A seasonal M/M Romance by Award-Winning Author Isobel Starling
Every good Dick needs a sidekick…
Actor, Tom Lewis’s world came crashing down when a honey trap and tabloid expose outed him and put pay to his flourishing career. The housewives favorite was most well-known for his role as ‘Detective Fox’ in the quaint British series 'Malmesbury Murders'. But after the media speculation about his sexuality, the show is on hiatus and Tom hasn’t worked in six months. Now things are getting serious, money is running out and Tom desperately needs a job. So when his agent offers him a seasonal acting job, he reluctantly agrees… and takes on the role of Santa for a top London Department store. This decision changes Tom’s luck.
When Tom overhears two unidentified store workers discussing a "job to get a little Christmas bonus”. He realizes the 'job' is of an illegal sort. Now, Tom could call the police, but then again, wouldn’t it be great for his flagging career if Detective Fox saved the day? So, Fox is on the case, and as every good Dick needs a sidekick, Tom decides a sexy young Elf named Eli Mason will fit the role - in more ways than one!
FYI. This is an M/M Romantic comedy
This book was previously titled "Detective Fox and the Christmas Caper" The title and cover have been updated.
The content has not changed.
Original Review January 2026:
My time is short so this won't be the review I hoped to write, fingers crossed I'll have time to come back and write more but know this is a delight. It has been on my Kindle for ages, and by "ages" I mean years, nearly a decade and I have no idea why it took so long to read it but I'm glad I finally did.
Amateur detection is one of my favorite kinds of mysteries and Isobel Starling did not disappoint. The blend of humor, mystery, and romance is what made Detective Fox such a joy to read. Tom and Eli are amazingly fun together, both on and off the case. Being a holiday story is like adding an extra layer to an already yummy cake. And the fact that this is a British mystery is the delicious icing on that amazing cake.
I may not take the opportunity to read this annually but I know I'll be listening to it when the holiday season comes around again, maybe even when Xmas in July arrives. A holiday gem but in truth it's such a great mystery treat that it would be great all year long. I've only read one other Isobel Starling story and that was nearly 9 years ago so I'm going to stretch my label a bit and include her in my new-to-me author list and look forward to discovering more.
The Case of the Deadly Deception by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Alasdair & Toby Mystery #4
When Alasdair Hamilton and Toby Bowe swopped the seats of their spitfires for the glamour of Landseer studios, they couldn’t have imagined that they’d end up playing Holmes and Watson both onscreen and off.
Their reputation for amateur sleuthing has led them into some tricky situations, but none as puzzling as dealing with the Monday Evening Association. Why should seemingly rationale people claim to be able to perform outrageous feats and how is this linked to the apparently accidental death of a fellow Landseer actor?
When threats to the upcoming coronation are uncovered, the sleuthing actors are faced with a challenge tougher than fighting the Luftwaffe.
Original Review July Book of the Month 2025:
Once again, Charlie Cochrane as proven she is a Queen of British Mystery. I remember when I first read Toby and Alasdair way back in 2015 in The Case of the Overprotective Ass in the author's Home Fires Burning duology. I enjoyed them immensely, though at the time I was coming off of a Cambridge Fellows series read and had a hard time letting go of Jonty and Orlando to fully appreciate Alasdair & Toby on their own merit without comparisons. Which is something I'm ashamed to admit but when you love an author's couple so much, it can be hard to move on to someone new.
HOWEVER. Since then I've come to love A&T almost as much as J&O and can do so without comparing the characters or the series(and that isn't just because the author has connected the 2 series either). A&T are definitely their own people with their own styles of living and detecting. Such a delight that just keeps getting better with each new entry and case.
I won't touch on the case itself much so as not to spoil it, I will say that every little tidbit they discover leads to more questions and very few answers until the reveal. I won't say I was completely shocked but at the same time I didn't really think that was exactly how it was all going to go down. I just love stories when multi fronts merge together and in Deadly Deception, the lads are tasked with one case that leads to another that may or may not collide, but either way you get a big old pot of alphabet soup of clues and mayhem. A good mystery keeps you guessing, a great mystery lets you think you have it, makes you doubt yourself multiple times, and even when you are dead certain you finally got it, you still find yourself completely thrown sideways.
Charlie Cochrane's The Case of the Deadly Deception is a great mystery.
One last thing, as I mentioned above, the author connected An Alasdair & Toby Mystery and Cambridge Fellows Mystery with the last entry, The Case of the Undiscovered Corpse, where A&T prepare to play J&O in a new movie, but here we get to see the next generation of Stewarts take up the investigation mantle in Jonty's great nephew, Jonny. What a brilliantly entertaining addition to the Cochrane amateur detecting universe! Dare I hope that Jonny and his better half, Roger, help J&O in an investigation in their elder years? Or an even bigger dare to hope, their very own case and series? 😉hint, hint😉 Wherever the next generation pops up next, I doubt we've seen the last of them.
RATING:
The Mystery of the Moving Image by CS Poe
Summary:Snow & Winter #3
It’s summer in New York City, and antique shop owner Sebastian Snow is taking the next big step in his relationship with NYPD homicide detective, Calvin Winter: they’re moving in together. What should have been a wonderful week of playing house and celebrating Calvin’s birthday comes to an abrupt end when a mysterious package arrives at the Emporium.
Inside is a Thomas Edison Kinetoscope, a movie viewer from the nineteenth century, invented by the grandfather of modern cinema, W. K. L. Dickson. And along with it, footage of a murder that took place over a hundred years ago.
Sebastian resists the urge to start sleuthing, even if the culprit is long dead and there’s no apparent danger. But break-ins at the Emporium, a robbery, and dead bodies aren’t as easy to ignore, and Sebastian soon realizes that the century-old murder will lead him to a modern-day killer.
However, even with Sebastian’s vast knowledge of Victorian America and his unrelenting perseverance in the face of danger, this may be the one mystery he won’t survive.
When Sebastian Snow receives one of the most unigue items he probably has ever seen, a working kenitiscope with a film reel he is completely confused as there is no information who sent it or why. Upon viewing the film he sees something he never thought possible, footage of a live murder from over 100 years ago. Can Calvin help him solve the century old murder and will solving Seb's case lead to solving the murders happening since receiving the film?
I didn't think it possible but I loved The Mystery of the Moving Image even more than the first two in the Snow & Winter series. Perhaps it's the movie lover in me that felt more connected to this one. Whatever the reason, Moving Image is brilliant! Intriguing, interesting, unique, and once again fun. That's right, CS Poe has made antiquing and murder fun😉😉
I won't say anything more about the plot and as far as Seb and Calvin's relationship goes I love how they keep moving forward. Calvin knows that Seb probably won't listen to him when he tells him to stay out of it and although this probably frustrates him he just takes a deep breath and does what he can to minimize the fallout. They balance each other out in so many ways.
As I just found this series I was able to read them one right after the other but I fear now that I will have to wait a while for the next installment but I know it will be well worth it and I eagerly await the wonders that Seb finds at his door next. I suppose technically each book is a standalone as the mystery begins and ends within the covers but I highly recommend reading them in order as the relationship between Seb and Calvin grows and there are minor mentions to the previous cases.
Original Audiobook Review November 2020:
Still brilliant, still amazing, and Sebastian and Calvin just keep getting better and better. The mystery and romance play out perfectly in audiobook and gives me another way to enjoy them whenever I need a Snow & Winter fix.
Under His Rule by Davidson King
Summary:In the Spotlight
Under his rule, nobody is safe
Prince Julian Davaros is heir to the throne of the Lamdera Islands. He’s gorgeous, rich, famous… and just happens to be a serial killer. His family and bodyguard know his murderous proclivities, but to everyone else, he’s simply the heir apparent, loved by many. In reality, Julian can’t stand most people, he doesn’t have relationships, and if he’s alone with you it usually means you’re his next victim. However, once Wynn Carter catches his attention in a small café, Julian’s new obsession isn’t one he wants to kill but instead wants to own.
Wynn Carter has always wanted to visit the Lamdera Islands, and he’s using his thirtieth birthday as the perfect excuse. His plan is to soak up some sun, drink in the culture, and make memories with his friends. His agenda didn’t include catching the eye of the future king. Now Wynn finds himself swept up in a sort of fairytale of lavish dinners, intimate nights, and even some media attention. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the prince’s interest, but he’s certainly not upset about it.
Unfortunately, secrets don’t stay hidden no matter how powerful you are, and when someone decides to push Julian out of the shadows by hurting the one person he wants more than anything, the quiet monster that lies within him bursts free. Julian’s and Wynn’s lives erupt into chaos, and Wynn finally discovers who Julian truly is. If he can’t live with it, the prince needs to decide whether to surrender everything… or get rid of his obsession.
Under His Rule is part of the multi-author series, In the Spotlight. 14 authors bring you 14 original stories of killers in the public eye. Where everyone is dying to be in the spotlight. Every book can be read as a standalone.
Original May Book of the Month Review 2026:
I'm going to start right out of the gate by saying this is not a typical story topic I generally seek out, I don't shy away from it, just not something I go looking for. Don't get me wrong, I've read many a book where the actions of the MC can be labeled ambiguous but killing to "scratch a mental itch"? Not what I usually seek out(truth be told, "scratch a mental itch" is just the simplest way to say it, there's more going on here than that). But Under His Rule is a Davidson King tale and frankly, IMO no one does dark mayhem better, so in I went.
So freakin' glad I did! Perhaps it's not going to change my pattern of looking for it, but boy did it entertain, and I can't ask for more.
I won't spoil anything so details will be minimal but I do have to say, at one point I really expected a certain familial relationship to go in a different direction but I was wrong and I think the story is better for my wrongness😉. The author would have done it well had my directional thought been right but this was better and didn't "weigh it down with added dramatic baggage".
As I started with, Prince Julian's predilections are not my goto choices but I can certainly sympathize with some of his thought patterns. How can you not love Wynn? After all, he only wants a memorable vacation with his friends. Well he certainly got it, not how he probably envisioned it but definitely memorable, to say the least. Together, they complement each other, even if Wynn is reluctant and the prince has a bit(to put it mildly😉) more control over it all.
Due to the prince's way of life(again to put it mildly😉), Under His Rule may not be for everyone but if you like dark mayhem with your chemistry and romance, you won't be disappointed. For those like me, who don't usually go there, this is a perfect way to let go of some of that internal frustration and aggression that is probably building up in most of us in today's current climate. I guess you could say I found Under His Rule to be theraputic😉.
I want to add a little note about the mention of flumazenil. I could be wrong but I don't recall ever seeing that drug mentioned in a book I've read before and I'm pretty sure I would because it was a drug that went on my mother's allergy list. Luckily, she was inpatient at the time when the docs used it to help bring her out of a procedure but by the time she got back to her room she had a seizure, with no other cause they could determine, they decided it must have been the flumazenil. Whether she was actually allergic to it or not they thought it best to put it on her list, better to be safe than sorry. Anyway, I want to thank the author for the use of it, not for any personal connection I have but because by not using more widely known drugs, it is just another example of the research Davidson King puts into her work. It's that "extra mile" that really makes her work stand out to this reader.
RATING:
The Savage Son by Frank W Butterfield
Summary:Nick Williams Mystery #6
Tuesday, December 15, 1953
Ivan Kopek is missing and his parents desperately want Nick's help. Ike, as he's known to his friends, is quickly found once Nick, Carter, and their pals are on the case. Unfortunately, Ike's in jail for a murder he didn't commit. And it was only because he didn't get the chance to do it himself.
Meanwhile, it's almost Christmas. Nick's least favorite time of the year.
But, Carter wants a Christmas tree and Dr. Parnell Williams, Nick's evil bastard of a father, has summoned them both to the mansion on Sacramento Street for Christmas day at 12 noon. And they're not to be late.
In the end, Christmas brings Nick & Carter a number of unexpected and life-changing packages, both big and small.
