Ed Gorman
Short Stories, Volume 1
Copyright ©information:
• “The Christmas Kitten” First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 1997. Copyright © 1999 Ed Gorman.
• “En Famille” First appeared in Ellery Queen Magazine, 1995. Copyright © 1995 by Ed Gorman.
• “The Reason Why” First published in Criminal Elements 1988. Copyright © 1988 by Ed Gorman.
• “One of Those Days, One of Those Nights” First published in Crime Yellow, 1994. Copyright © 1994 by Ed Gorman.
• “Favor and the Princess” First published in Cemetery Dance, Winter 1998. Copyright © 1999 by Ed Gorman.
• “Turn Away” First published in The Black Lizard Anthology of Crime Fiction, 1987. Copyright © 1987 by Ed Gorman.
• “Prisoners” First published in New Crimes, 1989. Copyright © 1989 by Ed Gorman.
Introduction
Ed Gorman has been a full time writer for over fourteen years, during which time he has written more that twenty novels, five collections of short stories and three screenplays.
Previously he spent twenty years in advertising, mostly writing and directing tv commercials in Chicago, Minneapolis, Des Moines and Cedar Rapids. While Gorman is generally regarded as a crime novelist, he has also written a number of westerns and horror novels. Several of his books and stories have been optioned for TV and movies lately. He lives in Cedar Rapids with his wife, novelist Carole Gorman, and their three cats.
The Christmas Kitten
1
“She in a good mood?” I asked.
The lovely and elegant Pamela Forrest looked up at me as if I’d suggested that there really was a Santa Claus.
“Now why would she go and do a foolish thing like that, McCain?” She smiled.
“Oh, I guess because—”
“Because it’s the Christmas season, and most people are in good moods?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, not our Judge Whitney.”
“At least she’s consistent,” I said.
I had been summoned, as usual, from my law practice, where I’d been working the phones, trying to get my few clients to pay their bills. I had a 1951 Ford ragtop to support. And dreams of taking the beautiful Pamela Forrest to see the Platters concert when they were in Des Moines next month.
“You thought any more about the Platters concert?” I said.
“Oh, McCain, now why’d you have to go and bring that up?”
“I just thought—”
“You know how much I love the Platters. But I really don’t think it’s a good idea for the two of us to go out again.” She gave me a melancholy little smile. “Now I probably went and ruined your holidays and I’m sorry. You know I like you, Cody, it’s just — Stew.”
This was Christmas 1959, and I’d been trying since at least Christmas 1957 to get Pamela to go out with me. But we had a problem — while I loved Pamela, Pamela loved Stewart, and Stewart happened to be not only a former football star at the university but also the heir to the town’s third biggest fortune.
Her intercom buzzed. “Is he out there pestering you again, Pamela?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Tell him to get his butt in here.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And call my cousin John and tell him I’ll be there around three this afternoon.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And remind me to pick up my dry cleaning.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And tell McCain to get his butt in here. Or did I already say that?”
“You already said that, Your Honor.”
I bade goodbye to the lovely and elegant Pamela Forrest and went in to meet my master.
“You know what he did this time?” Judge Eleanor Whitney said three seconds after I crossed her threshold.
The “he” could only refer to one person in the town of Black River Falls, Iowa. And that would be our esteemed chief of police, Cliff Sykes, Jr., who has this terrible habit of arresting people for murders they didn’t commit and giving Judge Whitney the pleasure of pointing out the error of his ways.
A little over a hundred years ago, Judge Whitney’s family dragged a lot of money out here from the East and founded this town. They pretty much ran it until World War II, a catastrophic event that helped make Cliff Sykes, Sr., a rich and powerful man in the local wartime construction business.
Sykes, Sr., used his money to put his own members on the town council, just the way the Whitneys had always done. He also started to bribe and coerce the rest of the town into doing things his way. Judge Whitney saw him as a crude outlander, of course. Where her family was conversant with Verdi, Vermeer, and Tolstoy, the Sykes family took as cultural icons Ma and Pa Kettle and Francis the Talking Mule, the same characters I go to see at the drive-in whenever possible.
Anyway, the one bit of town management the Sykes family couldn’t get to was Judge Whitney’s court. Every time Cliff Sykes, Jr., arrested somebody for murder, the judge called me up and put me to work. In addition to being an attorney, I’m taking extension courses in criminology. The judge thinks this qualifies me as her very own staff private investigator, so whenever she wants something looked into, she calls me. And I’m glad she does. She’s my only source of steady income.
“He arrested my cousin John’s son, Rick. Charged him with murdering his girlfriend. That stupid ass.”
Now in a world of seventh-ton crime-solving geniuses, and lady owners of investigative firms who go two hundred pounds and are as bristly as barbed wire, Judge Eleanor Whitney is actually a small, trim, and very handsome woman.
And she knows how to dress herself. Today she wore a brown suede blazer, a crisp button-down, white-collar shirt, and dark fitted slacks. Inside the open collar of the shirt was a green silk scarf that complemented the green of her eyes perfectly.
She was hiked on the edge of the desk, right next to an ample supply of rubber bands.
“Sit down, McCain.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“I said sit down. You know I hate it when you stand.”
I sat down.
“He didn’t do it,” I said.
“Exactly. He didn’t do it.”
“You know, one of these times you’re bound to be wrong. I mean, just by the odds, Sykes is bound to be right.” Which is what I say every time she gives me an assignment.
“Well, he isn’t right this time.” Which is what she says every time I say the thing about the odds.
“His girlfriend was Linda Palmer, I take it.”
“Right.”
“The one found in her apartment?”
She nodded.
“What’s Sykes’s evidence?”
“Three neighbors saw Rick running away from the apartment house the night before last.”
She launched one of her rubber hands at me, thumb and forefinger style, like a pistol. She likes to see if I’ll flinch when the rubber band comes within an eighth of an inch of my ear. I try never to give her that satisfaction.
“He examine Rick’s car and clothes?”
“You mean fibers and blood, things like that?”
“Yeah.”
She smirked. “You think Sykes would be smart enough to do something like that?”
“I guess you’ve got a point.”
She stood up and started to pace.
You’ll note that I am not permitted this luxury, standing and pacing, but for her it is fine. She is, after all, mistress of the universe.
“I just keep thinking of John. The poor guy. He’s a very good man.”
“I know.”
“And it’s going to be a pretty bleak Christmas without Rick there. I’ll have to invite him out to the house.”