Murder Under the Oaks: Bouchercon Anthology 2015
By Art Taylor
()
About this ebook
Winner of the 2016 Anthony Award for Best Anthology or Collection!
MWA Grand Master Margaret Maron, Edgar Award-winner Tom Franklin, and New York Times bestselling novelist Ron Rash headline a new anthology of 21 tales spanning from traditional detective stories to comic capers to darkest noir and more — something for all tastes.
MURDER UNDER THE OAKS is published in conjunction with Bouchercon, the World Mystery Convention, held in 2015 in Raleigh, North Carolina — the City of Oaks. As with the convention itself, the anthology spreads a broad canopy across a wide range of crime writers from across the country and around the world — including both veteran writers and the brightest up-and-coming talents in the field. Several of the stories in MURDER UNDER THE OAKS draw on the region's history and culture — including the birth of a secret society at the University of Virginia, a mystery from Edgar Allan Poe's childhood days, and a series of less-than-welcome visits by everyone's favorite hometown sheriff.
All participants contributed their efforts to support our charity — the Wake County Public Libraries — and by extension readers and writers everywhere. ALL PROFITS GO TO THE LIBRARY.
Edited by Art Taylor. Including stories by J.L. Abramo, J.D. Allen, Lori Armstrong, Rob Brunet, P.A. De Voe, Sean Doolittle, Tom Franklin, Toni Goodyear, Kristin Kisska, Robert Lopresti, Robert Mangeot, Margaret Maron, Kathleen Mix, Britni Patterson, Karen Pullen, Ron Rash, Karen E. Salyer, Sarah Shaber, Zoë Sharp, B.K. Stevens, Graham Wynd.
Art Taylor
Art Taylor's short stories have won many of the mystery world’s major honors, including the Agatha, Macavity, and three consecutive Derringer Awards, in addition to making the short-list for the Anthony Award twice. A native of Richlands, NC, Art lives in Northern Virginia, where he is a professor of English at George Mason University and writes frequently on crime fiction for The Washington Post, Mystery Scene, and other publications. He’s married to the writer Tara Laskowski, and together they spend most evenings chasing a toddler (or being chased, depending).
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Murder Under the Oaks - Art Taylor
MURDER UNDER THE OAKS
Bouchercon Anthology 2015
Edited by Art Taylor
Story Copyrights 2015 by Individual Authors
First Edition: October 2015
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Eric Beetner.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
Art Taylor
Spring Break
Margaret Maron
The Immortality Mushroom
P.A. De Voe
#grenadegranny
Karen Pullen
Praying to the Porcelain God
Lori Armstrong
Childhood’s Hour
Karen E. Salyer
Another Day, Another Murder
Kathleen Mix
Crack-Up at Waycross
Robert Mangeot
Grasshoppers
J.D. Allen
Time Zones
Ron Rash
Kill Me Again Slowly
Zoë Sharp
Walking the Dog
J.L. Abramo
Christians
Tom Franklin
Mall Rats
Britni Patterson
Driftwood
Sean Doolittle
A Good Name
Rob Brunet
The Sevens
Kristin Kisska
Old Friends
B.K. Stevens
Life Just Bounces
Graham Wynd
Death of a Bible Salesman
Sarah Shaber
Down Home
Toni Goodyear
On the Ramblas
Robert Lopresti
Contributor Bios
Other Titles by Down & Out Books
Preview of Jack Getze’s Big Shoes
Preview of Richard Godwin’s Wrong Crowd
Preview of J.L. Abramo’s Circling the Runway
To Librarians,
who feed both the mind and the soul
Introduction
Art Taylor
Whenever people ask about my favorite mystery writers, usually with an eye toward recommendations about who to read next, I often come back with a question or two of my own: Which writers do they already admire? Or even more to the point: What exactly do they mean by mystery?
