Apparently we weren't going to the police station, as I'd expected, but to Blue Anchor Yard again. No doubt Sergeant Peters had his reasons. We were escorted into Guggins's room once more, where the sergeant was sitting in Guggins's chair looking very important. I was amused to see Flirty Fan perched on the desk doing her best to entice him with a glimpse of her filthy red petticoat. She didn't stand a chance, and she must have known it because she then looked hopefully at the constable who'd brought us here. He promptly backed away.

  Big George was at the party too, and so would half of Rag Fair have been, judging by the curious faces we'd seen as we came in. The front door had been closed and locked behind us, though. This made the smell of old clothes so strong I could see Peters blenching. Mrs. Guggins was sitting in an armchair together with a small weasely gentleman who occasionally patted her hand as she glared at Fan. The weasely gentleman must be John Clode, or rather Monsieur Jean-Claude Lepin. He had sallow skin and a moustache, and was so skinny he could have gone up chimney flues in his youth, though I doubt if this canny gentleman had ever had to do so. He lives by his wits, not his weight, I thought.

  "So here we all are,” Sergeant Peters began genially.

  I was puzzled at first as to why I was included, but then I remembered he'd once said to me: “We police have to look at what's before us, Mr. Wasp. You can see what's hidden in the chimneys of life."

  Very poetic, I thought that was. Chimneys are full of dark secrets and sudden turns. You come to expect them after a while, and can deal with them, so I wondered if that was what he wanted from me now.

  Ned sat down on a pile of old stays and petticoats in the open doorway to the shop, as happy as a sandboy and as quiet as a mouse. He was still clutching that book, though, and I decided I should keep my eye on it if His Grace was ever to see it again.

  "Mr. Guggins was probably murdered between about five and six o'clock yesterday morning,” Sergeant Peters informed us. “Miss Fan, Mr. Lepin, and you, George, you all three of you saw him during the night.” George still had his cuffs on, I noticed, whereas the others hadn't, so his chances didn't look good.

  "Poor Guggins,” shrieked his widow, but she was ignored.

  The Frenchie piped up very quickly. “I come with Miss Fanny at four of the clock. I here for half an hour while we trade very hard. I win, Miss Fanny lose. Then I go. Leave her here.” A triumphant look at Flirty Fan. French chivalry doesn't seem to go very deep in such circumstances.

  "Yeah, you went without the jewellery though, all the good stuff. You thought you'd got it, didn't you?” Flirty Fan jeered. “Mr. Guggins knew I got taste, though. I'd no reason to kill him. I reckon you found out he hadn't given it to you with the rest of the stuff and came back for it, found it was gone, and gave him what for."

  Big George suddenly woke up, nodding his huge head furiously. “I got back here about sixish, and bumped into this squid out in the backyard. He'd just killed Guggins, that's what he done. That's why he didn't answer my knock.” He looked very pleased with himself for thinking this out.

  "My dear Guggins,” Mrs. Guggins moaned, having another shot at the limelight, not wishing to be left out.

  "Lies!” cried the Frenchie. “I have no reason to kill dear Mr. Guggins. I come back to tell him how pleased I am with what he give me."

  "Make the most of it,” barked Sergeant Peters. “It's going back to His Grace."

  "In good faith I buy it,” Mr. Lepin told us indignantly.

  "And now you'll be losing it. English law here, you know."

  "Mr. Guggins tell me these are goods that people bring in to pawn and not buy back."

  "I don't see the Duke of Wessex popping down to Rag Fair to pawn his best belongings,” the sergeant rightly said. “I reckon Miss Fan's right. You realised you'd not got all the jewellery you paid for, so came rushing back for the rest of it, and there was a fight."

  "Me? Mon dieu, non. Fight? I faint at blood."

  "But not if stolen goods are at stake, eh?” the sergeant said.

  "Non. She killed him, after I left Guggins. She upset at his preferring my offer."

  Flirty Fan turned ugly then and informed the Frenchie that he was a flash duffer. She was inclined to go further, but Sergeant Peters stopped this. “So you took this stolen jewellery, Miss Fanny?"

  "Me? Of course not?” She rolled her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes at him, now that she was in the limelight. “I came solely to see my dear Mr. Guggins, not to buy stolen property. But if any jewellery has by chance fallen into my bag by mistake, you shall have it back immediately."

