contemporary kidnapping. The outcome and the family portrayed in the story are entirely fictional, a blend of all these elements with lots of “what if?”
“Miscalculation” is set aboard the Queen Mary and based on a little known fact about the ship’s wartime service. I read a single sentence in a large book about the ship, and that sentence so disturbed me, I decided I needed to explore the Queen Mary’s history for more information. As it turns out, it’s not easy to get anyone to talk about this particular tragedy, and I appreciate the help given to me by those who confirmed my early research into the matter.
Two stories are set in Regency England: “An Unsuspected Condition of the Heart” and “The Abbey Ghosts”. I became attached to the Regency through the works of Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer. Terry Baker of the Mystery Annex bookstore knew I loved Austen’s works, and introduced me to those of Heyer. Heyer’s wit, insight, and knowledge of that period helped me to escape the grim images that were left dancing in my head while I researched Bones. When I read her books at night, I’d be magically transported to the world of the haut ton before I fell asleep. “An Unsuspected Condition of the Heart” is an homage to Ms. Heyer, but no one should take that to mean that I think I’ve captured her style or come close to her achievements-she was one of a kind. I enjoyed writing it, but I have never done so much research for so few pages in my life. I have a fondness for this narrator, so he may return.
“The Abbey Ghosts” is a different style of story, although also set in Regency England. Audrey Moore of the bookstore Mysteries to Die For, in Thousand Oaks, California, asked me to write a Christmas story. To my surprise, it also ended up being a ghost story. Cathleen Jordan kindly chose to publish it in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.
“The Man in the Civil Suit” is a humorous story written for the Malice Domestic 9 Anthology. The anthology was a tribute to Agatha Christie, and contributors were asked to include some reference to a Christie title or work somewhere in the story. The Man in the Brown Suit has always been a favorite of mine.
Writing short stories allows me to venture beyond the world of Las Piernas, the contemporary beach city in the Irene Kelly books. “Mea Culpa” is set in the 1950’s, and allowed me to explore writing from the point of view of a young boy. “White Trash” and “Revised Endings” allowed me to play “what if” in situations where one might feel frustrated enough to do violence. “The Muse” allowed me to write a story interwoven with references to the films of Alfred Hitchcock.
Some years ago, I’d been reading ghost stories in preparation for a Halloween event at Beth Caswell’s Sherlock’s Home mystery bookstore when I decided to try my hand at one that might be a little different. “Ghost of a Chance” was first heard by Beth’s customers.
To all the mystery writers, past and present, whose short stories have delighted me, my thanks for giving me a love of this form. My thanks to Jim Seels, Cathleen Jordan, Janet Hutchings, Martin Greenberg, Sharan Newman, Miriam Grace Monfredo, Elizabeth Foxwell, Lia Matera, and the many others who’ve work so hard to bring mystery short stories to readers. And most of all, my thanks to you who read our stories, who keep the fine tradition of the mystery short story alive. I hope you’ll enjoy this collection.
Jan Burke
Southern California
The Loveseat
The shovel half-rang like a muted bell as it struck the metal. Leila Anderson sighed and stopped digging, wiping the back of her leather glove across her forehead. She was hot and tired, but determined to finish planting this last section of her garden.
She turned from the corner where she had been working and looked across the big backyard. It should have been our garden, our yard, our house, she thought to herself. Sam should be here with me.
But he wasn’t. Samuel Barrington had left her for a girl of twenty-two, a girl who made mooning cow’s eyes at the silly man. Before Cow Eyes-Marietta Hinchley-came into the picture, Leila had known exactly how things were going to be. She knew that after four years of being engaged, she and Sam would finally marry; knew that they would move out of the apartment they had shared and into a lovely house; knew that she would keep getting promotions at the investment firm she worked for; knew that Sam would continue to be able to pursue his doctorate in mathematics, because she, Leila would support them, just as she always had. And most certainly, back in those golden days, Leila had known what was expected of her. Her ability to predict and her own predictability. That was Leila’s life.
But Sam had surprised her. She hadn’t ever been fond of surprises, and this one did nothing to endear them to her. “You’re so reasonable, Leila,” Sam had said that day. “I know you’ll understand.” Leila would always be his friend, Sam had told her, but in Marietta, he had found passion.
Passion! Didn’t he know she, Leila, was capable of passion? Of course she had always been controlled around him. She had eschewed the sentimental, been the “reasonable” woman he had come to rely on. As logical as his beloved mathematics. The habit of it was ingrained in her so deeply, that even as he was telling her of his unfaithfulness, she had reacted just as she had known Sam would want her to react, exactly in the way he had come to depend on her to react: reasoned, calm, controlled. But that was on the outside. Inside, she raged. Raged passionately.
So used to pleasing Sam, though, she was determined not to let him know how wounded her pride was. She reasoned that at that particular moment, the only psychological weapon she had to defend herself with was her dignity, and she used it like a knife.
She had met Marietta the next day. Sam, oblivious to the tension between the two women, had begun his ‘let’s all be friends’ campaign without delay. A beautiful, slim, athletic, young woman, Marietta had tried hard to upset Leila’s equanimity. She made allusions to Leila’s age, which was not more than eight years above her own; she hinted that Leila was out of shape, which was untrue. Leila was not the athlete that Marietta was, but she was no slouch. Sam had seemed a little displeased with Marietta ’s lack of grace. And Leila knew that while Sam had been relieved and grateful that she had not fallen apart, Marietta had been hoping for a tantrum, a scene. Marietta, Leila had seen in a moment, was a bitch. Leila had smiled, certain that Sam would more than do his penance.
He would do his penance, but at that moment he was too smitten with Marietta to realize what he had let himself in for. He saw Marietta as a lonely child, dependent on him for guidance. He later tried to apologize to Leila for Marietta ’s bad behavior, saying that Marietta was alone in the world, without family to guide her. Sam thought himself capable of teaching her manners. Leila thought it was the biggest joke Sam had ever played on himself, but said nothing.
Hoping that living well was indeed the best revenge, she went on with her life. She had chosen this house on her own and bought it. The house had been built in 1920’s, and she loved its polished wooden floors and arched windows and tall ceilings. The day after her furniture was moved in, she went to work on the garden with all of the passion she had leftover from the end of her relationship with Sam. She dug up old, neglected flower beds and planted them with bright, beautiful blossoms: impatiens and fushia and pansies and geraniums; a wild, unpredictable mix of anything that would give her eye a moment’s pleasure. She planted pink jasmine and roses along the high stone fence that surrounded the big yard. She was glad of the privacy that fence gave her yard, her little oasis of color and fragrance.
She had saved this corner for last. A week ago, while pruning back the poorly tended honeysuckle that had overgrown this corner, she discovered something that had made her cry. Beneath the vines she had found something made of stone, broken in two parts. When she had realized it was a loveseat, it had suddenly come to symbolize her broken romance with Sam, and for the first time since the day he had told her of Marietta, she had cried. Four months of bottled pain and humiliation burst from her like champagne from an uncorked bottle, and cold, predictable, passionless Leila wept in her garden.
The relief of it had been great. Later she called her old friend, Arnie, who was a landscape contractor. Arnie, who had benefitted more than once from Leila’s ability to chose investments, was happy to make arrangements to have the broken loveseat hauled off. The day after it was gone, Leila went back to work in the garden.
On this warm June day, she had dug up about two feet of soil in the area of the corner, preparing to plant a
