Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“The final outcome,” Robin said solemnly. The divinatory meaning of the Death card was rarely physical death; it was too limiting. It was usually transformation or renewal: getting rid of the old in order to make room for the new. Death was something that was always happening in life; we die to the present so that the future can unfold.

It was the tarot reader’s responsibility never to predict physical death because of the likelihood that the card represented one of these less tragic interpretations. But there were circumstances in which the thirteenth card had a literal meaning.

And this was one of them.

“There are no accidents?” Julie asked softly, in hopes of being contradicted. Her voice was the merest whisper.

Robin shook her head.

She died the next week. A heart attack. An unusual occurrence in a young woman of her age, but not unheard of. A coronary embolism. Probably from the birth-control pills she’d been taking. A side effect that was rare, but occurred nevertheless. Ron went to the memorial service. “A young woman I knew from work,” was how he described her. She’d been depressed, he said — an unhappy love affair.

Robin wasn’t surprised. She’d seen it in the cards.

Three Happy Widows by Julie F. Crary

Three widows sat and sipped champagne, a taste of freedom once again.

The last man dead, their plans complete, the taste of vict’ry oh so sweet.

 They’d spent long hours on their plan: the perfect murder of a man.

 A foolproof plan was what they sought, without a chance of getting caught.

 They’d talked about a hired gun, but that would cost them all a ton.

 And then there was no guarantee that he’d stay mum and they’d stay free.

 The next plan looked like suicide, then followed thief and cyanide.

 “Aha!!” at last one lady cried, “I know a plan that’s not been tried.”

 So back they’d gone to their own homes, their kitchen sinks and cleaning foams.

 Three better wives there never were, to wait upon each thankless cur.

The first wife was a wondrous cook, the greatest care is what she took.

To serve up all his meals in bed, a big fried steak and homemade bread.

She did the chores and let him be, while he ate snacks and watched TV.

The husband of the second wife enjoyed an even better life.

“You rest,” she’d whisper in his ear, “sit back, relax, and have a beer.

Feel free to go out with your friends, and stay until the last call ends.”

Husband number three, it seems, just couldn’t give up nicotine.

It didn’t matter — chew, cigars, or cigarettes with all that tar.

She took this habit in her stride, and all she said was, “Smoke outside.”

 Now husband number one has died; with racking sobs, his good wife cried.

 “Oh what a pity,” neighbors said, “a heart attack, and now he’s dead.

 It seems that his cholesterol completely plugged his right heart wall.”

 The second husband followed suit, the reason why they’d not refute.

 “A pickled liver,” people heard, “cirrhosis” the official word.

 Devoted wife that she had been, she looked depressed, red-eyed and thin.

 Now cancer’s caused the third man’s death; he had to fight to get his breath.

 The oxygen had been routine, his lungs destroyed by nicotine.

 His widow pale, her lips compressed, from head to toe in black she dressed.

Three widows sat and sipped champagne, a taste of freedom once again.

Cholesterol, tobacco, booze. A brilliant plan; they could not lose.

“There’s nothing anyone can say; we knocked them off the legal way.”

The Cherub Affair by Peter Robinson

Best known for his award-winning Yorkshire police series starring Inspector Banks, Peter Robinson is also the author of non-series books and a score of short stories. His stories have claimed several awards, including the Macavity, the CWA’s Short Story Dagger, and 2001’s Edgar for Best Short Story (for “Missing in Action” from EQMM). Mr. Robinson’s latest Banks novel is Close to Home. This new tale introduces a Toronto P.I.

1

Dazzling sunlight spun off the glass door of Angelo’s when I pulled it open and walked in at eleven that morning, as usual.

“Morning, Mr. Lang,” said Angelo. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have a cup of your finest java and one of those iffy-looking crullers, please.”

“Iffy-looking! All our donuts are fresh this morning.”

“Sure, Angelo. I’ll take one anyway. How’s business?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Watch the game last night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t tell me, they lost again, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Angelo is a diehard Blue Jays fan. He gets depressed when they lose. He’s been depressed a lot this summer.