  "Thank you, Miss Fanny. We've already got it. We searched your shop and found it."

  Flirty Fan forgot to remember she was supposed to be alluring. “Filthy pigs,” she yelled. “Guggins only wanted my body; he was lost in lust for me. ‘Fan,’ he said, ‘you're a luscious piece of flesh, my dear. Come here and I'll show you something that will suit you just splendidly.’”

  "Liar!” roared Mrs. Guggins, now fully in the picture again. “You forced yourself on him, you tart."

  I could believe that very well, but the sergeant put an end to it, being intent on getting back to business. “Row over the price, did you, Fanny? Then you killed him?"

  "No,” she screamed. “And it's fake, if you must know, not Wessex's stuff. Guggins told me it was Wessex's, which he had christened, but it weren't. It was rubbish."

  "So you killed him there and then."

  "No, I bloody didn't. I didn't find out till I was nearly at the river, then I turns round and comes back for my money. Came in through the back entrance about half-past five and he was alive and kicking then. That's when he thought he'd take my body, like the wicked lecher he was. I told him he couldn't have it, and to hand over my money. Which he did, and I went."

  "Like hell he did,” Mrs. Guggins observed, probably correctly. “He never gave money back. My poor Guggins. Dead, poor Guggins gawn."

  And then it was Big George's turn to take centre stage. “Guggins diddled you over the money, did he, George?” said the sergeant. So you came back at sixish, he wouldn't give you any more money, so you killed him?"

  ” ‘Course I didn't kill him,” he yelled. “He didn't answer no door. You saw me yourself later. Why should I come back if I'd already killed him? Don't make sense."

  "Looking for the money, maybe,” the sergeant suggested.

  In the end, the sergeant gave up and arrested all three of them for receiving stolen property. It was hard to tell where there was the most racket, from Rag Fair with its cries of “Fried fish, lovely fried fish,” or the three of them bawling their heads off about how innocent they were. So the sergeant turned to me and said: “Perhaps, Mr. Wasp, you might do some thinking in that way of yours. It seems to me that you might climb a chimney that I can't."

  Nowadays, my cleaning machine does it all for me, but I said I'd certainly put in a bit of thought. I bought a pie for supper to share with Ned. He liked it, and it sharpens my brain nicely.

  * * * *

  I sat that evening staring at my own chimney after Ned had shut his eyes for the night, and thought about it as I'd promised. It was puzzling as to who was lying. As I saw it, Flirty Fan and the Frenchie arrived at four o'clock. The Frenchie leaves with what he thinks is the entire haul, so let's say half-past four. Flirty Fan negotiates her own haul of jewellery and is gone by five o'clock when Big George turns up to collect his share of the dosh as Burglar in Chief. He's told to come back later, but in the interval Flirty Fan comes back to pick a fight with Guggins or to flutter her eyelashes at him. She leaves and awhile later, about six, back comes the Frenchie, very cross at being swindled. He can't make Guggins answer the door and nor can Big George when he comes.

  So which of those sootbags killed him and dragged the body through to the other room? Which one was lying? Could have been the Frenchie coming back and killing him just before six, could have been Flirty Fan half an hour earlier, or it could have been George. If I were a betting man, I thought, I'd say it was the Frenchie. It's my belief that they haven't forgiven us yet for beating old Boney at Waterloo. Yet somehow I couldn't see him having the spunk. Flirty Fan now, or Big George, either of them would sink a knife in your guts without a quiver, if they thought they could get away with it.

  I began to doze, though I tried to keep awake, otherwise by morning I'd still be stuck up Sergeant Peters's chimney.

  "Guv,” came a sleepy voice sometime later, jerking me awake, “what are you doing?"

  "Just thinking, Ned."

  I went over to him where he lay on the floor and tucked our tuggy cloth around him for warmth. As I did so, I saw that blessed book hidden in the folds. He'd brought it back, instead of handing it over to the law.

  "What's that, Ned?” I said sternly.

  "It's my book, Gov.” A silence, then: “You won't go to hell, will you, Gov?"

  I was taken aback. Me? Why should Ned think that? “I hope not, Ned,” I said cautiously, not being able to think of anything I'd done to deserve that recently.