While many people still define that word mystery in its narrowest terms—the fair-play whodunit, the traditional detective story—crime fiction (the term I personally prefer) covers a much broader and continually expanding territory. It’s not just the cozy at one end of a spectrum and the hardboiled tale or the darkest noir at the other, but the full range of subgenres that...well, not that fall between those extremes (it’s not a continuum, not at all) but that push the boundaries of the genre in so many different directions. The PI investigation and the police procedural. The caper, the con game, the courtroom drama. Spy stories, wartime espionage, international derring-do, romantic suspense. The historical tale and the techno-thriller. The legal thriller. The forensic thriller. The paranormal thriller. Serial killers and more serial killers. The classic locked room set-up. And that supposed line between literary and genre has long since been blurred. It’s not just that some of the best plots can be found in crime stories today, but also the sharpest prose.
Similarly, that deceptively straightforward phrase short story can represent a wide variety of styles and structures and even sizes. A crisp bit of flash fiction can illuminate a moment’s importance so intensely that a reader might glimpse a character’s entire world or history or future. And at the further reaches of the word count limits, the novella can interweave several seemingly divergent storylines into a richly layered whole. The traditional linear story is only one available structure: a chain of events falling out cause and effect in a chronological format. Modular storytelling—assembling disparate bits of story into a complex and coherent mosaic—can juxtapose multiple perspectives, vault across great expanses of time, or shift tone radically across a simple section break. A piece of short fiction might sustain itself on a burst of mood or on a significant glimpse of character or lend itself to experimentation in ways that a novel, at such greater length, simply can’t.
Just as each year’s Bouchercon provides an umbrella—or, more suitably this year, perhaps an oak canopy—for the breadth of the crime writing community, so too do I hope that Murder Under the Oaks, the 2015 Bouchercon Anthology, will offer a sampling both of the subgenres and of the stylistic and structural choices available to today’s writers of short fiction.
The stories in these pages include both invited contributions by distinguished guests and a dozen tales chosen from more than 150 blind submissions. Together, they form a vibrant and eclectic mix and represent both veteran mystery writers taking fresh risks and at least one newcomer making a striking debut. While most of us know best the award-winning novels of MWA Grand Master and Bouchercon Lifetime Achievement Award winner Margaret Maron, we shouldn’t forget that she began her career as a short story writer and continues to push the boundaries of the form; when she submitted Spring Break
here, she admitted that she was trying something new with the story: Just to see if I could do one that’s all dialogue with no narrative.
Likewise, International Guest of Honor Zoë Sharp noted in her email to me that she went a little out on a limb
with Kill Me Again Slowly
—incorporating quotes by Groucho Marx, Oscar Wilde, Dorothy Parker, and Marilyn Monroe, each of whom has a cameo in a blissfully dizzying dinner scene with Sharp’s series heroine Charlotte Charlie
Fox. Meanwhile, J.D. Allen earns her very first mystery publication with Grasshoppers,
a six-part story that shuttles between three perspectives to tell an unforgettable story of revenge and redemption.
Several of the tales here center on investigations, whether by the police (Detective Roc
Rozinski in Kathleen Mix’s Another Day, Another Murder
), by private investigators (Justice and Mercy Givens in Britni Patterson’s Mall Rats
), by other authorities (Judge Lu in P.A. De Voe’s The Immortality Mushroom
) or by determined amateurs (the now-legendary group of University of Virginia students at the core of Kristin Kisska’s The Sevens
).
De Voe’s and Kisska’s stories—set in Ming Dynasty China and early 20th-century Virginia, respectively—contribute to the range of historical periods represented: Christians
by Bouchercon Guest of Honor Tom Franklin charts the aftermath of a killing in the post-Civil War South; Death of a Bible Salesman
by Guest of Honor Sarah Shaber unfolds in World War II Washington, DC; and Karen E. Salyer’s Childhood’s Hour,
set in the early 19th century, features the father of detective fiction, Edgar Allan Poe himself, as a young child seeking answers about his troubled family history. He might not get them, but we do.
