More stories from the latest issue:

• When Bright Angels Beckon
  Little Tony came bounding down the stairs, Diego scrambling to keep up. They sounded more like a herd of wildebeest than like miniature humans ages eight and five. “What’s for dinner, Lori? Can we get pizza?” Tony yelled. Yelling was unnecessary, but whatever Tony did, Diego was all in. As the younger boy began to shout too, Cam struggled to be put down, wanting to join her brothers. From his basket in the corner, Meme lifted his grey muzzle and sniffed to be sure all was well, then sighed deeply and went back to sleep. Lola trotted over, nails tapping
• Fred and John: an Unmysterious Friendship
  John Dickson Carr is presently enjoying renewed attention among general mystery enthusiasts. While Carr was popularly recognized during much of his career, and while to more serious crime-fiction readers Carr has always remained in the pantheon of detective-fiction greats, Carr’s recognizability has not endured as has that of his notable contemporaries Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen. Of late, with the reissue of so many of Carr’s novels through the British Library Crime Classics series and Penzler Publishers’ American Mystery Classics series—not to mention the rediscovery and publication of some of his earliest work by that gem of an independent press,
• The Million Dollar Legs Matter
  May 16, 1957 To: Howard Squier, Apex Affiliated Company From: Johnny Dollar Investigations Dear Mr. Squier: Enclosed please find my invoice and expense claims with attached receipts from my investigation into the case of Oskar Krevlenko, which I’ve dubbed The Million Dollar Legs Matter. Expense Item One: $84.76 for round-trip air ticket to New York City Idlewild Airport from Chicago. Expense Item Two: $5.42 cab fare from Idlewild to midtown Manhattan office of Apex Affiliated. I arrived at Avery Tuttle’s office around two in the afternoon. The woman behind the receptionist desk gave me the once-over as I hung my
• The Way to Dusty Death
  A mug that won’t stay dead is a mug that can’t be trusted, and Rough Stubble believed he had just seen the ghost of Remington approach him in the lunch-hour crowd on Washington Street in Hoboken. Time gave him no pause to ponder the paradox because as the apparition drifted past, Rough Stubble felt a sting in his arm like the bite of a snake. Within a moment he fell to the sidewalk. His fading eyes looked at the blankness of sky above the brownstones, populated only by a lone gull with something in its beak. And Rough Stubble wondered
• Sabotage Can’t Stop de Shower
  Way behind the dozens of framed photos in her living room display shelves, there’s a picture of my Grandma Lolo on her wedding day. It’s a black-and-white photo, taken in the mid-sixties but shot in monochrome just to be stylish; on the front steps of the Virgin Isle Hotel high up on a grassy hill just west of Charlotte Amalie. Lolo’s wearing an ornate white gown and peekaboo heels. Her makeup is understated and neutral, which only makes her natural beauty even more evident, and she’s holding what looks like half the island’s flora tied up in a satin ribbon.
• Marchland and the Wandering Vicar
  The whole thing seemed impossible, but I had the sickening feeling that the impossible was true, that I was the instrument, the unwilling tool, in this ghastly tragedy. —W.F. Harvey, “The Tool” “I can’t go on, Owens!” Marchland pleaded with his butler. “My legs have failed me. Go and fetch help at once. I can’t possibly take another step.” Owens looked down upon his employer sheltering at the base of a large rock, his expression one of distaste and bafflement. “If I may say so, Dr. Marchland,” the butler began in his deep Welsh cadence, “your father—good man that he
• Ellery Queen Made Me Do It!
  What did you just see? Every two months, these pages tantalize you with new stories. Afterward, you may dream about anything from ancient Rome to art thieves and attempted murder. As a curious reader and author, I began asking questions about how Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine has inspired and even changed lives since 1941. “Ellery Queen brought me to Asia,” says Steve Steinbock, Ellery Queen’s beloved book reviewer. “Then Asia brought me deeper into Ellery Queen.” “What do you mean?” I ask. “Thirty years ago, I joined a dozen serious historical mystery nerds in a pub at Bouchercon in Nottingham,
• The Surge
  Translated from the Dutch by the author The afternoon smells of wet moss, of burrowing mice, of danger. Beneath the berry bush, where the clingy sweetness of a dead raccoon lingers, worms are digging deeper into the dirt. The wind whirls and whips, snapping branches of the spear trees, carrying an unfamiliar rumble into the valley. Stay low—that’s the way to do it. And if it comes to it: flatten the ears, bare the teeth. For at the bottom of the hill, Man lives. Keep away. She stands with her back against the wall, right beside the taped-up window. If
• Lie Down with Dogs
  The paint on my office door is so new you can smell it. My office furniture smells just as new, because it is. And today I got my first paying patient—a male beagle someone dropped off at the Port Gracie animal shelter. He’s neutered, maybe forty-five pounds, cute as a bug, but in serious trouble. At some point, he’d tangled with a porcupine and caught a face full of quills. Pulling those quills is a job from hell. The pain is horrific. Dogs have to be sedated and often will whimper and writhe, even under heavy anesthetic. I sympathized with
• Good Fences
  There were no more American-flag pinwheels in town; Harlan Mayfield had bought them all. Not because he was particularly patriotic, but because they were on sale after Fourth of July and he needed them to drive away the moles. The week prior, the moles had entered his backyard from the easterly side, over by Leon Shanklin’s place, and had since begun to meander north, leaving long slow tracks across the lawn. Harlan’s yard had never been the finest, despite his multiple attempts to seed it, even bringing in a professional at one point, if professional meant his wife’s third cousin