Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“I swear to God, it was the heat of the moment. For God’s sake, don’t let me die! I’ll give you anything. The car. Take the car...”

“You brought the medication with you. That’s premeditated murder.”

“Whatever you want, name it, it’s yours.”

“A confession,” Georges said. “I just want to hear you admit it.”

“All right, all right.” Jean-Paul was spluttering words and water in equal amounts now. “I thought she was rolling, I bought heart pills from a chemist’s in Paris, I held the pillow over her face and—”

“Did she struggle?”

“Yes, of course she bloody struggled! I had to wake her up to get her to unlock the door, spinning some cock-and-bull story about needing to talk, put her back to bed, and guess what? No pillows.”

“She used to pile them on the floor.”

“I know that now, but at the time I had to search for them, so yes, the old bitch put up a fight — oh, Christ.”

His head went underwater, and once more, it took forever before it surfaced. Even Jean-Paul, who couldn’t swim, knew the third time was his last.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he screamed. “Do this, do that—”

“You wanted her money, you just didn’t want to earn it.”

“I’m young! I’m not cut out for fishing false teeth out of glasses, just because the stupid bitch forgot to put them in before going down to dinner! I killed her, and the only thing I’m sorry about is that she didn’t have the money. Satisfied?”

“We certainly are,” boomed a voice from nowhere, and suddenly the night was filled with blinding sunshine. It took Jean-Paul a few seconds to realise they were searchlights from other boats.

“Help,” he spluttered, and it didn’t matter the water was swarming with police uniforms. He was saved. “Help me, I’m drowning!”

“No, you’re not,” Georges said. “If you put your feet down, you could walk to the island.”

Autumn came, and the leaves on the trees turned the colour of her hair, fluttering across the ground like the freckles on her skin. Out on the lake, grebes dived, the last of the swallows fattened up on flies, and in a rowboat a young couple talked of wedding rings and babies.

Irene was already converting the old barn into a cottage.

“I’m so proud of you,” Sandrine said, dabbling her fingers in the water. “The way you went to the police, told them the only way to prove Madame Morreau had been murdered was by a confession by her killer, and then offering them a way that they could get it.”

She hadn’t cut her hair like Farrah Fawcett, why would she? Not when a big man with a broad smile loved to run his fingers through it, telling her it shone like fire and smelled of lollipops and roses.

“I may have thought up the competition, but you gave it substance by saying your father was sponsoring it.” He’d had to lie, telling Sandrine that Madame Morreau confided in him on their walks. But this would be the last lie he ever told, he promised himself. “Without you to hold my hand, I’d never have plucked up the courage to walk into the commissariat.”

“In that case, come over here and show your appreciation properly,” she giggled.

“I’d rather do it improperly,” he grinned back, “but first.”

He prised the master key from his ring and, with great solemnity, consigned it to the lake. As it sank, a breeze sprang up, rippling across the open water and ruffling his hair. Georges swore it smelled of aniseed.

The Shipbreaker by Mike Wiecek

After his graduation from college, Mike Wiecek spent a good part of ten years in Asia, mostly in Japan, where he began by teaching English and eventually found work in a publishing house where he was the only Westerner. His travels took him to many other parts of Asia, which may explain his comfort in employing a setting such as that of the following story. He is a Shamus and multiple Derringer award winner for his fiction, and someone to watch on the mystery scene.

* * *

At dawn, the monsoon rains eased, and the long shantytown of Bhatiary grumbled to life. Low voices in the hostels, feet slopping through mud, occasional clanks from teapots on firebrick, all subdued in the damp, heavy air. Trucks groaned along the frontage road. Later the clanging and shouting and commerce would raise a constant roar along the beach, overcome only by the heaviest lashings of rain. But for now, a certain peace.