The shortest of the stories here, the tense, taut Praying to a Porcelain God
by Bouchercon Toastmaster Lori Armstrong, reveals how much energy and anger can be packed into a small space. The longest, J.L. Abramo’s Walking the Dog,
weaves a seemingly loose collection of conversations, reflections, and memories into a suddenly tight narrative—no stray threads, no unnecessary details, nothing wasted. Armstrong’s story and Driftwood
by her fellow Toastmaster Sean Doolittle may be among the darkest of the batch here, with Ron Rash’s somber and urgent Time Zones
exploring darkness of a different sort. But even some of those with a lighter or more humorous bent can take some sharp and unexpected turns. The narrator of Robert Mangeot’s Crack-up at Waycross
had me laughing out loud, the black comedy of Graham Wynd’s Life Just Bounces
struck me as decadently delightful, and there are different levels of amusement and surprise and emotional depth in the raise-the-stakes adventures of the title character in Karen Pullen’s #grenadegranny,
in the face-off between Perko and Mongoose in Rob Brunet’s A Good Name,
and in the interplay between two American tourists and a Spanish pickpocket in Robert Lopresti’s On the Ramblas.
To cap off my claims about diversity within the crime short story, two of the stories here ultimately feature no significant crimes at all—but you won’t know which until you finish them, and that absence hardly compromises the suspense or the success of either.
While Murder Under the Oaks was never intended to be a themed anthology, several trends did present themselves. If a search for justice might predominate, the spirit of revenge—justice’s close kin—courses even more menacingly through the collection. Family features prominently in several stories—both the lengths someone will go to protect family and the dysfunctions and even dangers that can lie at the heart of such relationships. Friendship plays a similarly recurring role, most notably in the escalating game of truth or dare between B.K. Stevens’ Old Friends.
Older characters appear frequently as victims or criminals, and the plight of aging is perhaps nowhere more eloquently explored than in the showdown between Andy Griffith (yes, that Andy Griffith) and the widowed schoolteacher in Toni Goodyear’s Down Home.
And speaking of Sheriff Andy, while the collection was also never meant to be geographically centered, the prevalence of stories that ended up being set in North Carolina as well as Virginia and Georgia does help to commemorate this first Bouchercon in the South—and thanks, in that regard, to UK writer Sharp for bringing not just herself but her character for a visit to Raleigh.
I’m pleased to have been chosen to guest edit this anthology, and it’s been a great pleasure to work with all the authors included here, but a collection like this relies on many more people than those listed on the table of contents. Great thanks go to Karen Pullen, a fine short story writer and anthologist in her own right, for her tremendous organizational efforts and stamina getting this project going and keeping it going, and to Amy Funderburk of the Cameron Village Regional Library for her work logging the blind submissions, communicating with the authors, and organizing their manuscripts for judging. I also want to thank Eric Campbell of Down & Out Books, Janet Reid of Fine Print Literary Management, and several of the organizers of Bouchercon 2015—including Al Abramson, Ingrid Willis, and Stacey Cochran—plus give a quick personal thanks to Dana Cameron, editor of last year’s Bouchercon anthology, for bits of advice and guidance along the way.
Finally, no celebration of the writers here would be complete without a celebration of the readers themselves, who’ve picked up this anthology and will hopefully search out the works of these authors elsewhere too. In that spirit, I want to close with thanks to you reading this right now and also with a big shout-out to the beneficiary of this anthology: the Wake County Public Libraries, who, along with all libraries, continue the mission of bringing writers and readers, all of us, together.
Back to TOC
Spring Break
Margaret Maron
Hello?
Oh, thank goodness you’re there, Granna! I’m sorry if I woke you up. I know it’s late, but Mom’s not answering her phone and I can’t tell Dad. He’ll kill me!
Susie? Is that you? What’s wrong? Where are you? What’s happened?
Promise you won’t tell Dad?
Tell your dad? What are you talking about?
I’m in so much trouble.
Honey, stop crying and tell me what’s happened...Susie? Are you there?
Hello? Mrs...is it Foley?
Yes. Emma Foley. Who are you? Where’s Susie?
This is Sergeant Monroe of the State Highway Patrol. Are you her grandmother?
I am. What’s this all about?
I’m sorry, Mrs. Foley, but I have to make sure you really are her grandmother before I release any details. She says you live in Cameron Village up there in Raleigh. Is that correct?
That’s right. Wait a minute! You said up there? Where are you calling from? What’s happening with Susie?
I’m sorry, ma’am, but your granddaughter’s just been arrested down here in Georgia for possession of a controlled substance.
Controlled substance? You mean drugs? That’s crazy. Susie’s never used drugs.
I’m sorry, ma’am.
Let me speak to her, Sergeant.
Granna?
