Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology Read online

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  INTRODUCTION, by Chris Roerden

  THICKER THAN BLOOD, by Leslie Budewitz

  THE SECRET OF THE RED MULLET, by Nancy Adams

  ACCIDENTS HAPPEN, by James Montgomery Jackson

  IDENTITY CRISIS, by Diane Vallere

  SLEEPING WITH THE FISH, by KB Inglee

  FEEDING FRENZY, by Patricia Winton

  SASE, by Karen Pullen

  NEW AGE OLD STORY, by Sarah E. Glenn

  THE SHADOW OF THE RIVER, by Gigi Pandian

  THE TURKEY HILL AFFAIR, by Warren Bull

  SOMETHING FISHY, by Peggy Ehrhart

  THE TRUCK CONTEST, by Kaye George

  AMAZING GRACE, by Betsy Bitner

  A MURDER RUNS THROUGH IT, by Annette Dashofy

  DEAD-EYE GRAVY, by Krista Davis

  THE PROFESSOR’S BOOKS, by Gloria Alden

  KOI PALACE, by Heidi Saunders

  SOMETHING FISHY THIS WAY COMES, by Deborah J. Benoit

  PALACE ON THE LAKE, by Daryl Wood GErBer

  FATAL FISH FLOP, by Beth Groundwater

  THE FRAIN LEGACY, by Darlene Ryan

  THE CRITIQUE GROUP, by Patricia Gulley

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  FISH TALES

  Edited By

  Ramona Defelice Long

  INTRODUCTION BY CHRIS ROERDEN

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2011 by SinC Guppies.

  Copyrights to individual stories are reserved by the authors.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  INTRODUCTION, by Chris Roerden

  guppy, a small topminnow, one of the most popular freshwater aquarium fish species in the world. The ability of guppies to tolerate fluctuations in water conditions puts them among the hardiest of all aquarium fishes. They are prolific live-bearers.

  Guppy, a member of the online Guppies Chapter of one of the most popular organizations of crime writers in the world, Sisters in Crime. The ability of Guppies to tolerate fluctuations in publishing conditions puts us among the hardiest of all writers. We are prolific mystery creators.

  Our Guppies Chapter, like its parent organization, is made up of women and men of all ages whose mission it is to promote the professional development and advancement of women crime writers to achieve equality in the industry. In addition, Guppies enjoy the unique role of providing a safe harbor for aspiring crime writers, who may feel their professional development is adrift, their advancement is caught in a riptide, or they are drowning in a sink-or-swim effort to get published.

  Our name, Guppies, reflects the circumstances of our group’s origin as the “Great Unpublished.” However, since 1995 when the concept of unpublished writers teaching other unpublished writers was initially floated, a steady stream of Guppies have gotten contracts in the mystery field and bubbled up to the big pond.

  With a membership currently tipping our scales at 400, one in twenty Guppies continues to keep a mystery-credentialed fin dipped in the buoyant waters of our little pond. That’s where our long-time friendships—and new friendships, too—help keep a Guppy’s head above water. It’s where grateful authors can pay forward by supporting others. Besides, there’s nothing like publication to convince a writer of the need to keep learning.

  Though the majority of Guppies may be working on their first mystery novel, not all are as wet behind the ears as you might think. Many have been published in other genres and possess expertise in a broad range of fields and professions, including legal, medical, forensic, and law enforcement. Guppies live and work throughout the United States and Canada—even in Europe—and travel the globe. Our varied experience contributes to a pool of knowledge that enriches the entire school of Guppies.

  Chapter activities include forming separate groups for brainstorming book ideas, exchanging manuscript critiques within the different subgenres, analyzing and deconstructing selected mystery novels, and pursuing the quest for an agent. Periodically we challenge ourselves to pour forth daily word counts. The digests that deluge our e-mailboxes keep us hooked, and our bi-monthly newsletter lets us soak up in-depth information while encouraging us to flood its editor with practical articles of our own. And whenever a Guppies-only online class is held, member discounts help conserve our liquid assets.