  It all came out in a rush then. “But you said I'd be foolish if I kept it, but I did, and when I looked at my book it said that if you call someone a fool you're in danger of hellfire."

  "That don't apply to chimney sweeps,” I comforted him, as I went back to my fireside.

  I must have dozed off again, because I thought I saw Big George coming for me, but he stopped and said he didn't do it. Flirty Fan was trying to win my favours, and Mr. Weasel Lepin was trying to steal from my pockets when he thought I wasn't looking. Mr. Guggins himself seemed to be directing the traffic, telling me what to do, though not who did it. Then he disappeared into hellfire and the flames roared up. By then I knew the answer, however, and I must have slept peacefully because I woke up with the birds and Ned's Good Book as my pillow.

  I went to the police station early that morning and asked for Sergeant Peters, who came eagerly in to see me. “Who is it then, Mr. Wasp? Big George?"

  "No,” I said. “Not him."

  "Flirty Fan. I knew it,” said he.

  "Not her."

  "So it's the Frenchie?"

  "Not him either."

  "Who then?"

  "Mrs. Guggins,” I replied. “She came down in the night and heard Guggins's lecherous talk to Flirty Fan and fancied they were having a go in there. Then she heard Flirty Fan go out and so, being a touch over the top with gin, swept in to have a go at Mr. Guggins brandishing the knife."

  "How do you reckon that, Mr. Wasp?” asked the sergeant admiringly (or so I like to think).

  "She had to make sure someone found that body, but not in Guggins's room, full of that lovely stolen loot. So that meant pulling the body through that door into her part of the dollyshop. Flirty Fan, Big George, and the Frenchie all came in through the rear door and couldn't have pushed that door open to get the body through because of the stuff behind it. Only she could have opened it from her side. Hell, Sergeant Peters, hath no fury like a woman scorned."

  (c)2008 by Amy Myers

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE PIG PARTY by Doug Allyn

  * * * *

  Art by Mark Evans

  * * * *

  Doug Allyn's astonishing success in the field of short mystery fiction is nowhere more apparent than at EQMM, where he has won a record eight Readers Awards. He joins us this month with a character we haven't seen before, in a case that involves a college party gone wrong. Mr. Allyn and his wife are Michiganers and musicians who, until recently, played the clubs in their part of the state.

  * * * *

  I was working hotel security at the Ponchartrain in Detroit, taking a break in the third-floor bar, when her face flashed on the overhead TV. Sara Silver, the network correspondent with a career as brilliant as her name. She was interviewing Kathy Bates on a news show. Noticing my stare, the guy next to me followed my gaze up to the tube.

  "Beauty and the beast,” he quipped, sipping his scotch.

  "Yeah? Which one is which?” I asked. Which earned me a look. Kathy Bates is a great actress but she's no head-turner. “I went out with her once,” I explained.

  "Who? Kathy Bates?"

  "No, the media babe, Sara Silver."

  He started to scoff, but a glance my way changed his mind. I'm not gorilla size, but I'm big enough. And life's scuffed me up some.

  "No kidding, you really dated Sara Silver?” he said, doubtfully. “Where did you take her? Las Vegas?"

  "Nope, to a frat party. Roughest night of my life."

  "I'll bet,” he said, pointedly turning back to his scotch. I knew what he was thinking. A small-time hotel dick dating Sara Silver? Tell me another one.

  I didn't bother. He wouldn't believe me anyway. But it happened to be the truth. I really did trip the light fantastic with Sara Silver once, on the wildest night of my life. Only it wasn't a date, exactly.

  Because I didn't ask her out. She asked me.

  I wasn't a detective then. Just an ex-dogface, a couple of years out of the Marine Corps, taking a few college courses, trying do decide what to be when I grew up.

  Meanwhile, I helped pay my rent by bartending part-time at Shannon's Irish Pub, a sports saloon just off the Westover College campus in Lansing. A jumpin’ joint, Shannon's, foosball tables, pool tables, and pinball machines. Busy all day long, totally nuts at night.

  Preppies would start popping in at noon to knock down a beer between classes, shoot pool, or line the bar for the usual intellectual collegiate repartee; Freud and Kant, easy A's and easy lays.