Original Review July 2024:
As it's Xmas in July I was in a holiday reading mood so i skipped ahead a couple of entries and read The Savage Son, the sixth entry in Frank W Butterfield's Nick Williams Mystery series. I want to start by saying as it was when I read #14 The Pitiful Player for my Oscar reads I wasn't lost but I could tell a few things that happened in entries #4 & #5 were still very fresh in Nick and Carter's minds but because of both inner and outer convos I knew enough info for context and yet not enough was retold to spoil going back(which I will over the next few weeks).
Now that I mentioned that, on to The Savage Son.
Carter wants Christmas and all the trimmings, the very things he's went without since meeting Nick as he knew Nick wasn't a fan but this year he wanted it. With some moments of secrecy not often displayed between the couple, Carter gets his Xmas but will it change Nick's thoughts on the holiday? Well I think you all know my answer to that: you have to read to find out😉.
The mystery is so brilliantly weaved throughout with many possible outcomes that before I knew it, the book was over and I was kicking myself for not slowing my pace to make the enjoyment linger. To me that feeling says it all and the epitome of reading greatness. Ivan has gone missing and his parents come to Nick to find him. Sounds simple, sounds straightforward but as we all know in the land of fiction, missing is rarely simple and even rarer to stay at just a missing person. So many twists and turns kept me guessing till nearly the reveal.
Now besides the "main" mystery, there is another unanswered scenario that Nick and Carter find before them. Nick's not-so-favored father, Dr. Parnell Williams, summoning both(and the inclusion of Carter adds even more ??? to the equation) men to his home on Christmas Day at Noon. I can't lie, having read the N&C Holiday short story series I maybe should have picked up on this sooner but I didn't and it knocked me sideways for a moment or two before smacking my head and saying "how did I miss that?".
I don't want to give too much away so I'll end it here but The Savage Son is a brilliant mystery, wonderful established couple romance, with friendships-turned-found-family at every corner, and it somehow manages to embody everything a Christmas tale should: heart. Savage Son may not fit the Hallmark-style holiday fare but it's definitely a delicious holiday treat.
Detective Fox by Isobel Starling
CHAPTER 1
AGENT
“I got you a great gig, Tom. It’s yours for the taking. You don’t even have to audition.”
Tom Lewis lay in his preferred prone position on his agent’s worn black leather couch, where, over the last six months, he regularly flopped down and despaired about the unfairness of being an unemployed actor of such high caliber. He lifted the red velvet cushion that he’d pressed over his face to block out the sound of yet another complaint from his agent—usually along the lines of: “You know if you really wanna get back out there, you’re gonna have to step out of your comfort zone…”
But no, Tom was pretty sure he’d just heard his agent say he’d got him—a—job? Tom sat up, swung his legs off the couch, and stared at his agent with an expression of disbelief on his face. He hadn’t worked since an exposé in the British tabloids about his ‘Shocking Sordid Gay Sexploits’ months before.
Tom Lewis was considered a pin-up for homemakers the length and breadth of the British Isles, and he also had an enthusiastic American fan base too. The forty-five-year-old actor was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with swarthy looks, wavy raven hair to his jaw-line, and eyes so dark brown they appeared black. In the days before the exposé, a topless shot of Tom could send his fans, who gave themselves the moniker Tomkats, into a hormonal Twitter frenzy. But, no matter how straight Tom presented, privately he was 110% gay and believed that the only people who needed to know that fact were the men he wanted to sleep with. It was no one else’s business, and, so rightly, Tom was appalled at being outed, and alarmed by the vitriol of women online who were devastated that their fantasy man loved cock.
Tom’s preference was for younger men. So what if he was on Grindr. Just because he was a well-known actor, it didn’t mean he wasn’t entitled to a private life. Therefore, Tom had enjoyed his private life, hooking up whenever he could fit cock into his busy schedule.
Tom now knew he’d been deluding himself. After all, with such a well-known face, it was only a matter of time before one of his sexual partners recognized him. And so it came to pass. Tom had been chatting online with a hot young thing named Devin, and later enjoyed an evening of very kinky sex with the twenty-year-old he’d met via the dating site. But it turned out that Devin was a trainee reporter for the Scum or The Mail—Tom couldn’t remember which tabloid. It didn’t matter anyway.
Tom narrowed his eyes and considered his agent with consternation. “Jesus Derek, you could have said earlier and stopped me from whinging on and on for the past thirty minutes.” He said, “Come on, what’s the gig? Spill,” Tom urged, suddenly hopeful… maybe even excited.
Tom’s theatrical agent was Derek Bates, whom Tom had privately nicknamed The Master, for obvious reasons. He sat behind a desk piled so high with paperwork that Tom was surprised it didn’t collapse under the weight. Derek was connected, and he was old school—meaning he wasn’t one for tablet computers, PDF files, and new-fangled script software. No siree; Derek wanted paper copies of all scripts his clientele were considered for, in triplicate. Luckily, Derek’s secretary, Arnold was a computer wiz and would get him out of any technical issues that were beyond him—like turning on the desktop computer!
Derek was in his late fifties, ruddy-faced and sporting a blond wig that a certain horrible US president would probably arm-wrestle him for. He had the body of a man who’d enjoyed far too many rich lunches on expenses, and spent too much time on his arse behind a desk.
Derek met Tom’s keen gaze. “I got you a sweet deal under the circumstances. Five weeks at three thousand per week. There’ll be two weeks rehearsal at two grand a week too”, Derek explained, “They were delighted at the chance to have the man who played the famous Detective Fox on their team.”
Tom’s eyes widened at the thought of that kind of money. It was a decent salary, and with the offers drying up after the social media furor from the tabloid stories, it would be very welcome. His credit cards were maxed-out, and he’d been considering selling his Chelsea riverside apartment to make ends meet.
Tom stared at his agent and noticed the shifty look in his eyes. Suddenly, he felt uneasy. Who would want him so badly without an audition? What the hell was this gig?
“Look, I’ve told you a million times, I am NOT doing panto,” Tom scowled.
“Would I do that to you? Would I?” Derek simpered, sounding wounded. There was a lull for a moment while both men eyed one another suspiciously before Derek said “I’ll have you know that I believe Panto is a wonderful British tradition. But, it’s not a pantomime, okay?”
“Jesus, just tell me… is it a sitcom or a movie? Please don’t say it’s a reality show; you know I’d rather crawl over broken glass than appear on one of those.”
Tom was always very picky about his roles, and so far this stubbornness had paid off. But now he was exasperated, teetering on the edge of agreeing to anything just to have something to take his mind off what a clusterfuck his life had become. Three grand a week for five weeks solid work was not to be sniffed at.
“As I said,” Derek continued, “The client would be delighted to have the Famous Detective on board. They thought it would be a great theme to follow—” Derek took a deep rattling breath and then launched over the cliff…“—in investigating who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.”
An icy shiver ran down Tom’s spine. He was a Royal Shakespeare Company-trained actor, for God’s sake.
“You have got to be fucking joking!” Tom roared in his best Detective Fox voice. Derek held his hands up in surrender to try and placate his client.
Tom’s anger melted away “Has it really got THAT bad?” Derek gave a tight-lipped shrug.
“Oh, Gawd.” Tom rested his head in his hands, and a wave of depression engulfed him.
He was officially a failure.
“Hold your horses; hear me out, Tom. Have I ever let you down? Well, have I?”
Tom didn’t even attempt a reply.
“It’s a good gig,” Derek insisted. ”The starring role of Santa for the Hambling’s Department Store Christmas extravaganzahh.” The agent delivered theatrically. There was a long silence, as if Derek was waiting for his ta-da moment. It never came. Tom just looked at him blankly with those scarily dark eyes.
“Hambling’s—err, Tom, you must know Hambling’s?” Derek said nervously to fill the awkward silence.
“Of course, I bloody know Hambling’s,” Tom spat. “It’s London’s most expensive, exclusive department store.”
“Le Blanc did it two years ago—and The Hoff took the gig last year. You should be honored, seriously. They even want you to choose your supporting cast. Isn’t that great? You wouldn’t have to deal with any arseholes who’d run to the papers. Hambling’s has said they’ll make all of the applicants sign confidentiality agreements. They have top-notch security. If you take the job, they’ll give you carte blanche.”
“Supporting cast,” Tom blurted disdainfully “Don’t make me laugh. You mean Elves.” he huffed.
“Come on Tom, will you do it?” Derek pleaded.
“It’s either this, panto or I don’t know. Have you considered teaching?” He exhaled, exasperated. “You can’t go on like this. And, though it pains me to say, seeing you mope around the place, it’s not good for business, and it’s not good for your brand. Did you see the Daily Mail on Tuesday? Apparently, Tom Lewis ‘cut a lonesome figure, much like the character he’s famous for.”
“I was shopping for groceries for Christ’s sake,” Tom roared indignantly “Who the hell is full of the joys of spring when they’re shopping for toilet roll and detergent?” Tom threaded his hands through his thick, dark hair, slumped back on the couch, and then pulled the red velvet cushion back over his face.
There was no way in hell Tom would lower himself to dressing in a red, padded Santa suit. He’d worked hard to become a serious actor, and he’d worked harder on his washboard abs. He’d taken sword fighting lessons, learned to ride a horse, and spent years perfecting his range of accents. Detective Fox was a deeply troubled soul who'd ‘seen too much’, and Tom had dug deep to find the wounded, loner Dick who always solved the case—and had no idea just how devastatingly attractive women found him.
The last series of the show ended with a cliffhanger. The actor who’d played his sidekick, Banks, had been shooting his mouth off on set and causing trouble amongst the cast so, in the show, he was killed off, and Fox never discovered whodunit. The storyline was supposed to be continued as a sub-plot for the new season as Fox tirelessly searched for clues as to who killed his partner.
Tom was sure he’d be back on the show sometime in September, but now the producer was saying it would happen after the New Year, and they would have a less troublesome actor lined up to be the new sidekick. But then there were whispers in the press about recasting Detective Fox, too, and until the producers made a decision, Tom Lewis was in limbo, twiddling his thumbs.
Tom came to a decision. He could not take a role as Santa, not for anyone, no, no, no. Talking about Christmas made him realize that he had no plans for the holidays this year. He was a forty-five-year-old, single, unemployed actor, and in all honesty, he would probably be alone on Christmas Day, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin and a tub of ice cream. It was the most pathetic situation he could imagine. Tom’s closest friends had families or plans to jet off to warmer climes. Tom could barely afford a meal out these days. He would probably get sympathy invites, but the thought of spending the holidays with other people's screaming kids was not a welcome one. Tom could take or leave children—leave them, mostly. He wondered idly if all actors who’d played Santa Claus secretly hated kids eventually.
Tom pondered for a moment longer. Was he really suited to play Santa Claus? Of course, he could play Santa, he was an actor, a professional, for goodness sake, and a friendly old man in a fat suit was well within his range. It would be good to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, and seven weeks work for nearly twenty grand—now that would see me comfortably into the New Year.
If Tom took the role, he would do it his way. He lay there on his very patient agent's couch and thought about actors he’d admired who‘d played Father Christmas. There was Fred Astaire, and Richard Attenborough, and, more recently Tom Hanks and John Goodman. Lots of successful actors played the big guy, and it hadn’t damaged their careers.
Tom pulled the cushion away from his face and took a deep breath. He grimaced morosely, and then said, “Damn it—tell them I’ll do it. But there’ll be no one-to-one. No hugs. No photography. I’m not having stranger’s kids sitting on my knee, and suing me in twenty years for ruining their childhoods.”
Derek gave a deep gravely laugh. “Atta Boy.” he cheered “I knew you’d say yes. It’s all been arranged. Auditions are on Friday.”
The Case of the Deadly Deception by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter One
April 1953
Dear Mr Bowe
You are invited to the next meeting of the Monday Evening Association. We assemble at seven thirty sharp, first and third Mondays of the month, in the offices of Herbert and Chapman, floor three, Clanfield House, Eagle Street, London. We appreciate that you are a busy man, so will understand if you can’t join us on this occasion but we feel it vital you attend as soon as convenient.
Yours sincerely,
Lloyd Conway
Chairman
M.E.A.
“Well, what do you make of that?” Toby Bowe, who’d thrust the letter into Alasdair Hamilton’s hands almost as soon as he’d entered the latter’s house—and then had waited with admirable patience for his fellow actor to peruse it—felt he could wait no longer. “It came this morning, forwarded from the studio, and I have no idea who Conway is or anything about this association he represents.”