  At conferences from the Atlantic shores to the Pacific coast, badges proclaiming “I’m a Guppy” facilitate our matching new faces to familiar names and gathering in large shoals at restaurants and watering holes. When not attending conferences, Guppies survive on chocolate.

  One activity that spawned an annual celebration is cyber-crowning a Queen of Rejection. Based on the largest number of “thanks but no thanks” responses received by a Guppy in the first three months of the year, this honor signifies not failure but success in taking the greatest plunge required of a writer: submitting regularly all year long.

  Our intrepid group is now surfacing with its first anthology, a volunteer effort in which every Guppy who entered a story also read three other entries and gave each of them feedback—no names disclosed. Stories were then edited by a non-member, so that no Guppy would judge the writing of another.

  A key feature of this project from its start was to provide an educational experience for those who participated. Of the 22 stories ultimately selected, most were written by Guppies with no prior publishing credits, as you’ll see from the author bios.

  Now I invite you to help the Guppies make a splash by diving into our fishpond and submerging yourself in this collection of mysteries. If you haven’t guessed from the clues so far, one element runs through these pages: water.

  __________

  Chris Roerden’s latest books are Don’t Murder Your Mystery, recipient of the Agatha Award for Best Nonfiction Book, finalist for the Macavity and Anthony awards, and a selection of the Writer’s Digest Book Club, and its all-genre version, Don’t Sabotage Your Submission, recipient of the 2009 Benjamin Franklin Award for Literary Criticism, the Florida Writers Association Book of the Year Award, and ForeWord Magazine’s bronze medal for Writing Book of the Year. Authors she’s edited are published by St. Martin’s Press, Berkley Prime Crime, Midnight Ink, Perseverance Press, Viking, Rodale, Walker & Co., and others. She is proud to be a Guppy.

  THICKER THAN BLOOD, by Leslie Budewitz

  From the shore, the setting sun looked as if it had been pierced by two burnt lodgepole pines still standing on a distant ridge. Not even last summer, when the fires raged for months, had she ever seen the sun so red.

  And her hands. Nothing more red than fresh blood.

  * * * *

  “You’re the third person in twenty minutes to ask me where dildo head is and I don’t know.” Annette slammed the pitcher of my Montana Snow Cap Ale on the bar and a good two or three swallows splashed out. She grabbed the customer’s twenty and stalked to the till, not seeing the look on his face. But I own this joint, and I knew that look—aggravation at not getting his full money’s worth mixed with irritation at the sticky pitcher, made worse by rudeness. So I topped it off, wiped it off, and handed it back, all before she slapped his change on the counter with the same force.

  “Thanks,” I told the customer. “Enjoy.”

  He nodded, looking more congenial, and took his pitcher to a table. I turned to my bar manager and whispered, “Where is Zach? What do you mean, the third person? And don’t call anybody dildo head in
my brew pub. You might as well say your dog pissed in the keg.”

  Her face suggested she might do just that. “First, Kathryn. Then those two.” She jerked her head toward two men sitting by the front door, not nursing beers. I should have noticed them sooner. They weren’t in uniform, but they didn’t need to be.

  “If I count them separately, you’re number four. I don’t know where he is. With him, you never know. He said he’d be here, and I have to pick up Jade in ten minutes.” She had her apron half-untied even though she hadn’t asked if she could leave without a replacement, but she didn’t need to ask. She was going to leave no matter what, and she knew I’d say yes. When it came to daughters—hers or mine—I always did.

  I grabbed the apron before she could toss it onto the wet spot the dripping pitcher had left. “Go. And watch your speed—those aren’t the only two cops out tonight.”