Susie? I don’t understand. What on earth are you doing in Georgia?
It’s spring break, remember? My roommate and I came down to Tybee Beach for some sun and fun and it’s turned into a nightmare. The drugs aren’t mine, Granna. Honest! They were under the seat of our rental car and I don’t know how they got there, but they’re going to lock me up if I can’t post a bond for twenty-eight hundred dollars...Granna?...Granna?...Are you still there?
Sorry, honey. I was sound asleep when you called. The doctor gave me a sleeping pill and my brain’s still in bed. Twenty-eight hundred?
Please, Granna. The trooper says if you wire it to me right away, I won’t have to spend the rest of the night here in jail. I’ll call Mom first thing in the morning and get her to pay you back. Just don’t call Dad, okay? He’ll totally freak.
Oh, Susie.
Granna? Are you crying? Don’t worry. Please! I’ll be okay. They say I can go just as soon as someone sends the money to cover my bond. Please don’t cry.
Let me speak to that officer.
Sergeant Monroe, here.
What do I have to do, Sergeant, to get my granddaughter released?
The magistrate has set her bond at twenty-eight hundred, ma’am. If you want to wire the money here, I can give you the details.
The thing is, I never go out at this time of night anymore and I haven’t the faintest idea where a Western Union is.
I’m sorry, ma’am.
Wait! Don’t hang up. I have that much cash here in the house. I just don’t know how to get it to Georgia. Maybe I should call Susie’s mother and—
Your grandmother wants to call your mother...ma’am? Miss Foley’s shaking her head and begging you not to. I’m sure Western Union must be in your Yellow Pages.
I’m an old woman, Sergeant. It’s almost midnight. I can’t go roaming the streets of Raleigh at this hour. Isn’t there another way to do it?
What do you suggest, ma’am?
I know it’s asking a lot, but couldn’t you get a police officer here to come get the money and then wire it down to Georgia? As a professional courtesy? Don’t you law enforcement officers do things like that for each other?
That’s highly irregular, ma’am.
Do you have children, Sergeant? Or a grandmother? Please?
Let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back.
Hello?
Mrs. Foley?
Sergeant Monroe! I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.
Sorry. It took a while for me to set this up. I have an old Army buddy with the Raleigh PD. He’s going off duty and he’s agreed to pick up the money at your house and wire it to the courthouse down here. He says it’ll take him about twenty minutes to get over to Cameron Village. His name is James Morris and he’ll show you his badge.
Morris? Oh, that’s wonderful! Tell him I’ll leave the front porch light on. Let me give you my address.
Mrs. Foley?
Are you Sergeant Monroe’s friend?
Officer Morris, yes, ma’am.
Do come in, Officer.
If you don’t mind, ma’am, it’s been a long day for me. If the money’s ready, I’ll just take it on over to the Western Union on Capital Boulevard.
Certainly, Officer. Here it is. Twenty-eight hundred dollars. I hope you won’t mind signing a receipt for it. These are such strange times and my accountant always tells me to get a receipt for everything.
No problem, ma’am. You have a pen?...Here you go.
What nice handwriting you have. Thank you so much...Is that enough, son?
That’ll do just fine, Mom. Cuff him, Bob.
Hey! Where’d you guys come from? Who are you? Ow! Easy with those handcuffs!
James Morris? Or is it Sergeant Monroe? I’m Mrs. Foley’s son and my partner and I are real Raleigh PD officers. You’re under arrest for attempted fraud and for impersonating a police officer. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—
Yeah, yeah. Save your breath. You—Grandma. What tipped you off?
Your Susie kept saying she didn’t want her dad to know when—
Ow! Hey! What’d I say? What’d I do? Oh, my God! Is that blood? Is my nose bleeding? Police brutality! You just bought the city of Raleigh a lawsuit, mister.
Get him some ice, son. And you, Mr. Morris or whatever your name is, you’re lucky he didn’t break your nose. He’s Susie’s uncle. As for what gave you away, Susie—my Susie—posted about her spring break on her Facebook page two days ago and I posted for her to have fun and be safe. Is that how your girlfriend knew to call me Granna?
What if it was?
One of you should have checked Susie’s page tonight before you called. You would have known from all the condolences that she wasn’t still in Georgia.
