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

Gilbert took a sip of his beer. “You heard they arrested Gabby Sheridan?” he said. “They tracked the Sanderson School endowment back to her. She was lying to us. She got a share after all, and that’s what she did with her money.”

Lombardo nodded somberly. “Devon mentioned it to me,” he said. “I feel sorry for her kids.”

“The Jamaican Constabulary confiscated the money as evidence. The school’s not going to get it now. And that makes this whole thing really sad.”

The two detectives parted company a short while later. Gilbert, picking up a newspaper first, drove home in the family Windstar.

He glanced at the paper as he waited for a red light. He found a small story about Gabby on the first page. Drug busts usually didn’t make the first page. But because all her drug profits went to Sanderson School, this bust was noteworthy.

He shook his head as the light changed to green. He drove through the rain. He didn’t feel good about this one. Her babies. What would happen to them now? You couldn’t make good out of bad, but Gabby had certainly given it her best shot. Still, the school was no better off, Jason was dead, and Gabby was facing prison time. Plus a lot of kids in Toronto now had drugs they otherwise wouldn’t have had. He flicked the windshield wipers on high — the rain was really coming down hard now. He wondered why he did this for a living. Sometimes a murder investigation was nothing more than wading through a bunch of broken lives. He turned left on Broadview. He eased his foot on the brake as a streetcar pulled out of the Broadview roundabout. The streetcar dinged its bell a few times, thanking him. He continued up the street. Sometimes the satisfaction was barely there. An empty garbage can blew out onto the road and he swerved to avoid it. Jason, Gabby, Sanderson School, and maybe even Gabby’s children — all going down the drain. Sometimes this job was too much.

But then he thought of Benson.

Benson was off the street.

Gilbert hadn’t stopped Jason’s murder. But Benson wouldn’t shoot another Jason — another respected high-school teacher — anytime soon.

That, at least, was some good to come from all this bad. A grim consolation that made — just maybe — wading through a bunch of broken lives worth it after all.

Sonnet From the Pen of a Mug by Will Ryan

Because I ain’t got nuttin’ much ta do

But lie aroun’ all day an’ try ta think,

I figgered I wud write a woid or two

’Bout hows Icome t’ end up in da clink.

“Insurance” is da biz what is my line;

Da boss, he sells protection for a fee.

When clients don’t cough up dey pays a fine,

Which is, name-ully: dey has ta deal wit’ me.

Now ya meets a lotta people, which is nice,

Da dough ain’t bad, de hours is okay.

But whilst beatin’ up some plainclothes fink from Vice,

He objected ta my woik an’ said I’d pay.

So beware of undercover snitches, see?

Or you’ll end up writin’ poetry... like me.

Eternally by Martin Edwards

In 2002, the British publisher Allison and Busby brought out a new legal/psychological thriller by Liverpudlian Martin Edwards. As in his series books featuring Harry Devlin, the new book’s protagonist is a lawyer, but this time a lawyer turned writer, like the author himself. Mr. Edwards is also one of the leading anthologists and editors in our field. We’re pleased to welcome him back with this tale filled with nostalgia.

* * *

Playing for time, I said, “All that happened a long time ago.”

“I’d love you to tell me about it,” Alice said, putting down her notes and leaning over my bed.

Her perfume was discreet, the faintest hint of sandalwood. If only I were a few years younger. Well, quite a lot of years. I doubted she was even thirty-five and already she’d carved out separate reputations, first as an investigative journalist with the Washington Post, more recently as the author of a couple of bestsellers about Hollywood glitterati. She was shrewd and determined. Unwilling to take no for an answer. Exciting in any woman.

I started to cough. A passing nurse paused, but I nodded her away. Alice bent closer to me and I muttered, “You don’t want to listen to a sick old man talking about the past.”

“It took me a long time to find you.” Wagging a slim finger. “Hard work. At least the advance covered my flight to London.”

“Why bother? You can write your book without interviewing me.”

“I don’t cut corners.” A sweet grin. “Besides, I never shopped in Oxford Street before.”

“You haven’t missed much.”

“Also, I’d like to hear what you have to say.”