  They weren’t after her, though; they hadn’t moved since I’d first seen them, but their body language said they were waiting for me. Annette grabbed her bag and dashed out the back before I had the strings tied, a tidy bow in front. Not the usual thin white stuff. We had a lakeside theme going on, and I’d sewn the aprons myself from sturdy cotton with a fish design. I made the beer, I made the aprons, I cleaned up the messes I hadn’t made.

  I wiped down the bar and called out. “Get you fellows anything?”

  The lanky one slid off the stool and approached the bar, wallet badge open. “Cheryl Christman?” I nodded. “Detective Anderson, Sheriff’s Office. This is Detective Lee. Can we talk somewhere?”

  I opened my hands, gesturing at our surroundings. A bar and stools, a few tables, and a wall of thick glass windows that revealed the brew room’s vats and pipes. We had a deck with a lake view for summers, but by mid September, evenings were cool and the deck was an afternoon thing. Other than a storage room, a small office upstairs, and the john, this was it.

  “My bartender’s running late tonight, guys. I’m on my own here. What can I do for you?”

  “Your bartender, ma’am. Zachary Delorme?” Lee had some beef to him and a slightly flushed face, like he’d drunk a few beers in his life. “His body was found this afternoon out near the end of the point. Washed up on a private beach. Some kids found him.”

  Body. Oh, God. That meant dead, didn’t it? Oh, God. I groped for a stool. “Zach’s dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry to break the news so abruptly. We’re trying to trace his whereabouts the last twenty-four hours, talk with everyone who’s seen him. We wanted to talk with you, of course, as his employer, and your daughter.”

  “Why Kathryn?” She’d just been here looking for him.

  Anderson spoke. “We understand they have a history.”

  “Well, yes.” If they’d talked to someone who said Zach worked here—Friday and Saturday nights, the last three or four months—then they’d probably heard about Kathryn, too. In a community this small, half a dozen people would spill what they knew about Kathryn, or thought they knew. “They know each other. Everyone knows each other around here.”

  “Nonetheless, Ms. Christman, we would like to talk with her,” Anderson said.

  I let out a long sigh, weighted with all my dreams for Kathryn, that she would grow out of the faulty personality traits and biological defects her father and I had given her, find some way to tame her compulsiveness, and live a regular, dependable sort of life. Like the one I’d made, with effort and time and help. But dreams aren’t visible to other people, so the detectives just kept watching me.

  “Annette said she came in maybe twenty minutes before I got here, asking for Zach. His shift starts at six”—about an hour from now—“but he promised Annette he’d come in early today. So you just missed her.”

  “Why didn’t she wait?”

  “A reasonable expectation of anyone but my daughter, Detective. She’s a little ADD. Okay, a lot ADD.” I tried to laugh. “Always got a million things racing through her head. She probably had five other people to see or things to do.”

  “Unless she had an idea where else he might be.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Detective Lee responded as if we were just a couple of buddies in a bar on a Saturday evening. “Ms. Christman—Cheryl. You know how people talk. We’ve been hearing a lot of things about your daughter and her, well, interest in Delorme. Why don’t you give us your perspective?”

  Be careful, I told myself. He’s friendly and he acts concerned, but he is not on your side. I got up and poured myself a glass of water, drank half, dumped out the rest, and poured a glass of stout. Took a long draw, sat down, and forced myself to match their self-control. “Sure I can’t get you anything? The only alcohol I can serve is the beer we make, but we do have soft drinks.”

  They shook their heads. I took a sip and told them about Kathryn, short version. When I finished, I said, “So you see, she is impulsive, but also very focused—obsessive at times. The doctors would never say for sure—I think they wanted to protect me from my own worst thoughts, but I know.” I tapped my chest. “It’s the drugs we did while I was pregnant, and before. I’ve been clean a long time—clean enough to do this for a living,” I said with a wave toward the brew room. “But I still live with it every day, because of what it did to her. She’s just wired differently. The flip side is that she is also passionate and loving and extremely generous. She comes on too strong sometimes, but she is not violent.”

  They watched me, seeming to consider what I’d said.