Huh? Condolences?
Her dad—my other son—died in a car wreck this morning.
Back to TOC
The Immortality Mushroom
From Judge Lu’s Ming Dynasty Case Files
P.A. De Voe
Judge Lu enjoyed his visits to the Temple of the Enduring Oak. He had discovered a sympathetic soul in its head monk Tsu Fei-long. When possible, Lu would slip away from his duties in order to share a cup of tea and the pleasure of an afternoon filled with philosophical discussion. Such visits provided him with relief from his busy and stressful schedule as magistrate of the local province.
Today, however, they had just begun their discussion when a monk entered the room and whispered in Tsu Fei-long’s ear. Fei-long nodded and glanced at Lu. Come with me, Your Honor, there is something you need to see.
His tone was solemn.
They followed the young monk out of the temple and past its namesake, a massive oak, which –because of its age and size—represented longevity, a good luck omen. Within a short distance, they reached a river.
Two saffron-robed monks stood on the banks directing a young fellow who strode hip deep into a swirling eddy. He skimmed the water’s surface with a net. A cry went up when he snagged something and started dragging it toward shore.
By the time Lu and Fei-long reached the trio, one of the monks cradled the object in his arms. Bending, he gently laid it on a square piece of cloth draped on the grassy banks. Lu recognized a tiny, puffy body covered unevenly with reddish blotches. He turned his head and closed his eyes against the sight. A drowned newborn.
Fei-long spoke quietly to his monks. They wrapped the body and carried it up the slight hill.
You can examine it in the shade of the temple,
he said to Lu. As they turned to go, he added, That’s the second little one we’ve found this month.
Lu frowned. The second?
Why hadn’t he been told? he wondered.
Before he could ask, however, Fei-long said, We find several every year. Their parents, too poor to feed another mouth, drown them rather than have everyone else in the family suffer even more deprivation, possibly even threatening the lives of the other children.
It was a girl child,
Lu said, a statement, not a question.
Fei-long sucked in his breadth. Yes. We rarely find a boy child. Boys are too precious, even in times of want.
Lu understood what he meant. Girls were expendable. They married and became a part of someone else’s family, producing their descendants. Boys, on the other hand, were essential to the survival of their family line. He knew the girls’ families didn’t make these decisions easily, but if there was a choice about which child to abandon, a son or a daughter, there was no choice. The family line must survive.
Pu-an was a large district. By any standard most of its citizens had enough to eat; a good percentage were even well off. However, there were always those families on the margins. The working poor and the abject poor. Lu knew it was useless to go looking for the infant’s parents. No one would say anything; no one would admit to knowing anything. Infanticide was a moral quagmire, but he also realized the monk was right: the cause was not callousness or uncaring parents; it rose from a fear of want, of hopelessness, of true poverty.
Riding back to the yamen with his two personal guards Ma and Zhang, Lu thought about the temple giving each of the little victims a burial. He was called Father of the People. What could he do as their magistrate? How could he eliminate the killing of innocent babies?
Deep in thought, he rode through the town unaware of the merchants’ calls and the excited bargaining voices of buyers and sellers. He ignored it all as he rounded the last corner and the yamen’s massive wood gate rose majestically ahead of him, drawing him in.
Sir! Honorable Sir!
a high-pitched voice rose above the street’s cacophony.
Zhang immediately thrust out his spear and sharply tightened his reigns. The woman—arms flailing and her loose, untamed hair flying—ignored Zhang and continued rushing toward the judge. Ma moved closer, placing his horse between the judge and the wild figure.
Lu, however, instantly recognized her as Widow Han from a previous case. He pushed thoughts of the drowned babies away and concentrated on this new development. He told his guards to let her pass.
Breathing rapidly, she stopped within an arm’s distance of his horse, rested her hand on her chest, and gasped for air. Catching her breath, she lifted a saddened and wrinkled face toward him and then announced, Your Honor, Master Chou is dead. Someone robbed and killed him.
Lu scowled down at her. Master Chou? Who is he and where did this happen?
He’s the bell doctor who lives on Dong Jie,
she said, referring to the itinerant doctor by the local term. He walked the streets ringing a bell alerting people about his presence in case they needed his services. I went to visit him and happened to arrive at the very moment his son found him dead in their house.
