the lounge? Don’t hesitate, my boy—it’s to your benefit. Get in.”
As Gary went to open the back door, Lee whispered quickly to Pennington, “Let’s give the guy a small credit and one or two percent. It’s little enough and may save us litigation later on.”
By two-thirty, Anitra had read the script twice and finished a second drink. When the telephone rang, she jumped. It was a police officer. There had been a crash on the highway near Dorval Airport. A car left the road and ran at top speed into a concrete abutment. The license number had been put through the computer which printed out Lee Cosford Productions as owner of the car.
“That was my boss,” Anitra said, sounding disturbed. “He was on his way to catch a plane. Is there any --”
“I’m sorry. He must have been going ninety. We haven’t been able to get into the car yet, but there can’t be anybody alive.”
Anitra telephoned him but Gary was either out or not answering. She drove from downtown in twenty minutes, thinking about the accident she had programmed. If it wasn’t murder it was certainly manslaughter. Not that Lee or Pennington were any great loss to the world, but she had better not let on to Gary that she had sent her boss out with two doubles on an empty stomach and with faulty steering. Gary lacked the imagination to do anything but call the police.
The apartment was empty. Anitra checked the TV guide and saw that the Expos were on Channel Six in a doubleheader against the Phillies. That meant Gary would be down at the Mount Royal in the television lounge, drinking beer and eating peanuts. No supper required tonight. But perhaps they could have that talk he’d suggested this morning. No need for lawyers now—no bitterness, but a fresh start with an exciting project they could share.
The reaction set in as Anitra made tea. She was trembling so much as she carried it into the living room that she arrived with a brimming saucer. She set it down with both hands, went to turn on the radio, and noticed a cassette inside the deck. She pressed the proper switches and out came the voice Gary had been raving about for the past few weeks, the cause of all the excitement and the manoeuvering and of her deadly intervention.
Now, as never before, she could understand what turned her husband on when this woman sang. Mama Cass was solo on this track, so vibrant and alive she might have been here in the room.
Anitra listened to the entire cassette—both sides—before she realized she was feeling impatient for Gary’s return. She began willing him to abandon his precious baseball telecast and get in touch with her. And so when the telephone rang she ran to answer it eagerly.
The Prize in the Pack
Originally published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, October 1986.
HERE WAS CASEY DOLAN TRYING TO PREPARE HIS SIX O’CLOCK sports broadcast and there was Carmen’s big brother Alvin, waiting for her to finish work and giving Dolan the evil eye from the outer office.
Clement Foy’s sonorous voice poured out of the monitor speaker. “A reminder that in fifteen minutes the old catcher will be along with your early-evening sports show. In the meantime, more rolling-home music here on CBAY, the voice of Baytown, as Les Brown and the Band of Renown offer some musical reassurance, ‘I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm.’ ”
Foy was stuck in the big-band era, which Dolan could stand. At forty-eight, he was five years older than the program director and he liked the bouncy sound. His two-finger typing of tonight’s script rattled along almost in time with the rhythm. The age problem, if he had one, was in relation to Carmen Hopkins, who was only nineteen. This was a gap that had seemed unbridgeable six months ago when she came on staff. Now that they had made love, there turned out to be no gap. Dolan had been surprised and gratified but soon learned he was exchanging the fear of inadequacy for that of an early death at the hands of big
As Gary went to open the back door, Lee whispered quickly to Pennington, “Let’s give the guy a small credit and one or two percent. It’s little enough and may save us litigation later on.”
By two-thirty, Anitra had read the script twice and finished a second drink. When the telephone rang, she jumped. It was a police officer. There had been a crash on the highway near Dorval Airport. A car left the road and ran at top speed into a concrete abutment. The license number had been put through the computer which printed out Lee Cosford Productions as owner of the car.
“That was my boss,” Anitra said, sounding disturbed. “He was on his way to catch a plane. Is there any --”
“I’m sorry. He must have been going ninety. We haven’t been able to get into the car yet, but there can’t be anybody alive.”
Anitra telephoned him but Gary was either out or not answering. She drove from downtown in twenty minutes, thinking about the accident she had programmed. If it wasn’t murder it was certainly manslaughter. Not that Lee or Pennington were any great loss to the world, but she had better not let on to Gary that she had sent her boss out with two doubles on an empty stomach and with faulty steering. Gary lacked the imagination to do anything but call the police.
The apartment was empty. Anitra checked the TV guide and saw that the Expos were on Channel Six in a doubleheader against the Phillies. That meant Gary would be down at the Mount Royal in the television lounge, drinking beer and eating peanuts. No supper required tonight. But perhaps they could have that talk he’d suggested this morning. No need for lawyers now—no bitterness, but a fresh start with an exciting project they could share.
The reaction set in as Anitra made tea. She was trembling so much as she carried it into the living room that she arrived with a brimming saucer. She set it down with both hands, went to turn on the radio, and noticed a cassette inside the deck. She pressed the proper switches and out came the voice Gary had been raving about for the past few weeks, the cause of all the excitement and the manoeuvering and of her deadly intervention.
Now, as never before, she could understand what turned her husband on when this woman sang. Mama Cass was solo on this track, so vibrant and alive she might have been here in the room.
Anitra listened to the entire cassette—both sides—before she realized she was feeling impatient for Gary’s return. She began willing him to abandon his precious baseball telecast and get in touch with her. And so when the telephone rang she ran to answer it eagerly.
The Prize in the Pack
Originally published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, October 1986.
HERE WAS CASEY DOLAN TRYING TO PREPARE HIS SIX O’CLOCK sports broadcast and there was Carmen’s big brother Alvin, waiting for her to finish work and giving Dolan the evil eye from the outer office.
Clement Foy’s sonorous voice poured out of the monitor speaker. “A reminder that in fifteen minutes the old catcher will be along with your early-evening sports show. In the meantime, more rolling-home music here on CBAY, the voice of Baytown, as Les Brown and the Band of Renown offer some musical reassurance, ‘I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm.’ ”
Foy was stuck in the big-band era, which Dolan could stand. At forty-eight, he was five years older than the program director and he liked the bouncy sound. His two-finger typing of tonight’s script rattled along almost in time with the rhythm. The age problem, if he had one, was in relation to Carmen Hopkins, who was only nineteen. This was a gap that had seemed unbridgeable six months ago when she came on staff. Now that they had made love, there turned out to be no gap. Dolan had been surprised and gratified but soon learned he was exchanging the fear of inadequacy for that of an early death at the hands of big
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