  Finally, Anderson spoke. “We understand she threatened to kill him more than once.”

  “And I’ve threatened to move to Canada every time we elect a Republican president, but I’m still here.”

  Both detectives smiled. “Where would Kathryn go if she were in trouble?”

  I shook my head slowly. “Look, guys, I understand when someone turns up dead, you look hard at everyone around him. You can’t just take a mother’s word that her child isn’t capable of hurting anyone. I’ve been honest with you about Kathryn’s faults, but really, truly, she wouldn’t hurt a flea. She can’t even stand the sight of blood.” A big problem when she hit puberty. Monthly histrionics for the first few years. But they didn’t need to know that. “And she had no reason to hurt Zach.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. He’s only worked here a few months, but he does a decent job and he’s been reliable.” In truth, I’d sensed something more to him, something mean and a little sneaky. But I’ve learned, when you can’t be specific, it’s best to be silent.

  “Why did he keep working here after your daughter threatened him?”

  “He didn’t take her seriously. And she wasn’t the only young woman who noticed him. A good-looking guy who’s new in town is always popular.” I shrugged. “Easy work, free beer. Close to home. He’s caretaker of a place up the hill. Really, you should have asked Annette.”

  “Why?”

  They didn’t know? “He’s her brother.”

  * * * *

  The sun, the hot red sun, the blood red sun. Kathryn held two fingers parallel to the horizon, at arms’ length. Fifteen minutes a finger, her father had said, that time when he was out of prison and came to the lake to see her. But it was true. Thirty minutes or so, then, dark.

  Would the people leave then, the people scrambling around the gravel beach and yard next door, some in brown uniforms, others in black with yellow stripes? They looked like bugs. Kathryn hated bugs, hid from them. The first time she saw someone squash a bug, she’d screamed for hours. Whenever one got inside, her mother would pick it up on a tissue or with her fingers and carry it out.

  If she screamed now, the bugs would see her and come crawling over. She scrunched down against the house and pulled her jacket tight. Soon it would be dark and there would be more bugs. Her mother said sometimes that she needed to get hold of herself because she wouldn’t always have a mother there to protect her.

  That’s what Zach had said, too,
and Annette.

  Now Zach was dead, and Kathryn had blood on her hands.

  So did someone else. She thought she knew who, but who would believe her? Not the bugs.

  Not with blood on her hands.

  * * * *

  Annette ran her fingers through her hair, jerking loose a tangle.

  She should not have lied to Cheryl, not now or before. Cheryl’s own troubles had made her generous and understanding, not harsh and judgmental like it did some people. She should not have let Zach move up here or take the job at the brewery, and she should not have let him behave so badly toward Kathryn. The girl couldn’t help herself. Zach could, but he liked messing with people’s minds.

  And now he was dead and things were tangled beyond belief.

  Annette paced the living room of her cabin, as if answers would emerge from between the chinked logs or descend from the dusty rafters. As if, somehow, the problem of Zach’s death could be solved by revisiting his life.

  As if she, his older sister, who loved him more than anyone else loved him—who should have protected him—had not killed him.

  How had it happened? She stepped into the kitchen with its still-damp floor. Right here, not twenty-four hours ago. He’d been standing with his back to the window, the window that overlooked the lake. He’d been laughing. He liked to laugh, always had, since he’d been a little bitty guy.

  No. Go back to the beginning.

  “Heather’s getting married,” she’d told him. “Her fiancé has a job in Alaska and she’s taking Jade.”

  “So?” he’d said.

  His indifference infuriated her. “What do you mean, ‘so?’”

  “So what’s that got to do with you or me? Heather’s her mother. You fought for custody and lost. Get over it.”

  “Get over it? I raised that child for five years, when neither of you gave a shit about her. You still don’t. Then Heather decides a kid’s a great accessory, everybody else has one, and she wants one, too.” Her voice shook, and she crossed her arms to steady herself.