Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

“Then you get left down here with a brick of sharp cheddar up your tunic and rats for playmates. Like I said, scream all you want. As for Billy Athanatos, he’ll just take this five million and walk. Maybe he’ll take a world cruise on The Love Boat.”

For just a moment Bullock imagined himself a renegade Mountie whipping the salvage crew into shape with his bare fists, master of the ice-caked deck of the salvage barge, the brim of his Stetson warped every which way and his tunic in tatters, his chest bare to the arctic air as he traded curse for curse, blow for blow, with a dozen China Sea pirates, while the young Inuit cannibal chewed on his left biceps, the oldster tried to gum his ear off, and Lady Chin-Chin — the convivial one — toasted him with champagne through her stateroom porthole.

Afterwards, to make amends, he’d use his thirdsy to reward do-gooders. “Dear Mr. Jones, I read in the Banff Bugle of your recent rescue of a child from a burning building. Enclosed find some Blue Bread of Happiness. Enjoy. Keep up the good work. There’s plenty more where that came from. Yours truly, a Secret Benefactor.”

“Well, what’s it going to be?” demanded Billy. “Dad keeps a seaplane in a secret hangar across the river in Hull. Say the word and we’re on our way.”

Suddenly, out of the coal-bin darkness, an old woman’s voice said, “Hands up and back against the wall, Billy. Or I’ll blow a hole in you big enough for Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians to march through, flags flying.”

Billy raised his hands and peered into the darkness. “It’s Miss Bright, our old housekeeper,” he whispered. Bullock lifted his astonished head, for he had recognized her voice, too.

But it was Stella who stepped out of the coal bin with a silver revolver in her fist. Smiling at their confusion, she said, “Sybil Bright was all smoke and mirrors. And makeup, tinted contact lenses, and a major in dramatic arts. But she got me the housekeeper’s job and a chance to hunt for the money. Though I never found anything except the fact that Billy here was living in the attic. Until now, that is. Thanks to you, Bullock.”

“But the ashes,” protested Bullock.

“My gluttonous great-grandmother who, the story goes, died of overeating something called Prunes Jubilee. Her urn sat on the mantel there for years.”

Blast, thought Bullock, imagining how a woman’s hundred-and-fifty-year-old ashes had been garbled into the ashes of a hundred-and-fifty-year-old woman as the message trudged from Forensics to headquarters to his locker door.

“I figured spontaneous combustion might hold your interest in case the Blue Bread of Happiness scam didn’t,” said Stella with a smile.

“Hey, the stuff’s no scam,” shouted Billy. “And spontaneous combustion’s no joke. It killed Dad.”

“Dream on, kid,” said Stella. “One night I sneaked back here to make another try for the money and found your dad behind the drapes. He came out in his stocking feet, smoking like a chimney. When I threatened to kill him unless he gave me the money, he coughed and reached out, you know, like he was trying to take the gun out of my hand. I hate it when men do that. Okay, maybe he was only going for an ashtray. Anyway, I buried him in the yard. Afterwards I decided Billy here would spook easy and go for the stash if I brought in a Mountie. Like the one I read about who loses ransoms in snowstorms.” She wagged the pistol. “And speaking of stash, hand it over.”

Billy tossed the duffel bag at Stella’s feet. But when she reached down he spun the gurney. It struck her arm. The pistol popped up into the air, dropped down onto Bullock’s chest, and slid toward the floor. Although his wrists were strapped to his sides, Bullock made a lucky grab and hooked the weapon in his astonished fingers. Suddenly he heard glass break and, as Stella lunged for the weapon, he felt a shard of glass against his jugular.

“Stop or he’ll shoot,” ordered Billy, adjusting the gurney to keep Stella in the line of fire.

Stella stopped. “A Mountie’d never shoot a defenseless woman,” she said, halfheartedly.

“A Mountie better,” said Billy, pressing down on the glass.

“Steady on here,” ordered Bullock with gruff authority.

But Stella ripped the gurney out of Billy’s one-handed grasp and spun it. Now he was the one looking down the business end of the pistol. When Billy started forward, Stella grabbed her shoe and tapped Bullock on the temple with the heel. “Stop,” she ordered. “Or he’ll shoot you down like the filthy little teenager you are.” Now they were deadlocked in a struggle for the gurney, grunting and puffing with effort.

“You’d better both come along quietly,” suggested Bullock.

“The Blue Bread of Happiness works,” insisted Billy through gritted teeth.