“I’ve never heard of him, either.” Alasdair raised his eyebrow, the one which was heavily insured by Landseer Studios due to its notable capacity for expressing emotion. “Miss Marple was a member of a Tuesday Night Club, so perhaps these are fans of either Mrs Christie or detective fiction in general.”
“I suppose that’s possible, but they could have given a chap a clue as part of their invitation. What if I go there based on that premise, then find they’re…I don’t know…a group of artists who’d want me to pose au naturel?” Toby tapped the letter. “There’s no address given for me to reply to, unless I send it via those offices.”
“Hmm. It does smack somewhat of fishiness.” Alasdair took the letter into his drawing room, where he stationed himself by the window to view it in a better light.
Toby suppressed a smile at the actions. Alasdair would no doubt not have given a thought to himself being seen in a better light, as well, nor to him presenting his best profile to the audience of one. He and Toby had been colleagues—and lovers—for long enough now not to have any element of vanity in their relationship. Yet what was done for the camera, or for the benefit of those in the stalls if the actor was on stage, could become habitual. And Alasdair did present a pleasing sight, standing with the missive in hand, the afternoon light catching his dark hair.
“So, what in the communication specifically smells of either fish, flesh or good red herring?” Toby asked as he settled himself into one of the comfortable fireside chairs.
“The name of the offices, for a start. Herbert and Chapman. Herbert Chapman.”
“Oh, yes. The Arsenal and all that.” Toby should have spotted the significance of the name. “If it’s not a coincidence, it could be another indication of a love of detective fiction. An allusion to The Arsenal Stadium Mystery.”
“I’ve not read that one. Should I?”
“Yes. It’s quite fun. You’ll have to imagine the men running around in shorts as the book isn’t illustrated.” Toby produced his cheeky grin, so beloved of newspaper and magazine photographers. “If Mr Conway and his merry band do enjoy reading of that type, perhaps that’s the very reason they want me to attend one of their get-togethers.”
“To talk about portraying Dr Watson on the screen or emulating his and Holmes’s exploits off it?” Alasdair asked.
“Either or both. In each case they’d benefit from my inside knowledge.” Landseer was unique in being the film studio that could boast of actors who were involved in detection onscreen and off.
“Then why not invite me to the meeting, as well?” Alasdair couldn’t hide his disappointment at not being asked.
“Perhaps they have done and your invitation has been delayed in the post? They wouldn’t invite us both via one letter, surely, as they can’t—please God—be aware of the exact relationship between us.”
“True. Or perhaps they are exclusively fans of Watson rather than Holmes. Let’s check if Eagle Street exists, anyway.” Alasdair went to his bookcase, selected the A to Z, then perched himself with it on the arm of Toby’s chair. “Well, the road’s here. Just north of Lincoln’s Inn. Not an area I know.”
“Indeed.” Toby took the letter back, although studying it for further clues seemed a vain pursuit. “I think I’ll get the Landseer people on this. They’ll surely know if this Conway chap or his group have a reputation, say for inveigling film stars into their clutches then performing terrible things upon them. If Landseer advise me to go ahead, they might also provide a bodyguard, to prevent the clothes from being ripped off my muscular frame.”
“Twit. The Monday Evening Association is unlikely to turn out to be populated by your adoring female public. Aren’t they called something like The Toby Bowe Appreciation Society?”
“They are indeed and a more splendid bunch of women you could not wish to meet. I think you’re right in saying this has to be a different kind of organisation, though: adoring male public, perhaps, given that Lloyd is a chap’s name.” Toby folded the invitation and tucked it in the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll reply to him once Landseer give the go ahead. Perhaps I’m being over cautious, purely from the lack of information. Whoever this group is, facing them can’t be as dangerous as squaring up to a Junkers with a trigger-happy pilot.”
Alasdair took Toby’s hand. “One can only hope. And if they are genuine fans, too coy to advertise the fact, it would be a shame to disappoint them. Common decency must always be observed towards those who ultimately pay our wages.”
“Let alone always observing the avoidance of adverse publicity.” Toby chuckled.
“Were you joking about needing a bodyguard?” Alasdair asked.
“Only partly. It wouldn’t surprise me if Sir Ian, should he get wind of this, insists I’m properly looked after. Some burly chap to act as chauffeur and be in the offing in case of trouble.” Sir Ian Sheringham, head of the studio, wouldn’t want one of his most valuable properties to be put into a potentially tricky situation. “Are you volunteering to disguise yourself for the part?”
“No thank you, much as I’m intrigued by the whole business. It’s simply that I have someone in mind for such a role, should it be required.”
“Are you going to tell me who?”
“You’ll have to guess. Clue one, your godfather mentioned him a while back as being a useful person to have in one’s corner if trouble was brewing. He’d helped him out with a case, I believe.”
Toby furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t narrow down the field much. He’s often running across people, helpful or otherwise.” Matthew Firestone, being one of the police force’s most reliable—and successful—officers met plenty of folk and had many tales about them to regale his friends with.
“Then consider clue two. He’s pally with the brother of one of Matthew’s other godsons. I think I’ve got that right.”
“Right or not, it doesn’t help much, either. Matthew has stood at the font so many times he might as well be ordained. Another clue please, Sherlock. At the risk of me having to play an astonished Watson at how obvious the answer is.”
Alasdair, who was evidently enjoying this greatly said, “Third and last clue. He has a connection to a certain person you’re portraying in our upcoming release.”
“Jonty Stewart? Oh, of course. We’re talking about his great nephew, aren’t we?”
“Correct, my dear Watson. Jonny Stewart, which is rather confusing name wise but at least memorable because of the similarity to Jonty. Except in your case obviously not memorable at all.” Alasdair snorted.
Toby now recalled the conversation with Matthew clearly, but didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been paying attention throughout, because there’d been a rather handsome waiter in the offing who’d been making eyes at him. It had taken all of Toby’s concentration to ensure he gave no hint of response to the saucy chap, not least because he had all he needed—romance wise—currently sitting on the arm of his chair.
“Why do you have Jonny in mind, as opposed to anybody that Landseer could suggest?” Toby asked.
“It feels neat and tidy, with the Stewart connection.” Alasdair liked things neat and tidy. “It might even be useful publicity if this thing somehow becomes public. Young Jonny carrying the family torch.”
“Quite.” They weren’t portraying Holmes and Watson in this latest offering but the entirely real Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith. “You really do think there’s something odd about this, don’t you?”
“Yes. I couldn’t tell you exactly why—a pricking of my thumbs, maybe—but it’s like when we’d scrambled, and were flying in an apparently clear sky yet knew there were bandits about.”
A shiver shot down Toby’s spine. He remembered that feeling in every detail and hoped he’d never experience such a sensation again.
***
Those at Landseer studios who seemed to know everything there was to know—about anything—were tasked with looking at the letter and gave Toby his answer very promptly, or so he reported to Alasdair. There was apparently nothing in the communication from Conway that rang any corporate alarm bells, so if he wanted to attend the Monday Evening Association meeting on April the twentieth, he could.
“They say they don’t recognise the name or address as being linked to any of their unpleasant correspondents. You know, like the ones who take umbrage at the way Landseer portrays Holmes and Watson, particularly your Sherlock getting his end away with whichever minx Fiona is playing.” Toby grinned over his teacup.
They were both at the studios, grabbing a cuppa before a meeting about all the activities surrounding the launch of their new film. Fiona Marsden would be attending, too, she being the key third part of the Landseer star acting triumvirate. The fact that she’d recently begun a romance with Jonty Stewart’s nephew, the present holder of the family title, wouldn’t hurt publicise the new film, either.
“A chaste kiss in the final five minutes counts as getting one’s end away, does it?” Alasdair said, with a snort.
“In the fans’ eyes, yes, according to the complaints received. Although these folk are no doubt right in saying that Sherlock never went so far with a woman. Nor man neither, I’d guess.”
“He wasn’t a real person, you know.”
“I know that. Although I’m not sure everyone else does.” Toby took a drink. “Apparently, 221b Baker Street receives post from people hither and yon wanting the great detective to solve their problems. Those letters can’t all have been sent as a bit of a joke.”
Good point. “And will Sir Ian allow you to go into the Eagle Street lions’ den alone?”
“Absolutely not.” Toby explained—much to Alasdair’s satisfaction—that Sir Ian, had happened to drop into the department concerned when they’d been making their enquiries. “As a result of which, he’s just sent me a note. He’s worried about potential risks to yours truly and said that he’d need to organise somebody to go with me. I said you might have the very chap.”
“Excellent. I’ll ring up to Sir Ian’s office, right now, and suggest Jonny. I’ve got two numbers for the latter, office and home, garnered from his great uncle Jonty.”
“Have you? How sensible.” Toby nodded approval. “What did the Cambridge connections think of the idea?”
“They gave it their whole-hearted approval. I also discovered more about the mystery he helped Matthew with. Remember that story about Ivor Gregg the actor going missing? Jonny and a pal of his were involved with getting that sorted.”
“Well done him.” Toby raised his teacup to make a toast. “I did wonder if Sir Ian was going to suggest you as my wingman but either he doesn’t want to risk both of our handsome faces being bashed about or he’s avoiding us being seen together too often when not on studio business.”
“The second, I’d say.” There was an increasing risk of people becoming suspicious, especially when none of the fledgling romances he and Toby were apparently involved in actually took flight. “Talking of which, I wonder which young ladies they’ll hang on our arms for the premiere?”
“I’m due a rising starlet, although I have hinted that a bluestocking from Girton might be more fun and a novelty for the press coverage. I’m sure Jonty or Orlando have a suitable contact.”
Alasdair raised his non-insured eyebrow. “That would be a novelty. It’s a while since I was paired with a lesser daughter of minor nobility so I guess my partner will be along those lines. I do feel sorry for these women.”
The machinations of the Landseer publicity offices, which provided the daughters of captains of industry or other eligible ladies as the actors’ “dates” for events, had proved successful so far but surely there was a limit to how long they could get away with it?
“Quite. Hopes dashed and all that.” If Toby was going to add to that remark, he was prevented by the arrival of his dresser, who wanted to nab him for five minutes, if she could, regarding one of the costumes for their next film, The Heart That Wears the Crown. With a grin and a, “No peace for the wicked,” Toby let himself be taken off.
Alasdair could profitably use the time to ring through to Sir Ian, which he did without delay.
“Sir Ian? Do you have a moment?”
“I do, Alasdair. You just caught me before I go into a meeting about Naughty Nelly. Someone’s having kittens about the title. And the script.”
Naughty Nelly: there was a production that had already caused a problem or two, including losing its leading man to a fatal accident two days into shooting at the start of February. The role had been recast but production proper had yet to recommence. Alasdair hoped that the royal connection both films shared wouldn’t prove an ill omen. “Then I won’t delay you. I only wanted to suggest a suitable bodyguard—if that’s not too strong a term—for Toby, when he goes off to this strange meeting he’s been invited to.”
“Not too strong a term at all,” Sir Ian said. “Do you have as strong a smell of rat as I do?”
“Absolutely. So does Toby, although not as foul-smelling an odour as ours. I couldn’t tell you why, Sir Ian, and I haven’t been quite so frank about it with him but I’m not at all happy about this invitation. If I can’t go with him, which would no doubt be too great a risk on other fronts, then I want to do all I can to protect him, albeit vicariously.”
“Agreed on both counts. You’ll be in public view alongside each other often enough in the next few weeks, so if it’s not official Landseer business or to do with your detecting work, I’d rather being seen together didn’t happen.” Sir Ian rarely put his foot down in such a way: the Naughty Nelly business must be getting to him. “It’s a shame these two Cambridge chaps you’re portraying are too long in the tooth to do the honours on the bodyguard front.”
“Quite. Although the person I want to propose is of the same family—the Stewarts—and according to our constabulary friend Matthew Firestone, a good man in a tight corner.”
“Another Stewart? They’re getting everywhere, given Fiona’s latest amour.” Sir Ian chuckled. “Still, that would all hang together nicely with the new film, should it come to public attention. Can I leave you to organise that with him, please?”
