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D.J.H. Jones - Murder in the New Age

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Page iii
Murder in the New Age
A Novel By
D.J.H. Jones
The University of
New Mexico Press
Albuquerque
Page iv
OTHER TITLES BY D.J.H. JONES:
Murder at the MLA
The University of Georgia Press
330 Research Drive
Athens, GA 30602-4901
ISBN 0-8203-1502-8 clothbound, 1993.
ISBN 0-8203-1629-6 paperbound, 1994.
ISBN 3-88022-364-5 German edition,
Bei Tagund Mord, tr. Gunnar Kwisinski,
paperbound. Hamburg, Germany:
Rotbuch Verlag, 1995.
1997 by the University of New Mexico Press
All rights reserved.
First edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, D. J. H.
Murder in the new age / D.J.H. Jones. 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-8263-1813-4
1. Title.
PS3560.0474M88 1997
813'.54dc21 97-4843
CIP
Page v
Acknowledgments
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Chapter three of this novel, first finalist for the Southern Prize for fiction in 1995, appeared in The Southern Anthology, R. Sebastian Bennett, ed., Lafayette, Louisiana: Southern Artists Alliance, 1995.
For reliable guides to local cuisine, including "stomach grenades," I have made grateful use of Roadfood, by Jane and Michael Stern, New York: HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 1992.
For Ozarkan tall tales, I have referred to Vance Randolph's collection, We Always Lie to Strangers: Tall Tales from the Ozarks, New York: Columbia University Press, 1951.
For details and anecdotes about Chicago police work, I am indebted to Connie Fletcher's two compilations, What Cops Know and Pure Cop. Both books were produced in New York in 1991 by Villard Books, a division of Random House.
Cannibalistic practices among Neolithic peoples of the Southwest are discussed in Science News, vol. 143, January 2, 1993.
I would particularly like to thank Jeredith Merrin for her generous support and her expert reading; the book could not have been finished without her help. Thanks go as well as to Elizabeth and Jay Lockman for providing a writer's retreat, and to Helen Deutsch and Francis Geiger, friends whose suggestions and encouragement have been invaluable.
Page 1
One
"Coffee? Juice here?"
Chaucer? Did somebody say "Chaucer"? Nancy Cook shifted in her window seat, pushed a hand through her hair, and gave up the idea of napping again. Was the air conditioning broken? Even with a blanket up to her shoulders, the cabin felt cold. The vinyl seats looked like metal. Behind her row the Southwest attendant, goose-pimpled and pitiful in his polo shirt and shorts, was dispensing drinks.
What the attendant saw when he pushed his unit to aisle fourteen was the kind of miscellaneous threesome that airlines often pick up at Chicago. In the aisle seat was an elderly man in a cowboy shirtplaid sleeves rolled to the elbows even in this arctic air. A wrinkled, shrewd face. Slash-pocket pants with snap buttons; lizard cowboy boots. A rich businessman.
The middle seat contained a big redhead, evidently the old guy's wife and evidently interested in whether one human frame could support a mine's worth of silver jewelry. Silver collar tips weighted her black silk blouse. Silver lightning pins pointed in various directions across emphatic breasts. The silver belt buckle on her tight black jeans was as wide as a hand.
Aging Las Vegas show girl, maybe. Her face had the sharp and too-well-preserved features of women in their early forties who've already had two face-lifts. Her petulant look identified her as one of those who are a major pain in the tissues for all service personnel.
"Frank, I need orange juice." She hadn't so much as glanced at the attendant. Three of her left-hand fingers, each with a chunky silver ring, waved to indicate helpless need. Frank issued the order for her in a deep voice.
Page 2
Digging in the ice, numb, the attendant glanced with longing at the woman in the window seat. She had a blanket! And she had a nice, approachable look: early thirties; good figure, to judge from the blanket's distribution; about five foot seven; wonderful big brown eyes. Those straight dark eyebrows were maybe a little heavy, but all that curly hair against the headrest! It was unusual hair, naturally streaked, equally blond and brown.
The attendant warmed toward her, or would have if he could. He leaned to offer one, make it two, packages of peanuts. Nice skin, nose kind of pointed, a wide mouth squared at the corners. She smiled at him.
"Frank, do you think this orange juice is bad? Isn't it bad when the container's swollen like that at the top?"
Frank waited this out with an affectionate, "Valerie." The goose-pimpled flight attendant did not wait. He mushed forward, without the help of a dog team.
Having blown her nose into a scented handkerchief, Valerie examined the contents, frowned, and held the folded item toward her husband. They discussed it and agreed that Valerie was, as Valerie put it, "a good little girl" to put up with so many discomforts.
That didn't happen, it was too weird, part of Nancy's drowsy mind informed the rest of her brain. After two days of travel, half of it international, she was in that frame of mind in which you're in absolute stasis while everyone else keeps changing costume for some reason. And carrying on unaccountable activities.
"Snot something to worry about," said Valerie suddenly, turning her head toward Nancy. She held out the handkerchief in mid-air as if it were evidence. "I don't have a cold, I can tell by the color. It's just allergies." Some of her lightning pins wiggled as she turned in her seat toward the younger woman.
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