  Occasionally I'd have to eighty-six a kid who overdid it, but for the most part the college boys were pretty mellow.

  Their women were even better. Coeds and townie girls prowled Shannon's like tigresses around a waterhole, scouting for upwardly mobile mates. But sometimes they'd settle for an affable bartender.

  The first time I saw Sara Silver, I figured she was just another Westover babe on the hunt. Sat at the far end of the bar, away from the others, nursing a white wine spritzer. Attractive, but nowhere near the network knockout she is now.

  Her blond hair drawn back in a loose ponytail, held by a silver clip. Fine-boned features, slim legs, her figure tomboy taut but unmistakably feminine. Her oversized glasses gave her a studious look. Figured she was waiting for an intense, long-haired type with wild eyes and wilder politics.

  Wrong. She was looking for me.

  "You're Tommy Malloy, right? The ex-Marine?"

  "Guilty,” I said, sliding a napkin under her glass. “Do I know you?"

  "Sara Silver,” she said, keeping her voice down, making sure we weren't overheard. “I've been asking around. I understand you tend bar for a lot of fraternity parties."

  "I do my share."

  "Have you ever worked a Delta Omega party?"

  "Once. And not recently. Why? Do you want to hire a bartender?"

  "Not exactly,” she said, meeting my eyes. “I need a date."

  "I don't understand."

  "There's a party at Delta Omega tonight. I need an escort to get in. Can you manage that?"

  "Probably, but I've got a better idea. Let's make it dinner and a movie instead."

  "I'm not looking for a boyfriend, Malloy, just somebody to get me into the Delta House party. Tonight. Are you interested or not?"

  "Miss, I'd love to take you out. Sometime. But not to a Delta House bash, and definitely not tonight.” It was my turn to glance around to be sure we weren't overheard. “It's a pig party,” I whispered.

  "I know."

  "Really? Do you have any idea what that means?"

  "Of course."

  "I doubt that. Pig-party rules say the frat boys have to bring the ugliest chicks they can find. You don't remotely qualify."

  "Thanks very much. I still want to go."

  "No, you don't, damn it! Listen, it's a really ugly scene, and I'm not just talking about the girls. It's loud, lewd, and crude. Everybody drinks too much, the guys are jerks, the girls are desperate—"

  "Sounds like you've been there."

  "No way,” I said. “It's not my trip. But bartenders hear things, and some of them aren't pretty. A pig party's a rough, sorry-ass spectacle. It's definitely not a party you want to crash."

  "I'll pay you an even hundred bucks to get me in,” she said, digging into her purse, carefully counting five tens out on the bar. “Fifty now, fifty more afterward."

  I made no move to pick up the money. “Why? What's so important?"

  "I write for the Westover Wildcat, the college paper."

  "Sara Silver,” I said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name sounded familiar. You did a story last semester on fake IDs. Burned some local bartenders."

  "I hope you weren't one of them."

  "Nope, I'm always super careful. But why bother with a story on a pig party? It may be sophomoric, but it's a campus tradition. The Delts hold one every year. Most of the girls who attend know the score and it's no crime to throw a bash."

  "Isn't it? There's a rumor that a girl was gang raped at a pig party. Have you heard anything about that?"

  "I've picked up the same rumor. As wild as the pig parties get, I suppose it's possible. Which is one more reason why you shouldn't go."

  "I'll be perfectly safe,” she said mildly. “I'll be with a Marine."

  Touché. Couldn't help smiling. She was not only pretty, she knew exactly which buttons to push. And I was already more interested in the girl than the money.

  "Ex-Marine,” I said, picking up the fifty. “Where do we meet?"

  * * * *

  We almost didn't. Westover is a small suburban college outside Lansing. Enrollment's twenty thousand, give or take. The main campus dates from the ‘sixties, red brick buildings designed to look older than they are, surrounded by student dorms, which are coed, plus a dozen fraternities and sororities which are not.

  Silver lived at the Kappa Rho House, a converted Victorian box with a mansard roof that looked like something out of Jane Eyre. Kappa Rhos are ultra-bright, scholarship chicks, mostly shrill feminists. We don't see many in Shannon's and I nearly missed Sara Silver. She was sitting on a bench in the vestibule and I walked right past without giving her a second look.