Lead us to Master Chou’s,
Lu ordered the widow.
She didn’t hesitate or turn to see if they were following as she sped back through the streets; she moved at a surprising speed, belying her fragile, if erratic, appearance.
A crowd had already started to form around the bell doctor’s door. A strongly-built man of medium height, with small eyes and prematurely thinning hair, stood just inside the house and kept the crowd at bay. The crowd parted as Lu and his entourage approached; Widow Han strode straight up to the man. Chou Xiao-zei, I’ve brought Magistrate Lu,
she said in a loud voice.
He frowned down at her, but then, looking up as the judge dismounted from his horse, the frown passed and he said, Honorable Sir,
while bowing in Lu’s direction. Please come in.
As Lu stepped through the doorway, he was wrapped in a pungent gloom. He paused and looked around, letting his eyes become accustomed to the room’s dimness. Shelves overflowing with jars and bottles stretched along two walls. In the center stood a long table with three stools pushed under it; another small, square table filled out the remaining space. On the latter, Lu noted a cutting board, a chopping knife, and mortar and pestle sitting on its rough, work-worn surface. Master Chou’s body lay stretched out on the long table, a light cloth covering him.
Lu wanted to be mindful of the pain and shock he was sure Master Chou’s son was feeling at his father’s sudden and horrible death. Nevertheless, it was imperative he proceed as quickly as possible, before details were forgotten or altered. Plus—and this he tried to ignore because it could lead to bringing closure at any cost and, thereby, subverting impartiality—Lu was also too keenly aware that his superiors expected the murderer to be discovered and apprehended within days of the death. Anything longer than this and the magistrate was suspected of mishandling the case; there would be repercussions, perhaps even dismissal. Lu tried not to let such thoughts determine his actions; he concentrated on bringing justice to the victims, not on protecting his own position.
He stepped to the table and pulled back the cover. As he bent to inspect the body, he was aware of Widow Han’s slipping into the room and taking up a position behind the open door. He ignored her, allowing her to remain. Looking at the victim, Lu immediately discovered the cause of death: a fractured skull. No other signs of trauma were visible.
Where did you find him?
Lu asked Chou Xiao-zei.
There,
he said pointing to a narrow space between the square table and the shelves.
He was already dead?
Xiao-zei passed a hand over his eyes. Yes. I was bringing in firewood and found him slumped on the floor. He didn’t have to die like that.
Did he have any enemies? Anyone he was fighting with?
No. No one I knew. Of course, he was a doctor and sometimes people died, no matter what he did to save them. Sometimes families blamed him. But I don’t know of anyone who’d kill him.
Lu glanced around the room, Was anything stolen?
Nothing.
Lu heard a sharp intake of breath from Widow Han, but he didn’t glance in her direction. Are you sure? There are a lot of jars around here.
I work with my father. I know everything in this room. Nothing’s missing.
Did he have any appointments today?
Not that I know of. As I said, I was out fetching wood, so if anyone stopped in, I wouldn’t know it, but I don’t think he had any appointments. He was preparing his medicines.
After closely inspecting the room, Lu again returned to the body. Pushing down a sense of revulsion, he gently moved his fingers through Master Chou’s matted hair, feeling the skull’s wound in more detail.
The late afternoon sun sent a narrow stream of light through the window as if highlighting the bloodied mass. As he pushed hair out of the way, he felt a few chunks of matter. He picked them out, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and placed the evidence in his sleeve. Continuing to carefully examine the wound, he noted the fracture was a rounded depression.
Lu surveyed the room once more. His eyes rested on the pestle used for pounding herbs and such into powders. He picked it up and gently held it close to the victim’s wound. It was a match. It had been wiped clean, but it matched the injury.
Xiao-zei watched Lu. Do you think that’s what killed him?
Lu handed the pestle to his guard. Very likely.
A thief came in and killed my father, thinking he could rob him. But we never had any money here.
He smiled grimly. Bell doctors don’t make much.
Lu ran his hand over the table’s rough surface, dislodging a couple of pieces of vegetable matter from its crevices. He put those into another handkerchief and dropped them gently into his sleeve along with the first handkerchief.