“Of course.”
“Now, while I have you. It may appear that I’ve been slightly tardy regarding your and Toby’s companions for the premiere of Death Stalks the College, but I haven’t. In fact, it was all set up a while ago, at the suggestion of your two Cambridge contacts.”
“That sounds intriguing.” Maybe Toby would be getting his blue stocking companion.
“We certainly thought so when we heard their idea. It also fits nicely with the film, given that the two ladies concerned both helped you clear up that recent case with the Victorian corpse in the vaults. Names being…” the sound of papers being rummaged through came down the line, “Mrs Bessy Cutting and Miss Geraldine Topley. The publicity department are going to make a splash about it over the next few days but we’ve had to hold fire because Miss Topley had a fall and we weren’t sure if she’d have to pull out of the event and we’d need to call on one of the usual suspects. Luckily, she’s fully recovered so can attend. I hope that gets your approval.”
“It does indeed. Much better than having another young woman disappointed at the lack of follow up from either of us.”
“Exactly. The public will love them being there, of course, suggesting as it does that one of them might end up on your arm on a similar occasion in future.”
“That could be a suitable strategy for all such events.” And an answer to the thorny issue of why their companions tended to be for one evening only. “You could hold a ballot or a raffle—a shilling to enter and all proceeds to the Royal British Legion.”
“That’s brilliant, Alasdair. I’ll jot the idea down right now or else I’ll forget. Can you let Toby know about the arrangements? You can fight over who gets Bessy and who gets Geraldine.” Sir Ian chuckled.
“I will do so at the first opportunity. Good luck with Nelly.”
“I’ll need it. All the content is a matter of historical fact, of course, but the censor may cut up rough. We never have that problem with your films, and long may that continue. Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant.” With which comment, Sir Ian ended the call, leaving Alasdair to wonder at just how bad the upcoming meeting would be and how near the knuckle the script of Naughty Nelly was. Not anything that could be lodged against The Heart That Wears the Crown, even though it was frankly a piece of opportunism. One that had benefitted from Nelly’s problems, because the delay in production had meant slack capacity in various departments which had allowed the Cambridge film to be whizzed out in record time and without the risk of it looking like a quota quickie. In turn, the coronation film could then be moved forward and got out in a timely fashion.
The Heart That Wears the Crown had a long history. The film had first been mooted in the early years of Landseer studios, some twenty years previously, in anticipation of the day when the then Prince of Wales would succeed to the throne and the screen representation of a coronation would chime with the real one being held in June. The general disquiet caused by both King Edward’s abdication, and his choice of partner, had led to the film project being shelved indefinitely. Now, the country suddenly found itself with a young, beautiful queen, whose upcoming coronation was an occasion likely to shine as brightly as the diamonds in her crown amidst the lingering post-war austerity. So, the Landseer script was quietly dusted off and reworked into its present format, as suiting the trio of stars.
Assuming nothing awful happens to Toby at his meeting.
Alasdair decided to ring Jonny immediately, because if the man was unavailable, or didn’t wish to take up the commission, then he’d have to go back to Sir Ian cap in hand to report his failure. Fortune must have been smiling on the endeavour, though, because Alasdair not only caught Jonny at work, he professed himself delighted to help, particularly when told that Matthew Firestone had recommended him. “It all sounds very mysterious, though, Mr Hamilton.”
“Call me Alasdair, please. And yes, too mysterious for anyone’s liking. We might be being over-cautious but as your great uncle Jonty may have told you, we do our own bits of sleuthing, in a small way, and it’s possible we’ve made an enemy or two as we’ve done so.” Which idea had only come into Alasdair’s head that moment. Not that he could think of any specific enemies offhand, but those they’d helped to convict would have friends and relatives who might seek revenge.
“If there’s any rough stuff, I’ll be prepared. Should Toby and I meet beforehand to make a plan of campaign?”
“Sounds a splendid idea. I’ll get him to give you a call this evening, if that’s convenient. You can sort out the details between you both.”
“Aye, aye, captain. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Cheeky scamp,” Alasdair said, with a grin. It sounded like Jonny and Toby would get on like a house on fire, the pair of little rascals. Surely between them they’d be able to cope with anything Mr Conway’s meeting had to throw their way.
And he’d have to sit on his hands, to ensure he resisted all temptation to lurk in the Eagle Street area on Monday evening, just in case another pair of hands—or fists—were needed.
The Mystery of the Moving Image by CS Poe
IF THERE was one thing I’d taken away from the last six months of murder and mystery, it was to expect the unexpected.
Max Ridley and I stared at a four-foot-tall wooden crate that had been delivered to the Emporium that morning. Neither of us had spoken for a good minute.
“Five bucks says there’s a dead body inside,” he finally said.
I shook my head. “We’d smell decomp.”
“A normal person wouldn’t say that,” he replied, not looking away from the box.
“Normal is relative.”
“Let’s not get into a philosophical debate before 10:00 a.m.”
I took a step forward and snatched the shipping label from the plastic envelope slapped on the front of the crate. I unfolded it and held my magnifying glass up to the small print.
“Who’s it from?” Max asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Should I call 911?”
I glanced up. “The last time we did that, they sent a vigilante who tried to kill me.”
“That’s true.” Max held up his cell. “But I know three cops and an FBI agent by proxy, so we have options.”
“Calm down.”
“I don’t trust mystery packages, Seb. Not anymore.”
I looked at the label again. “It came from a shipping company on the Upper East Side.”
“But no name?”
“No.”
“Is it addressed to you?”
“Owner,” I clarified.
“I’m calling the cops.”
I looked at Max, reached out, and put my hand over his cell. “Calvin probably just ordered something for the apartment.”
Ah yes, that had been one bit of good to come out of losing my home to an explosion back in February. It’d taken just over two months of searching and Realtor harassing, but as of yesterday, Snow and Winter were the new tenants of 4B—a loft apartment in the East Village above a coffee shop and hippy-dippy clothing store. And despite the insurmountable odds, I was able to tick off every single one of my neurotic must-haves and still keep to a rent that wouldn’t bleed me and Calvin dry. I mean, it was by far more expensive than my old, cozy, rent-controlled place, but seeing as how I was putting my name on the bills with a guy I liked a lot—yeah. Seemed worth the extra cash.
“Call him and ask,” Max replied.
“He’s busy with manly stuff,” I answered.
“What?”
“Unpacking, lifting heavy things, inserting tabs into slots….”
“I’ll quit.”
“Jesus, Max—”
“Just call him.”
I let out an annoyed huff, took my phone from my back pocket, pulled Calvin up in the recent contacts, and called.
“Hey, baby,” Calvin answered.
“Hey,” I said. “Got a second?”
“For you? Several.”
“Aren’t you cute.”
Calvin laughed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just had a package delivered here at the Emporium and was wondering if you’d ordered something big—like, a chandelier—for the apartment?”
“And had it shipped there?” he asked, sounding unsure.
“Uh-huh.”
“No.”
I frowned and glanced sideways at Max. “I’ve got a four-foot-tall mystery box in the middle of my showroom.”
“Since when has that ever stopped you, Hercule?”
I smiled a little. “Ohhh….”
“Like that?” Calvin asked.
“I do.”
“I knew you would.”
I laughed, much to Max’s displeasure. “Figured I’d check in with you before cracking it open. I tend to get a lot of junk this way. People cleaning out grandma’s attic ship me garbage and say ‘keep it until it sells,’ like I’m a warehouse.”
“No return address, then?” Calvin asked, and in the background, I could hear tape being torn off a cardboard box. I’d offered to close the Emporium to help him finish unpacking the apartment, but he’d politely kissed my forehead and shoved me out the front door that morning.
“Some shipping and supply office way the hell uptown.”
“Huh.”
“Were you expecting a housewarming gift?” I tried. Not that anyone in Calvin’s family even knew we’d moved in together. They’d completely stopped talking to him at Christmastime when he’d come out—the exception being Calvin’s Uncle Nelson. Nelson was a sweet old guy. I’d said hello on the phone a few times. He was nothing like the impression I had of Calvin’s father, a retired military man who hated me on principle alone.
“No,” Calvin answered.
“I’m going to tear into this crate.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“I’ll see you tonight,” I said.
“I’ll be the big sweaty guy in the house,” Calvin replied.
“I love when you’re sweaty.”
“Boss,” Max interrupted, and I swear I could hear his eye-roll.
Calvin was laughing over the line. “Bye, sweetheart.”
“Bye.” I stuffed my phone into my pocket.
“When’s the honeymoon?”
“Stop it,” I muttered.
“It’s not Calvin’s, then?” Max asked.
I shook my head. “Nope. Would you grab a hammer from the office?”
“All right,” he answered a bit reluctantly. Max left my side, hiked up the stairs, went past the register, and disappeared into my closet-sized office. “But if there’s anything inside that’s dead, dying, or threatening to kill either of us, I’m burning this place to the ground because it’s totally cursed.”
“I’m not sure whether you’re trying to save me or screw me over,” I said, mostly to myself, but Max heard me.
“Saving you, believe me,” he replied. He jumped off the stairs and approached with the hammer. “Move aside.”
“You want to open it?”
“Maybe if I’m the one to do it, it’ll negate any potential chaos that would otherwise befall you.”
“You’re so sweet.” I took a step back and crossed my arms.
“Is that guy from the Javits Center’s Antique Fair still coming by today?” Max asked as he stuck the back of the hammer under the wooden lid and pushed down on the handle. The nails squeaked loudly as they were pulled free.
“He’s supposed to.”
“He was supposed to on Saturday.”
“And Sunday,” I clarified. “Then I canceled yesterday so I could move. If he doesn’t come today to pick up my items for the show, they can kiss my ass next year when they’re looking for sponsorship money.”
“Seriously.” Max laughed, then moved the hammer and hoisted the lid once more. “So how’s the new place?” He glanced over his shoulder at me.
I winced as more nails screeched free from the wood. “Good. I’m hoping our bed will be delivered today. Spent last night on the living room floor.”
“At least you had a hunky ginger to keep you company.”
“Very true.”
There’d been a lot of change in my life as of late. Mostly for the good, of course.
Business was going great, despite the seemingly bad luck the Emporium had in terms of being a target in the Nevermore and Curiosities cases—but we’d all escaped those with our heads still attached. And after a long line of bad-for-me boyfriends, I’d just moved in with a guy who was my soul mate. Friends and family were healthy, happy—I was even a pet owner now.
So yeah, a lot of things were good.
But I guess that’s why I’d also been sidelined by anxieties lately. I wasn’t expecting old self-doubts when I was on top of the world.
Like, one too many of Calvin’s compliments had gone to my head, and when my clothes had been torched in the fire, I’d purchased a new wardrobe for the first time in… at least a decade. No more secondhand crap. I now owned formfitting, colored clothes. I thought they’d finally give a boost of confidence to my appearance, an insecurity I usually hid with self-deprecating humor, except it’d turned out to be nothing but dread since day one.
And I knew how… stupid it must have sounded. But until someone has been intensely uncomfortable in their clothes, I didn’t think people realized just how much a wardrobe could make or break them. Yeah, the secondhand shit didn’t fit, was old and worn-out, but it was safe. I didn’t need to check a color wheel before putting something on. I disappeared into a crowd. Now every morning was approached with a certain level of trepidation. Were people staring because I clashed and was an eyesore? Were they staring because I wasn’t the best-looking guy and these clothes made me stand out when I used to blend in? They must wonder what Calvin was doing slumming with a guy like me.
Of course I hadn’t said any of this out loud.
Hell would sooner freeze over.
Max lifted the top from the crate, set it on the floor, then peered inside. “Lots of padding. Looks like a piece of furniture.”
I took a few steps forward to see for myself. Wedged between the object and the crate wall was a smaller wrapped item. I tugged it free. “Pull the front of the crate off, will you? We can’t lift that out.”
“Sure thing.” Max took the hammer and went at more of the nails.
I set the smaller item down on a nearby display table and carefully removed the bubble wrap. Nestled within was a round metal canister. I carefully picked it up. There was weight to it.
