’t keep that. The law prohibits you from profiting from a crime.”
Colour drained from Ovenhouse’s face.
“It’ll be confiscated, ‘sequestered’ is the correct term,” Menninot continued. “And it will be easy enough to trace since you told us it’s in a bank account in your name. A false name, or an overseas account, and we might have a problem.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought...”
“You’re right about the other bit, though... the ten years... And I’d say that’s minimum... And I wouldn’t bank on the open prison either.”
Joseph Kelly sat in his small flat poring over an Ordnance Survey map of South Downs. There was a ruin there, just to the north of Brighton. One day to get down there, one day snooping, one day to get back...
Copyright © 2012 by Peter Turnbull
Old Man Gloom
by David Edgerley Gates
David Edgerley Gates belongs to a rare breed: He’s a short-fiction specialist, and has received two nominations for the prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award and one for the Shamus Award for his stories. His tales are often of novella length and always involve a vivid depiction of his chosen setting, which is usually the American Southwest. This month he brings back the character featured in his last story for EQMM (see “The Lion of the Chama” 12/03), retired lawman Benny Salvador.
That year Aurora was one of the little Glooms who gather at Zozobra’s skirts. She was thirteen. Her sister Angelina, at fourteen, liked to pretend she was too grown up for such things, but she fussed over Aurora’s costume all the same, and when Fiesta came, she was as excited as any other child, anticipating the fireworks blooming in the night sky.
They got there early, Benny and Teresa and the girls. Aurora had been to rehearsals, but she wanted to be sure she was well ahead of time.
Teresa let her skitter away.
“She’ll be fine,” Benny said. He knew his wife was afraid she’d lose Aurora in the crowd. He had to admit that he was too, but God had given them wings to fly. You had to put your fears aside. You bent the bow, children were arrows. Anything that might have happened to them before was history.
“What if she has to pee?” Angelina asked him.
“You’re asking me?” He had to take a leak himself.
It was the weekend after Labor Day. The war had been over for two years. Benny Salvador was still sheriff in Rio Arriba. Connie Navarro, the girls’ mom, was working down south in Albuquerque, and visited every weekend. Their father, Victor, was up in Hanford. He tried to get back every few weeks, but to all intents and purposes, Benny and Teresa were their parents.
Teresa had delivered two babies, stillborn, so the Navarro girls were her lifeline. His, as well. You played the cards you’d been dealt, in life or at the table, and occasionally you drew a good hand. Benny felt the deck had been kind to him, so far.
Zozobra was a marionette, thirty feet tall. He had a papier-mâché head and sticks for arms, draped in a tall white gown. People wrote their grievances on little slips of paper, and they were stuffed inside the puppet, so when the puppet burned, your grief went up in smoke, it was hoped. A new tradition, not as old as Fiesta itself, which dated back to De Vargas and the eighteenth century. Zozobra had been invented by a Santa Fe artist named Will Shuster, based on a Yaqui tribal ritual, an effigy of Judas, paraded through the village and then destroyed, with his sins. It had a primitive appeal, cathartic and celebratory, and Benny found it somehow reassuring. He’d long since lost his faith in the Catholic church, and avoided Mass. Aurora’s First Communion was next on the immediate horizon. Benny knew he’d be bullied into submitting to it by the women in his life.
At dusk, bonfires were lit around the stage. The little Glooms danced at Zozobra’s feet. The monster puppet dipped his head and groaned, flailing his arms. Then it was full dark, and Old Man Gloom himself fell to the torch.
Zozobra burned, his groans louder and more anguished. The pyrotechnics inside him began to explode, so not only did he burn, he sent off pinwheels of sparks. Then the skyrockets and Roman candles lit up. The audience laughed and applauded.
Off to his left, Benny heard three sharp reports. Even with the fireworks onstage, he knew gunshots. He told Teresa to stay with the girls and worked his way through the press.
Santa Fe PD had a presence, for security and crowd control, and they’d responded first. Benny was glad to see Johnny Lee Montoya there too. Johnny was a captain with the state police, and he and Benny went back.
The cops had established a perimeter. Benny and Johnny Lee showed them their shields, and were allowed in.
“What happened?” Benny asked the senior sergeant.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” the Santa Fe cop said. He knew Benny Salvador by reputation.
“You have a shooter?” Johnny Lee asked.
“No, sir.” The sergeant knew Montoya for another hard-ass.
He’d let the chain of command bump heads.
“What are you doing here?” Benny asked Johnny Lee.
“Same as you, celebrating Fiesta with my kids,” Johnny told him. He smiled. “Aurora was terrific.”
Benny nodded. He looked at the sergeant. “Anything?”
“We’re trying to canvass witnesses, and we’re looking for a throw-down,” the sergeant said. He meant a discarded weapon.
“It’s not our jurisdiction, Benny,” Johnny Lee said to him.
“Anywhere my girls are at risk is my jurisdiction,” Benny said. He looked at the sergeant again. “All due respect, but I could use a word with the investigating officers.”
“No problem, Sheriff,” the sergeant said, only too happy to hand this one off. “Homicide dicks are on the way.”
“ID on the victim?” Benny asked.
The sergeant shook his head.
Benny knelt down. The dead man was an elderly Japanese.
Three in the chest, DOA when he hit the ground. He was wearing an old suit, much repaired. His hat was a few feet away. Benny stood up. “Your crime scene,” he said to the Santa Fe cop.
As if he were doing the guy a favor. No such luck.
Dean Norris didn’t like Benny Salvador stepping on his toes. And he didn’t much care for the state police presence either. Johnny Lee Montoya had pull with the governor’s office. But it was a Santa Fe PD homicide case, and Benny was Rio Arriba, out in the sticks. He could show an interest, but he had no real reason to be involved. Neither did Montoya. Lieutenant Norris made every effort to make this clear, short of telling them they could butt out.