Later, back in his office, Lu sat with his two guards and his brother Lu Fu-hao, who served as his secretary. They were discussing Master Chou’s death. The killing seemed random; there was no motive and no suspect. Yet, such a violent murder suggested a degree of passion—from what? Fear? Anger? Desperation? The fact that Master Chou had his back turned toward the killer indicated he wasn’t afraid of him. Perhaps he even knew his killer and trusted him. They all thought it had to be a man; none of them believed a woman would have the constitution for, or be physically strong enough to commit, such a murder.
As they sat sifting through the scant information Lu had gathered that afternoon, his servant announced Widow Han was outside, requesting an audience.
Lu slipped on his court robes and returned to his desk.
Widow Han wandered into the room and it wasn’t the first time Lu wondered at her mercurial behavior. She appeared to go from aggressive assertiveness to mistily drifting in and out of consciousness. Watching her, he wondered at her sanity. He sighed and waited.
When she arrived at the desk, she stopped and looked around her as though surprised to find herself in the office. She cocked her head to one side and—as if continuing a conversation—said, You know, Master Chou also talked to that farmer from the eastern hillside; the one who comes to town to sell vegetables on market day with the stall across the street from Chou’s shop.
Lu and Fu-hao exchanged glances.
When did he talk to the farmer?
Lu asked.
The same day he found the mushrooms.
She glanced around the room. He might have told the farmer about the mushrooms. He told me.
She stopped and stared up at Lu.
He shifted his weight in his elaborate high backed chair. And what is it that he told you?
Why that he’d found them, of course. Although I suppose it would have been better for him not to mention anything to anyone. Not even me.
She shook her head and bit her lip.
Lu cast a brief look at Fu-hao who was sitting at a side table. His brother widened his eyes and shook his head in a silent comment on her behavior. Lu shifted back into place.
Are you saying he’d found mushrooms? That’s what he told you and the other farmer?
He wondered why mushrooms would demand secrecy.
Widow Han looked up, eyes bright. Yes. The Immortality Mushroom.
Lu started. Had he heard correctly?
She hurriedly went on, words tumbling over each other as she related her story. I met him on my way back to town. I’d been out gathering herbs, just as he had been. He was looking for lichen and mushrooms in the woods—the one with a stand of old oak trees in it.
She licked her lips. There they were—three of them—growing on the side of an oak stump.
Are you sure? How did he recognize them? The Immortality Mushroom is extremely rare.
Swaying rhythmically from side to side, she smiled. Rare, yes. The golden treasure. Any herbalist would be able to identify one; they are distinctive with their bright red color and broad, flat shape. Even one would bring a lifetime of comfort. It’s what we all hope to find as we hunt for herbs. And, Master Chou found three.
She smiled as if in awe at his luck. He was delirious with excitement. When he saw me on the road, he had to tell me the whole story of his looking for lichens, of finding the mushrooms. While he was telling me the tale, Farmer Xiong came along. I warned Master Chou not to say anything more. He was walking around with a treasure and anyone could steal it.
She held Judge Lu’s gaze. It may be Farmer Xiong heard enough to know Master Chou had something of great value.
Do you think he knew it was the mushrooms?
Lu asked.
She shook her head. No, probably not. And he wouldn’t recognize the importance of the mushrooms—at least I don’t think so. Who really knows what someone else knows?
When was this?
Four days ago. I went to Master Chou’s place today because I was sure he would have prepared the mushrooms for sale by now, drying them and grinding them into a powder.
Wouldn’t he sell them whole, thereby assuring the customer he was getting a real Immortality Mushroom?
Lu asked.
They are too powerful. They need to be mixed in with special vegetables and longevity noodles and eaten over several days.
Lu fingered the tiny, dried chunks he’d taken from the wound. Look at these, Widow Han. What do you think they are?
She stepped up to the desk, pressed her nose close to the pieces, and sniffed. Lifting her head slightly, she studied them, and turned them over with her index finger. Immortality Mushrooms,
she said with conviction.
Lu pushed his shoulders back and stared down at the fragments. So he might have been grinding the mushrooms when he was struck down.
They didn’t look like much, just brown and reddish bits, nothing worth murdering for. "The killer must have known