“You know,” Max said, around the tearing of wooden planks. “If we go through all this and it’s some fugly television from the 1950s….”
I stared at the canister for another moment. “Not a television,” I murmured.
“What?” Max tore off another piece of wood.
“It’s not a TV,” I said again, turning to look at him.
He glanced at the crate and motioned to the item within. “It’s hard to see through the wrapping, but it looks like one of those with the built-in cabinet.”
I walked back to the crate, reached inside, and yanked away the padding. “This is—” I caught myself from finishing, almost like I didn’t want to jinx it. I tore out layer after layer of careful packaging, revealing a spectacularly well-preserved cabinet. “Jesus Christ,” I swore.
“What is it?”
“A Kinetoscope.”
“A what-o-scope?”
“Kinetoscope. A one-person movie viewer, patented by Thomas Edison,” I said, looking at Max. “This was before they’d figured out how to project a moving image to a large audience.” I leaned into the crate and pointed. “See here, you look through the peephole on top. There’s a bulb inside that backlights the frames, and the film is spooled through the cabinet.”
“It’s original?” Max asked.
I rubbed my bristly chin and stared hard. “I think so. Help me pull it out. And for the love of God—”
“Be careful,” Max finished for me.
“The Kinetoscope wasn’t around very long,” I said as we walked the cabinet out of the crate. “As the film industry grew, inventions became obsolete fairly quickly.”
“How did these work, though?” Max asked. “I mean, people didn’t have them in homes, right?”
“Oh no. You’d go to a Kinetoscope parlor. There used to be one here in New York, you know. Taking inflation into account, Edison was charging the parlors somewhere around six hundred dollars for the reel of film.”
“Hell of a businessman.” Max began picking up the mess once we’d gotten the Kinetoscope situated in an empty space of showroom floor. “What was in the little package?”
“A film reel,” I said, hands on my hips as I made a slow circuit around the case.
“Really?” he asked excitedly.
“Niche market makes this difficult to price. It’d be the historical value—”
“Seb. Home movie. Focus.”
I glanced up. “What about it?”
Max made exaggerated gestures at where I’d left the canister. “Let’s see what’s on it.”
I dropped my hands from my hips and went to the table. “I doubt it’s in any sort of salvageable condition.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, going to the register counter and retrieving a pair of cloth gloves.
“Films simply weren’t well preserved back then. Acid ate away at the celluloid. Sometimes there were studio fires, or old reels were just destroyed. They had no intrinsic value at the time,” I explained.
Max offered the gloves as he joined me.
I put them on. “This would have also been before silent film stars like Charlie Chaplin or Harold Lloyd began protecting their work.” I picked up the canister again and held it close, studying the front and back side.
Max leaned against the table and crossed his arms lightly. “I remember watching Fred Ott’s Sneeze in my Film History class. That was Edison’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, first copyrighted film in the United States,” I murmured. Fred Ott had been a gentleman who worked for Edison, who by all accounts had a particularly memorable sneeze. It was one of the test reels shot by W. K. L. Dickson, Edison’s assistant, who was the brilliant inventor of the Kinetograph camera and Scope viewer. “But even that film didn’t survive,” I continued. “It was submitted to the Library of Congress as a series of still images, later reanimated into a movie.”
“How do you know this?”
“I took notes in college.” I carefully removed the canister lid.
“You’re the guy at the cocktail party everyone regrets striking up a conversation with.”
“Yeah, probably.” I set the lid aside and stared at the spool of film. It looked… okay. Better than okay. Intact. Playable, even. “This is incredible. Look here—it has the perforations along the side of the frames.”
Max leaned close, reached out, and hovered his finger above the strip of film I held. “So, what, those holes feed in the Kinetoscope, right?”
“Right. Edison patented that concept as well, but it was Dickson who came up with the idea to slice 70mm film in half and make perforations. Afterward, the company was able to submit custom orders for film stock with these exact specifications for their machines.”
“Hundred-twenty-year-old movie,” Max said with an astonished tone. “It’s going to be either porn or cats.”
I laughed and took the film canister with me to the Kinetoscope. I stooped, opened the cabinet, and studied the mechanical setup.
“Are you going to try to play the film?”
“Sure.” I looked back at Max. “You want to see what it is, right?”
“Duh.”
We sat in front of the Kinetoscope, studying old patent schematics I brought up on my phone, and tried to duplicate the arrangement with our mystery film stock. After about twenty minutes of “Be careful,” “No, the other way,” “The other, other way,” and the classic, “Oh shit,” we got it fed through the long system of spools.
Max was tearing through the crate’s packaging once again.
“What’re you doing?” I called, carefully shutting the cabinet.
“Looking for a note.”
“Is there one?”
“No.” More shuffling followed, and then Max peered down over the top of the cabinet at me. “This has to be from someone you know, don’t you think?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Trusting you with such a rare artifact.”
“I do love a good ego stroke,” I muttered before getting to my feet.
“Not to mention that shipping a crate is expensive, even if it’s just from one end of the city to the other,” Max concluded. The shop phone rang and he left my side to answer it.
“I’ll call the shipping company today,” I said, mostly to myself once Max started talking on the phone. “See if they can provide me with the client’s contact information….”
“Boss,” Max said. He wove in between displays, reaching the phone out. “It’s Pete-Ain’t-Never-Gonna-Show from the fair.”
My shoulders dropped a bit. I took the phone. “Pete?”
“Hey! Snow! I got your message about the pickup.”
I pursed my lips. “I left that message on Sunday. It’s Tuesday.”
“Well, yeah, but you weren’t open yesterday.”
“You were supposed to be here on Saturday, Pete. I’ve had my stock for the fair boxed and waiting since last Friday.”
“Look, I’m sorry about missing the pickup window, but it’s been a busy week of prepping for the event. We welcome our sponsors to drop items off at the Javits Center themselves.”
“I don’t drive,” I replied. “And I shouldn’t have to trek to the ass-end of Hell’s Kitchen myself when I’m paying a sponsorship level that includes the pickup and delivery of all inventory on display for the fair.”
Max winced, I think on Pete’s behalf.
The antiquing community didn’t have a lot of thirty-three-year-olds in it. And there were some members who didn’t enjoy taking a young’un like me seriously. Most had no idea how hard I’d worked to get where I was in the business.
I’d gone into debt to obtain an MFA and put in several years as a sort-of apprentice under one of the biggest assholes in the industry, my late boss Mike Rodriguez. I took pride in my shop and had labored for three years to cultivate and bring attention to obscure relics of our past. Now, my clients returned time and again because they knew the knowledge, inventory, and attention to detail they’d receive from me was top-notch. Snow’s Antique Emporium has since become the sort of business that the Javits Antique Fair reaches out to, requesting I sponsor their event.
So I might have been one of the younger members of the community, but God save the poor bastard who took my hard-earned money and didn’t meet my expectations in return.
“I’m coming by today,” Pete answered, sounding rather unfazed by my agitation.
“The fair opens tomorrow.”
“And that’s why I’m coming today,” he reiterated, like I was the dense one.
The bell above the Emporium’s door chimed. Max and I both turned to see Beth Harrison standing in the open doorway. She was my business neighbor and the owner of Good Books, was about Pop’s age, and had long ago lost her last fuck to give.
“Good morning!” she declared, walking toward us with something in her hands.
“When will you be here?” I asked Pete as Max left me in favor of Beth.
“Oh… should be between eleven and… threeish?”
“Traffic across town must be a real bitch,” I answered, deadpan.
“You’ll be there when I stop in, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good. I’ll need you to sign a few forms.”
“Fine.”
“Will you be at the fair tomorrow?” Pete asked next.
I looked up. Beth was giving me a curious expression. Max was staring at his phone. “Let’s just focus on today first, shall we?” I muttered a goodbye and ended the call.
Beth walked forward. “Someone’s got his grumpy pants on this morning.”
“I’m actually in a good mood,” I corrected. “That was Pete White from the fair. He was supposed to be here four days ago to pick up my collection for the show.”
“How professional,” she said sarcastically.
Max raised his head and turned his phone to show me the screen, even though I was too far away to make out the image. “Marshall’s Oddities is a sponsor, and he’s already set up at the Center.”
Marshall’s Oddities, owned and operated by copycat Greg Thompson, was my only real competition in the city. I said “competition” because he’d basically stolen my shop’s image of “curious and bizarre” and still tried to pilfer my customers whenever possible. I was more than happy to supply the names of fellow dealers to my clients if there’s something they want outside my wheelhouse, because in turn those businesses sent customers to me. But not Greg. He’d never once scratched my back.
Frankly, I didn’t want him to. Or trust him to.
We did not get along, and I was okay with that being the entirety of our relationship. Although… it might also be partly due to the fact that last December I suspected Greg was the nutjob behind the Nevermore murders. But hey. Honest mistake.
“How’d you find that out?” I asked.
“Facebook.”
I grunted.
Max put his phone away.
Beth held up the plate in her hands. “So… how’re you boys on this fine May morning?”
“Why are you so chipper?” Max asked. “You’re talking like a fairy godmother.”
Beth snorted. “I am not. You’ve just spent too much time around your boss, whose good moods resemble most people’s bad moods.”
“They do not,” I grumbled.
“Be nice,” she responded. “I’ve got cookies.”
“Were you going to share?” I asked. “Or were you just taking them for a walk?”
“I don’t know why the hell I put up with you sometimes, Sebby.” Beth handed me the plate. “I come bearing gifts and you give me sass.”
“It’s my default setting,” I replied. I picked up a cookie and took a bite.
“Well, you’d better watch it,” Beth continued, “or that’s the last cookie I share with you.”
I held the plate out of reach. “No take backs,” I said around a full mouth.
Beth was always complaining that customers were stealing her pens. I noted she had three or four stuffed into her bun that morning but decided to let her find those on her own. She was wearing a feline-inspired top, although subtle today—just a cat nose and whiskers—but she also wore leggings with creatures on them that looked half-taco, half-cat, so… a typical wardrobe day for Beth.
“Are you dating a mechanic?” I asked, pointing at her clunky boots.
Beth looked down briefly. “My cat barfed in my Birkenstocks this morning.”
“Charming,” I answered.
Beth put her hands on her hips and walked toward the Kinetoscope. “What have you got here?”
“This is a whatchamacallit,” Max said, pointing at the cabinet.
“A what?” Beth asked.
“Kinetoscope,” I said around the final bite of cookie.
“What does it do?”
“It’s a one-person movie viewer,” Max answered, parroting my explanations back to Beth. “It even came with a 120-year-old film.”
“You don’t say?”
“My money is on porn or cats,” he continued.
“I like those odds,” she agreed.
I set the plate on a nearby table and wiped crumbs from the front of my sweater-vest.
“Sebby.”
I looked up. “Seb, Beth. Seb.”
She ignored me. “You look so handsome in green.”
“I thought this was blue.”
She and Max shook their heads.
“Christ,” I muttered to myself, looking back down.
“Seb was about to turn the Kinetoscope on,” Max said, almost like he’d caught my it’s-not-blue anxiety and changed the subject. “Want to stay for the big unveiling?”
Beth clapped her hands together. “Oh yes! Let’s see what you have.”
I stepped back to the cabinet and gave the Kinetoscope a final once-over before daring to power it on for what might have been the first time in over a hundred years. But against all odds, the machine came to life, the wheels inside making sound as the film was set into a continuous loop. I moved around to the front and glanced in the peephole. The bulb illuminating the projected stills was bright, and I had to squint as I watched.
It turned out the mystery footage wasn’t Victorian porn or cats, but instead, a boxing match. And one I recognized, at that.
The Leonard-Cushing fight of 1894. It was sold by Edison as an authentic fight, but the truth was, it was staged and filmed at his studio, Black Maria, in Jersey. Regardless, it was the first boxing match to be recorded, and of the six reels that were once for sale to the Kinetoscope parlors, less than a full round still existed today. The knockout footage—naturally the most popular round with customers—hadn’t survived.
At least, it hadn’t thirty seconds ago.
Because I was watching it now.
Leonard won. I knew he would, but no one in modern times had ever seen it.
I opened my mouth to say… something, but there was a weird blip in the film, some distortion, and then the scene was different. It was outdoors, the image dark and grainy. Some odd lighting, just above two figures in the scene, illuminated a street that otherwise would have been engulfed in nighttime. The figures appeared to be men—neither from the prior boxing scene. One had very distinctive muttonchops and a bit of a gut. The second man was pretty nondescript. They seemed to be arguing, but the frame rate the movie had been shot at was different from what was used today, making their motions quick and dramatic-looking, so it was hard to tell.
Without warning, Muttonchops pulled something from inside his coat, and the motion blurred as he lunged. Nondescript Man held his neck and then crumpled to the ground. Muttonchops stared down at him for a few seconds, dropped whatever he had been holding, and ran.
The scene looped and brought me back to the fight.
“So?” Max asked excitedly.
I raised my head, looking at him and Beth. “I… think I just witnessed a murder.”
Max Ridley and I stared at a four-foot-tall wooden crate that had been delivered to the Emporium that morning. Neither of us had spoken for a good minute.
“Five bucks says there’s a dead body inside,” he finally said.
I shook my head. “We’d smell decomp.”
“A normal person wouldn’t say that,” he replied, not looking away from the box.
“Normal is relative.”
“Let’s not get into a philosophical debate before 10:00 a.m.”
I took a step forward and snatched the shipping label from the plastic envelope slapped on the front of the crate. I unfolded it and held my magnifying glass up to the small print.
“Who’s it from?” Max asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Should I call 911?”
I glanced up. “The last time we did that, they sent a vigilante who tried to kill me.”
“That’s true.” Max held up his cell. “But I know three cops and an FBI agent by proxy, so we have options.”
“Calm down.”
“I don’t trust mystery packages, Seb. Not anymore.”
I looked at the label again. “It came from a shipping company on the Upper East Side.”
“But no name?”
“No.”
“Is it addressed to you?”
“Owner,” I clarified.
“I’m calling the cops.”
I looked at Max, reached out, and put my hand over his cell. “Calvin probably just ordered something for the apartment.”
Ah yes, that had been one bit of good to come out of losing my home to an explosion back in February. It’d taken just over two months of searching and Realtor harassing, but as of yesterday, Snow and Winter were the new tenants of 4B—a loft apartment in the East Village above a coffee shop and hippy-dippy clothing store. And despite the insurmountable odds, I was able to tick off every single one of my neurotic must-haves and still keep to a rent that wouldn’t bleed me and Calvin dry. I mean, it was by far more expensive than my old, cozy, rent-controlled place, but seeing as how I was putting my name on the bills with a guy I liked a lot—yeah. Seemed worth the extra cash.
“Call him and ask,” Max replied.
“He’s busy with manly stuff,” I answered.
“What?”
“Unpacking, lifting heavy things, inserting tabs into slots….”
“I’ll quit.”
“Jesus, Max—”
“Just call him.”
I let out an annoyed huff, took my phone from my back pocket, pulled Calvin up in the recent contacts, and called.
“Hey, baby,” Calvin answered.
“Hey,” I said. “Got a second?”
“For you? Several.”
“Aren’t you cute.”
Calvin laughed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just had a package delivered here at the Emporium and was wondering if you’d ordered something big—like, a chandelier—for the apartment?”
“And had it shipped there?” he asked, sounding unsure.
“Uh-huh.”
“No.”
I frowned and glanced sideways at Max. “I’ve got a four-foot-tall mystery box in the middle of my showroom.”
“Since when has that ever stopped you, Hercule?”
I smiled a little. “Ohhh….”
“Like that?” Calvin asked.
“I do.”
“I knew you would.”
I laughed, much to Max’s displeasure. “Figured I’d check in with you before cracking it open. I tend to get a lot of junk this way. People cleaning out grandma’s attic ship me garbage and say ‘keep it until it sells,’ like I’m a warehouse.”
“No return address, then?” Calvin asked, and in the background, I could hear tape being torn off a cardboard box. I’d offered to close the Emporium to help him finish unpacking the apartment, but he’d politely kissed my forehead and shoved me out the front door that morning.
“Some shipping and supply office way the hell uptown.”
“Huh.”
“Were you expecting a housewarming gift?” I tried. Not that anyone in Calvin’s family even knew we’d moved in together. They’d completely stopped talking to him at Christmastime when he’d come out—the exception being Calvin’s Uncle Nelson. Nelson was a sweet old guy. I’d said hello on the phone a few times. He was nothing like the impression I had of Calvin’s father, a retired military man who hated me on principle alone.
“No,” Calvin answered.
“I’m going to tear into this crate.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“I’ll see you tonight,” I said.
“I’ll be the big sweaty guy in the house,” Calvin replied.
“I love when you’re sweaty.”
“Boss,” Max interrupted, and I swear I could hear his eye-roll.
Calvin was laughing over the line. “Bye, sweetheart.”
“Bye.” I stuffed my phone into my pocket.
“When’s the honeymoon?”
“Stop it,” I muttered.
“It’s not Calvin’s, then?” Max asked.
I shook my head. “Nope. Would you grab a hammer from the office?”
“All right,” he answered a bit reluctantly. Max left my side, hiked up the stairs, went past the register, and disappeared into my closet-sized office. “But if there’s anything inside that’s dead, dying, or threatening to kill either of us, I’m burning this place to the ground because it’s totally cursed.”
“I’m not sure whether you’re trying to save me or screw me over,” I said, mostly to myself, but Max heard me.
“Saving you, believe me,” he replied. He jumped off the stairs and approached with the hammer. “Move aside.”
“You want to open it?”
“Maybe if I’m the one to do it, it’ll negate any potential chaos that would otherwise befall you.”
“You’re so sweet.” I took a step back and crossed my arms.
“Is that guy from the Javits Center’s Antique Fair still coming by today?” Max asked as he stuck the back of the hammer under the wooden lid and pushed down on the handle. The nails squeaked loudly as they were pulled free.
“He’s supposed to.”
“He was supposed to on Saturday.”
“And Sunday,” I clarified. “Then I canceled yesterday so I could move. If he doesn’t come today to pick up my items for the show, they can kiss my ass next year when they’re looking for sponsorship money.”
“Seriously.” Max laughed, then moved the hammer and hoisted the lid once more. “So how’s the new place?” He glanced over his shoulder at me.
I winced as more nails screeched free from the wood. “Good. I’m hoping our bed will be delivered today. Spent last night on the living room floor.”
“At least you had a hunky ginger to keep you company.”
“Very true.”
There’d been a lot of change in my life as of late. Mostly for the good, of course.
Business was going great, despite the seemingly bad luck the Emporium had in terms of being a target in the Nevermore and Curiosities cases—but we’d all escaped those with our heads still attached. And after a long line of bad-for-me boyfriends, I’d just moved in with a guy who was my soul mate. Friends and family were healthy, happy—I was even a pet owner now.
So yeah, a lot of things were good.
But I guess that’s why I’d also been sidelined by anxieties lately. I wasn’t expecting old self-doubts when I was on top of the world.
Like, one too many of Calvin’s compliments had gone to my head, and when my clothes had been torched in the fire, I’d purchased a new wardrobe for the first time in… at least a decade. No more secondhand crap. I now owned formfitting, colored clothes. I thought they’d finally give a boost of confidence to my appearance, an insecurity I usually hid with self-deprecating humor, except it’d turned out to be nothing but dread since day one.
And I knew how… stupid it must have sounded. But until someone has been intensely uncomfortable in their clothes, I didn’t think people realized just how much a wardrobe could make or break them. Yeah, the secondhand shit didn’t fit, was old and worn-out, but it was safe. I didn’t need to check a color wheel before putting something on. I disappeared into a crowd. Now every morning was approached with a certain level of trepidation. Were people staring because I clashed and was an eyesore? Were they staring because I wasn’t the best-looking guy and these clothes made me stand out when I used to blend in? They must wonder what Calvin was doing slumming with a guy like me.
Of course I hadn’t said any of this out loud.
Hell would sooner freeze over.
Max lifted the top from the crate, set it on the floor, then peered inside. “Lots of padding. Looks like a piece of furniture.”
I took a few steps forward to see for myself. Wedged between the object and the crate wall was a smaller wrapped item. I tugged it free. “Pull the front of the crate off, will you? We can’t lift that out.”
“Sure thing.” Max took the hammer and went at more of the nails.
I set the smaller item down on a nearby display table and carefully removed the bubble wrap. Nestled within was a round metal canister. I carefully picked it up. There was weight to it.
“You know,” Max said, around the tearing of wooden planks. “If we go through all this and it’s some fugly television from the 1950s….”
I stared at the canister for another moment. “Not a television,” I murmured.
“What?” Max tore off another piece of wood.
“It’s not a TV,” I said again, turning to look at him.
He glanced at the crate and motioned to the item within. “It’s hard to see through the wrapping, but it looks like one of those with the built-in cabinet.”
I walked back to the crate, reached inside, and yanked away the padding. “This is—” I caught myself from finishing, almost like I didn’t want to jinx it. I tore out layer after layer of careful packaging, revealing a spectacularly well-preserved cabinet. “Jesus Christ,” I swore.
“What is it?”
“A Kinetoscope.”
“A what-o-scope?”
“Kinetoscope. A one-person movie viewer, patented by Thomas Edison,” I said, looking at Max. “This was before they’d figured out how to project a moving image to a large audience.” I leaned into the crate and pointed. “See here, you look through the peephole on top. There’s a bulb inside that backlights the frames, and the film is spooled through the cabinet.”
“It’s original?” Max asked.
I rubbed my bristly chin and stared hard. “I think so. Help me pull it out. And for the love of God—”
“Be careful,” Max finished for me.
“The Kinetoscope wasn’t around very long,” I said as we walked the cabinet out of the crate. “As the film industry grew, inventions became obsolete fairly quickly.”
“How did these work, though?” Max asked. “I mean, people didn’t have them in homes, right?”
“Oh no. You’d go to a Kinetoscope parlor. There used to be one here in New York, you know. Taking inflation into account, Edison was charging the parlors somewhere around six hundred dollars for the reel of film.”
“Hell of a businessman.” Max began picking up the mess once we’d gotten the Kinetoscope situated in an empty space of showroom floor. “What was in the little package?”
“A film reel,” I said, hands on my hips as I made a slow circuit around the case.
“Really?” he asked excitedly.
“Niche market makes this difficult to price. It’d be the historical value—”
“Seb. Home movie. Focus.”
I glanced up. “What about it?”
Max made exaggerated gestures at where I’d left the canister. “Let’s see what’s on it.”
I dropped my hands from my hips and went to the table. “I doubt it’s in any sort of salvageable condition.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, going to the register counter and retrieving a pair of cloth gloves.
“Films simply weren’t well preserved back then. Acid ate away at the celluloid. Sometimes there were studio fires, or old reels were just destroyed. They had no intrinsic value at the time,” I explained.
Max offered the gloves as he joined me.
I put them on. “This would have also been before silent film stars like Charlie Chaplin or Harold Lloyd began protecting their work.” I picked up the canister again and held it close, studying the front and back side.
Max leaned against the table and crossed his arms lightly. “I remember watching Fred Ott’s Sneeze in my Film History class. That was Edison’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, first copyrighted film in the United States,” I murmured. Fred Ott had been a gentleman who worked for Edison, who by all accounts had a particularly memorable sneeze. It was one of the test reels shot by W. K. L. Dickson, Edison’s assistant, who was the brilliant inventor of the Kinetograph camera and Scope viewer. “But even that film didn’t survive,” I continued. “It was submitted to the Library of Congress as a series of still images, later reanimated into a movie.”
“How do you know this?”
“I took notes in college.” I carefully removed the canister lid.
“You’re the guy at the cocktail party everyone regrets striking up a conversation with.”
“Yeah, probably.” I set the lid aside and stared at the spool of film. It looked… okay. Better than okay. Intact. Playable, even. “This is incredible. Look here—it has the perforations along the side of the frames.”
Max leaned close, reached out, and hovered his finger above the strip of film I held. “So, what, those holes feed in the Kinetoscope, right?”
“Right. Edison patented that concept as well, but it was Dickson who came up with the idea to slice 70mm film in half and make perforations. Afterward, the company was able to submit custom orders for film stock with these exact specifications for their machines.”
“Hundred-twenty-year-old movie,” Max said with an astonished tone. “It’s going to be either porn or cats.”
I laughed and took the film canister with me to the Kinetoscope. I stooped, opened the cabinet, and studied the mechanical setup.
“Are you going to try to play the film?”
“Sure.” I looked back at Max. “You want to see what it is, right?”
“Duh.”
We sat in front of the Kinetoscope, studying old patent schematics I brought up on my phone, and tried to duplicate the arrangement with our mystery film stock. After about twenty minutes of “Be careful,” “No, the other way,” “The other, other way,” and the classic, “Oh shit,” we got it fed through the long system of spools.
Max was tearing through the crate’s packaging once again.
“What’re you doing?” I called, carefully shutting the cabinet.
“Looking for a note.”
“Is there one?”
“No.” More shuffling followed, and then Max peered down over the top of the cabinet at me. “This has to be from someone you know, don’t you think?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Trusting you with such a rare artifact.”
“I do love a good ego stroke,” I muttered before getting to my feet.
“Not to mention that shipping a crate is expensive, even if it’s just from one end of the city to the other,” Max concluded. The shop phone rang and he left my side to answer it.
“I’ll call the shipping company today,” I said, mostly to myself once Max started talking on the phone. “See if they can provide me with the client’s contact information….”
“Boss,” Max said. He wove in between displays, reaching the phone out. “It’s Pete-Ain’t-Never-Gonna-Show from the fair.”
My shoulders dropped a bit. I took the phone. “Pete?”
“Hey! Snow! I got your message about the pickup.”
I pursed my lips. “I left that message on Sunday. It’s Tuesday.”
“Well, yeah, but you weren’t open yesterday.”
“You were supposed to be here on Saturday, Pete. I’ve had my stock for the fair boxed and waiting since last Friday.”
“Look, I’m sorry about missing the pickup window, but it’s been a busy week of prepping for the event. We welcome our sponsors to drop items off at the Javits Center themselves.”
“I don’t drive,” I replied. “And I shouldn’t have to trek to the ass-end of Hell’s Kitchen myself when I’m paying a sponsorship level that includes the pickup and delivery of all inventory on display for the fair.”
Max winced, I think on Pete’s behalf.
The antiquing community didn’t have a lot of thirty-three-year-olds in it. And there were some members who didn’t enjoy taking a young’un like me seriously. Most had no idea how hard I’d worked to get where I was in the business.
I’d gone into debt to obtain an MFA and put in several years as a sort-of apprentice under one of the biggest assholes in the industry, my late boss Mike Rodriguez. I took pride in my shop and had labored for three years to cultivate and bring attention to obscure relics of our past. Now, my clients returned time and again because they knew the knowledge, inventory, and attention to detail they’d receive from me was top-notch. Snow’s Antique Emporium has since become the sort of business that the Javits Antique Fair reaches out to, requesting I sponsor their event.
So I might have been one of the younger members of the community, but God save the poor bastard who took my hard-earned money and didn’t meet my expectations in return.
“I’m coming by today,” Pete answered, sounding rather unfazed by my agitation.
“The fair opens tomorrow.”
“And that’s why I’m coming today,” he reiterated, like I was the dense one.
The bell above the Emporium’s door chimed. Max and I both turned to see Beth Harrison standing in the open doorway. She was my business neighbor and the owner of Good Books, was about Pop’s age, and had long ago lost her last fuck to give.
“Good morning!” she declared, walking toward us with something in her hands.
“When will you be here?” I asked Pete as Max left me in favor of Beth.
“Oh… should be between eleven and… threeish?”
“Traffic across town must be a real bitch,” I answered, deadpan.
“You’ll be there when I stop in, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good. I’ll need you to sign a few forms.”
“Fine.”
“Will you be at the fair tomorrow?” Pete asked next.
I looked up. Beth was giving me a curious expression. Max was staring at his phone. “Let’s just focus on today first, shall we?” I muttered a goodbye and ended the call.
Beth walked forward. “Someone’s got his grumpy pants on this morning.”
“I’m actually in a good mood,” I corrected. “That was Pete White from the fair. He was supposed to be here four days ago to pick up my collection for the show.”
“How professional,” she said sarcastically.
Max raised his head and turned his phone to show me the screen, even though I was too far away to make out the image. “Marshall’s Oddities is a sponsor, and he’s already set up at the Center.”
Marshall’s Oddities, owned and operated by copycat Greg Thompson, was my only real competition in the city. I said “competition” because he’d basically stolen my shop’s image of “curious and bizarre” and still tried to pilfer my customers whenever possible. I was more than happy to supply the names of fellow dealers to my clients if there’s something they want outside my wheelhouse, because in turn those businesses sent customers to me. But not Greg. He’d never once scratched my back.
Frankly, I didn’t want him to. Or trust him to.
We did not get along, and I was okay with that being the entirety of our relationship. Although… it might also be partly due to the fact that last December I suspected Greg was the nutjob behind the Nevermore murders. But hey. Honest mistake.
“How’d you find that out?” I asked.
“Facebook.”
I grunted.
Max put his phone away.
Beth held up the plate in her hands. “So… how’re you boys on this fine May morning?”
“Why are you so chipper?” Max asked. “You’re talking like a fairy godmother.”
Beth snorted. “I am not. You’ve just spent too much time around your boss, whose good moods resemble most people’s bad moods.”
“They do not,” I grumbled.
“Be nice,” she responded. “I’ve got cookies.”
“Were you going to share?” I asked. “Or were you just taking them for a walk?”
“I don’t know why the hell I put up with you sometimes, Sebby.” Beth handed me the plate. “I come bearing gifts and you give me sass.”
“It’s my default setting,” I replied. I picked up a cookie and took a bite.
“Well, you’d better watch it,” Beth continued, “or that’s the last cookie I share with you.”
I held the plate out of reach. “No take backs,” I said around a full mouth.
Beth was always complaining that customers were stealing her pens. I noted she had three or four stuffed into her bun that morning but decided to let her find those on her own. She was wearing a feline-inspired top, although subtle today—just a cat nose and whiskers—but she also wore leggings with creatures on them that looked half-taco, half-cat, so… a typical wardrobe day for Beth.
“Are you dating a mechanic?” I asked, pointing at her clunky boots.
Beth looked down briefly. “My cat barfed in my Birkenstocks this morning.”
“Charming,” I answered.
Beth put her hands on her hips and walked toward the Kinetoscope. “What have you got here?”
“This is a whatchamacallit,” Max said, pointing at the cabinet.
“A what?” Beth asked.
“Kinetoscope,” I said around the final bite of cookie.
“What does it do?”
“It’s a one-person movie viewer,” Max answered, parroting my explanations back to Beth. “It even came with a 120-year-old film.”
“You don’t say?”
“My money is on porn or cats,” he continued.
“I like those odds,” she agreed.
I set the plate on a nearby table and wiped crumbs from the front of my sweater-vest.
“Sebby.”
I looked up. “Seb, Beth. Seb.”
She ignored me. “You look so handsome in green.”
“I thought this was blue.”
She and Max shook their heads.
“Christ,” I muttered to myself, looking back down.
“Seb was about to turn the Kinetoscope on,” Max said, almost like he’d caught my it’s-not-blue anxiety and changed the subject. “Want to stay for the big unveiling?”
Beth clapped her hands together. “Oh yes! Let’s see what you have.”
I stepped back to the cabinet and gave the Kinetoscope a final once-over before daring to power it on for what might have been the first time in over a hundred years. But against all odds, the machine came to life, the wheels inside making sound as the film was set into a continuous loop. I moved around to the front and glanced in the peephole. The bulb illuminating the projected stills was bright, and I had to squint as I watched.
It turned out the mystery footage wasn’t Victorian porn or cats, but instead, a boxing match. And one I recognized, at that.
The Leonard-Cushing fight of 1894. It was sold by Edison as an authentic fight, but the truth was, it was staged and filmed at his studio, Black Maria, in Jersey. Regardless, it was the first boxing match to be recorded, and of the six reels that were once for sale to the Kinetoscope parlors, less than a full round still existed today. The knockout footage—naturally the most popular round with customers—hadn’t survived.
At least, it hadn’t thirty seconds ago.
Because I was watching it now.
Leonard won. I knew he would, but no one in modern times had ever seen it.
I opened my mouth to say… something, but there was a weird blip in the film, some distortion, and then the scene was different. It was outdoors, the image dark and grainy. Some odd lighting, just above two figures in the scene, illuminated a street that otherwise would have been engulfed in nighttime. The figures appeared to be men—neither from the prior boxing scene. One had very distinctive muttonchops and a bit of a gut. The second man was pretty nondescript. They seemed to be arguing, but the frame rate the movie had been shot at was different from what was used today, making their motions quick and dramatic-looking, so it was hard to tell.
Without warning, Muttonchops pulled something from inside his coat, and the motion blurred as he lunged. Nondescript Man held his neck and then crumpled to the ground. Muttonchops stared down at him for a few seconds, dropped whatever he had been holding, and ran.
The scene looped and brought me back to the fight.
“So?” Max asked excitedly.
I raised my head, looking at him and Beth. “I… think I just witnessed a murder.”
Under His Rule by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
Wynn
Glass shattered everywhere—like, everywhere. I stood frozen in place in my best friend’s living room as I watched little shards of crystal skitter across the hardwood floor and disappear under furniture.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Seth gently took me by the arm and guided me over to his sofa. “Sit. No more helping.”
“I’m so sorry. I was walking slowly; I think there’s a divot in the wood.”
He blinked slowly. “Right, a divot.”
I shrugged and relaxed into the soft cushions. “I can clean up the mess if you’d like.”
He held up both hands, palms up. “Please don’t. I’m not sure I can afford for you to break anything else.”
“Har har, so funny. I’m not that bad.”
Seth’s brows shot up to his hairline. “Really?” He started counting off. “Three frames, two mugs, the glass on my microwave, and a vase.” He pointed to the floor where the glass had shattered. “That’s just in the last three hours of you trying to help me move.”
I wanted to refute his claim but as I thought about it, I realized he was right. What I wasn’t going to do was agree—I’d sort of agree. “Whatever.” There, that worked.
He rolled his eyes and moved into the kitchen. He returned with a broom and dustpan. “Maybe you can order us something to eat, from the couch.”
“You want me to stay right here and not move?”
“Preferably.” He chuckled.
“I need to leave eventually. Are you going to carry me out of here?”
“If I have to.” He swept up the mess while I scrolled food apps for something to order. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“Six in the stupid morning,” I answered as I decided on pizza.
“Gross.” He snorted. “Sorry I can’t come on your birthday trip.”
I waved him off. “Hush, no big. With you moving in and starting a new job, there was no way it was going to happen. But it’s fine, you can make it up to me once I return.”
“Oh, how nice of me.”
I beamed. “Besides, I won’t be alone. Mark and Hannah are coming with me. And anyway, my real birthday was last week, and you were there for that.”
He nodded and brought everything back to the kitchen to toss. “True, but still. I’m jealous, though. I mean, wow, the Lamdera Islands…shit, it’s going to be so beautiful.”
“It’s a dream come true. I always wanted to go, but it was expensive. But hitting thirty made me realize I wasn’t getting any younger and that all this money I was saving, well, I can’t take it with me when I die, so why the fuck not go?”
Seth leaned against the doorjamb with a smile on his face. “I love that for you.”
“Yeah, and you know, there are a lot of fancy royalty there, maybe I’ll meet my prince charming?” I wiggled my eyebrows.
“If he has a sister, hook me up.”
I shot him two finger guns and finished ordering the pizza. We spent the rest of the afternoon with me sitting on the sofa watching Seth unpack, eating pizza, and talking about everything and anything as we always did.
I left his place at about eight. I was all packed for my trip but having to get up at ungodly o’clock for my flight, I needed to hit the sack at a decent time. Of course I was too excited to simply drift off to dreamland, so I took some melatonin and eventually slept.
All too soon my alarm was blaring and I grumbled, noticing that the sun didn’t greet me—just darkness. “Humans shouldn’t be up this early.” I really didn’t have anyone to blame but myself. I’d booked the flights, but it was either this time or midnight and I hadn’t been feeling that at all.
After a shower, shave, and all the things that made me appear awake were done, I poured coffee and sat at my breakfast bar waiting for Mark and Hannah to arrive.
The buzzing of my doorbell had me slithering off the stool and opening the front door.
“Are you ready for v-a-c-a-t-i-o-n?” Hannah singsonged.
I shifted my gaze from her to her husband Mark, who looked as exhausted as I was.
“You have no one to blame but yourself, Mark. You married a morning person.”
He hummed. “Come on, let’s get your bags and go.”
The ride to the airport was pleasant because no sane person was up at this hour. We got through TSA in ten minutes—which was amazing—and that meant we had way too much time on our hands. Our flight wouldn’t arrive for another hour.
“Oh, lookie!” Hannah thrust a magazine in my face. “Prince Julian Davaros is doing an island tour for a whole month. Maybe we’ll get a glimpse of the heir apparent while we’re there.”
Prince Julian Davaros was on the front cover of Royalty Magazine, and he was gorgeous. Truly. His dark-blond hair was swept back away from his face, his gray eyes in shadow against the light, and he wore a black tuxedo. The man stared at the camera like it was prey and he was the predator, and the power emanating off him in the photo sent a shiver up my spine.
“I’d probably stumble and accidentally shove him into oncoming traffic if I met him.” I snorted.
Hannah giggled. “Hey, you only tripped twice in the airport. That’s progress.”
I was clumsy, no way around it. There wasn’t anything wrong with me medically, I just…okay, my head got lost in the clouds sometimes and I’d been diagnosed with ADHD in high school, so that could have something to do with it.
I needed my brain and my body to get organized. I’d tried meds, and they helped, but at the end of the day my ADHD brain was gonna do whatever the hell it wanted. I just had to hold on for the ride and keep the casualties low in the process.
“Oh!” Hannah smacked my arm. “That’s our flight!”
I hadn’t heard the announcement nor felt the notification on my phone. This was why I couldn’t travel alone; I’d either miss my flight or end up on the wrong one.
My carry-on in hand, I followed Mark and Hannah to the gate. Excitement bubbled in my stomach as I walked through the sky bridge toward the airplane. This was going to be a trip of a lifetime. Memories would be made and dreams fulfilled. I couldn’t wait.
The Savage Son by Frank W Butterfield
Chapter 1
Offices of Consolidated Security
777 Bush Street, 3rd Floor
San Francisco, Cal.
Tuesday, December 15, 1953
Just before 10 in the morning
I sat at my desk and stared off into space. The day was chilly, and I was glad I hadn't taken off my coat when I walked into the office. I tried to read the letters on my desk, but nothing was getting through.
Carter Jones, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman of a husband was mad at me. We'd had a fight the night before, and I ended up sleeping in the front bedroom. I wanted to invite his mother to town for Christmas, and he didn't. Somehow, in the heat of it all, the argument became a repeat of a standing disagreement we had about my father. I was still simmering. And I was hurt. And I didn't like sleeping alone.
Over breakfast, we were cool. He kissed me once we were in the car. But we were quiet on the drive to the office. He dropped me off and Carlo Martinelli, one of our co-workers, got in and the two of them headed north across the Golden Gate Bridge to the small town of Novato.
They were going up there to meet a deputy sheriff and to look over the remains of a suspicious house fire. Consolidated Security, the company we'd founded back in the summer, offered help to local towns and villages with investigations, including arson. Carter and Martinelli had been firemen together in San Francisco at Station 3 before they'd been fired in May for associating with a known homosexual, myself to be precise.
I was still in reverie when I heard Marnie, the best secretary a guy ever had, knock on my office door.
"Nick!"
"What, doll?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm just thinking. What's up?"
"Don't forget you got a 10 o'clock today."
I nodded. "Right. Thanks for the reminder. You got any coffee for me?"
"Sure." She walked over to the side of the front office. I could hear her as she poured the coffee from the percolator and stirred in a couple of sugar cubes.
She walked through the office door, handed over the cup, and stood there looking at me.
"What?"
"You gonna tell me what's really goin' on?"
I took a sip of my coffee, stalling for time. Right then, the front door opened.
Marnie gave me the eye, turned, and walked over to greet the visitor. I heard a few murmurs and then watched as a middle-aged man, about 5'9" tall with gray hair, light blue eyes, and a strong jawline, walked into my office. He was dressed in an everyday suit of clothes that had seen better days but was neat and pressed.
I stood up. "Mr. Kopek?"
The man nodded, hat in hand. "Yes." He didn't look like he wanted to shake, so I didn't offer.
"I'm Nick Williams. Have a seat."
"Thank you."
His speech was clipped, and his accent sounded German or maybe from someplace east of Germany. As he sat down, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. Instead of putting it back in his pocket, he held it in his hand as if he was expecting to need it again.
"So, how can I help you?"
"It's my son."
I nodded. I preferred to ask as few questions as possible and let the client do all the talking.
"He's missing."
I waited.
"And I want you to find him for me." He paused. "Please." His voice was quiet but desperate.
"Have you notified the police?"
"No! No police!"
"Why not?"
"Well, you see—" He stopped and looked around. "He, my son, he is like you. And, I don't want the police to be involved. I don't want him to go to jail."
I nodded. "When you say he's like me, do you mean that he's a homosexual?"
The man wiped his face again. "Yes."
"Can you describe your son?" I pulled out a pad and a pencil.
"He's a good boy, Mr. Williams."
I smiled. "I'm sure he is. But, what does he look like?"
"Oh, yes. Well, he is six feet tall and he weighs one hundred and eighty pounds. More or less. Probably more now. He is, how do you call it?" He thought for a moment. "He is a weight builder?"
"He lifts weights?"
"Yes, that is it. He lifts weights."
"How old is he?"
"He is 23 a week ago." The man's face clouded over.
I waited for about half a minute while Mr. Kopek tried not to cry. I pulled out a package of Camels and offered one to the man. He took it.
"Thank you." He reached into his coat, pulled out a box of matches, and lit his own cigarette. I did the same with my old beat-up Zippo.
After we'd both taken a deep drag, he said, "My son disappeared the day of his birthday. He had been with me at the store in the early morning, helping me with the plumbing and, when we finished, he said he was going to meet his friend." The man paused. "I think it is his special friend."
I nodded and waited.
"When he did not come home the next day, my wife and me, we did not know what to think. We waited until the noon and then we decided to go visit his other friend, the special friend from before, that we knew where he worked. But he did not know anything." Mr. Kopek shook his head slowly as he took another drag on his cigarette.
I asked, "And you haven't heard anything since?"
"No. Nothing."
"What is the name of the friend you went to see?"
"He is Randy Robbins. He works at Ernie's. Do you know it? Very expensive."
I nodded. Carter had taken me to Ernie's the night before Halloween. It had been a wonderful evening, full of champagne and laughter. Or, at least that's the little I could remember. It was all a blur. A very pleasant blur.
Snapping back to the present, I asked, "And, do you know the name of his friend, the one he was going to meet?"
"No. My wife, she thinks this is so, but I do not know the name."
"Where does your son work?"
"He drives a truck. For the newspaper."
"Which one?"
"The Call-Bulletin."
"Is he in the Teamsters?"
"Yes!" Mr. Kopek smiled with pride.
"What does his face look like?"
"He has yellow hair."
"Blond?"
"Yes, blond. His eyes are green, like his mother."
"Any scars?"
"Yes, one." He pointed. "On his chin."
"Is it small or large?"
"It is small. When we left Czechoslovakia, he was five years old. The day we left, he tripped and fell on the stones on the street."
"Are you Czechoslovakian?"
"No. There is no such thing. There are Czechs, and there are Slovaks. And then there are Poles. And that is what Kopek is: Polish. We are from Silesia, the Polish part of Czechoslovakia."
"And you left before the Germans took over?"
"Yes. We knew it was coming. We came to New York in 1935. And then, my cousin, he lived here, and he invited us to San Francisco."
I nodded. "Where do you and your wife live?"
"We are at 335 Turk Street. Apartment 5-R."
I wrote down the address and kept a straight face. That was one of the apartment buildings I happened to own.
"How did you find out about Consolidated Security?"
Mr. Kopek shrugged. "I... well... my wife. She knew about you from Ivan."
"And Ivan is your son?"
"Yes. But his friends call him Ike. Like the President." Mr. Kopek smiled broadly.
"How did your son know about us?"
"He has all the, how do you say?" He paused for a moment. Using his hands to demonstrate, he said, "He takes the scissors, and he cuts the newspaper."
"He collects clippings from the paper?"
Mr. Kopek nodded. "Yes, that is it. He has the clippings in a book. The famous and wealthy Nicholas Williams. He has many clippings of you and—" He looked away and wiped his face again with his handkerchief. "You and the other one."
"Carter Jones?"
"Yes. Mr. Jones."
I nodded. That made me think of something. "When your son is lifting weights, does he do that at home?"
Mr. Kopek shook his head. "Oh, no, Mr. Williams. He goes to the gymnasium." His pronunciation of the word was odd. He did something strange with the letter "g" when he said it.
"What is the name of it?"
Mr. Kopek shrugged. "This, I do not know."
I asked, "What is your phone number?"
"It is Prospect 5612."
"You mentioned a store. What do you do, Mr. Kopek?"
"Oh, I own the grocery at the corner of Turk and Leavenworth. Maybe you know it? It is the Maryland Market."
I shook my head. "Sorry." I leaned back in my chair and asked, "How about if I come by this evening when you and your wife are at home?"
Mr. Kopek looked surprised. "Yes. Of course. But, why?"
"I'd like to have a look at your son's bedroom. That might help me discover where he's gone."
"Yes. That is fine. You come at 8. We will prepare you a nice dinner."
I smiled. "That would be nice. I'll probably bring along a friend."
"Your special friend?"
"No. A work friend. By the name of Andy Anderson."
"Oh, yes." He wiped his face again. "How much this cost?"
"Can you pay me a hundred today?"
His eyes opened wide. "One hundred? That is all?" It was a token amount. Truth be told, I didn't need the money. We would find the man's son and I'd tell Marnie to skip sending the bill.
"Well, let's start there and see how it goes."
He nodded, looking very relieved. "Yes. Good. I give you one hundred." He reached into his pocket, took out a folder-over hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to me across the desk. I put it down on the blotter and called out, "Marnie?"
"Yeah, Nick?"
"Can you make out a receipt for Mr. Kopek? He's paying a hundred."
"Sure." She walked into the office. "Mr. Kopek?"
He stood up and nodded.
"Come in here with me, and I'll make you out a receipt."
I stood. He looked at me and asked, "Tonight at 8, yes?"
I nodded and smiled. "Yes. Thank you for coming in, Mr. Kopek."
He smiled briefly. "Thank you, Mr. Williams." Once again, he didn't offer his hand, and I followed suit.
Isobel StarlingIsobel Starling loves writing M/M thrillers, mysteries, fantasy, and historical books. With over 50 titles, she's a #1 bestselling author in the USA, UK, France, and Germany. As well as English, German and French, her books are also available in Italian, and Spanish.
Isobel runs Decent Fellows Press, where she produces audiobooks by John Wiltshire, Anna Butler, LJ Hayward and Harper Fox. Of the 50 audiobooks Isobel has produced, 45 of those are with the multi-award-winning narrator Gary Furlong.
So far, Decent Fellows Press has won the Independent Audiobook Award for Romance 2018, and has one title nomination for the SOVAS (Society of Voice Arts and Sciences) Award 2021 - Thriller Category.
Isobel is totally against the use of #AI. She does not use AI generated cover art or any AI apps for book content. If you purchase books and audiobooks produced by Isobel you'll be getting a 100% authentic product, (Occasional pesky typos and all!)
For audiobooks Decent Fellows Press will always choose #realhumanvoice #noAI
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
CS PoeC.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.
She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.
C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Isobel Starling
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