Nensi Pikard - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, No. 6. Whole No. 784, December 2006

Nancy Pickards recent EQMM stories are making a splash! There Is No Crime on Easter Island (9-10/05) is currently nominated for three awards for best short story: the Macavity, from Mystery Readers International; Deadly Pleasures magazines Barry Award; and the Bouchercon Conventions Anthony Award. The Book of Truth (9-10/06) will appear in a best-of-the-year anthology.

Lenore Lowery heard her husband let out a whoop of joy. Before she could even put her finger in her book and turn around to see what Charles was so excited about, she felt his presence behind her.

A heavy magazine landed with a plop on top of the novel in her lap.

Charles! You could have made me lose my place.

Ive found it, Lenore!

Found what?

Our place. Our boat. I can retire, and we can sail away, and you can read all the time for the rest of your life. Its the perfect boat for us.

No boat is perfect for me, she snapped, and any boat will do for you. And which of these boats are you talking about, anyway?

Look at them!

She felt him bend down over the back of the armchair she was sitting in, felt his face beside hers, smelled liver and onions on his breath, saw and felt the forefinger he jabbed into the pages of boat photos in the magazine on her lap. They had been married for five years, he a literature professor with a passion for Edgar Allan Poe and a dream of sailing around the world, and she his former student. The deep voice that still could thrill her when he read poetry to her now spoke enthusiastically at her shoulder, releasing another repellent cloud of liver and onions. She had never dreamed that her romantic professor could ever like something so icky and prosaic as that, much less want her to cook it for him once a week.

Just look at the pictures, Lenore. Youll recognize it the moment you spot it, as I did.

Reluctantly, she perused the pages, knowing he wouldnt give up until she found it, whatever it was

Her heart sank.

This one, she said, putting her own right forefinger onto a particular black-and-white picture of a cabin cruiser. When Charles used the word sail, it was only in the generic sense of moving across water. In fact, he was a stinkpot sailor, a devotee of engines and speed, the bigger and faster, the better.

Its this one, isnt it, Charles?

It wasnt the configuration or appointments of the boat in question that gave her the clue. It wasnt that the boat for sale was a thirty-eight-foot cabin cruiser with a raised aft deck that allowed it a full master stateroom below decks. It wasnt that it had a galley-down layout with wraparound salon windows and excellent storage. It wasnt the GM6-71N diesel engines that let it cruise at sixteen to seventeen knots and reach a top speed of around twenty knots. It wasnt the breathtaking price that was about equal to half of what they would get if they sold their home to buy this boat.

It was the name of this particular boat.

The Nevermore, she said, reading the word across the back of it, pronouncing it in a dirgelike tone that was appropriate to a certain poem by Edgar Allan Poe. To the original owners of this boat that name might have symbolized no more working for a living, or no more house payments, or who knew what? But to Charles Lowery it could only conjure up The Raven, Poes most famous poem, about a monstrous bird who kept yapping, Nevermore, nevermore, neverdamnmore.

Yes! Charles said, behind her. We have to have it.

Just like you had to have me?

Lenore! I didnt marry you for your name, for heavens sake.

Another of Poes poems was called Lenore, about a woman who also made an appearance in The Raven.

Yeah, well, you didnt not marry me for it, either, she grumbled.

Whatever that means. Lenore, look at this beauty! We can be totally self-sufficient on it for weeks at a time. We can go anywhere we want to go. The South Seas. The Mediterranean. The Caribbean!

Anywhere you want to go, you mean. It makes me seasick just to look at it.

You know what motion sickness signifies psychologically, dont you? The fear of losing control. You need to let go! There are some things you cant control, my dear, no matter how hard you try.

Thats ridiculous.

No, it all fits together, he claimed, sounding happy about it. Its fate, and you cant fight fate, Lenore. Just ask Edgar Allan Poe.

Hes dead.

Once I get you out on our boat, floating peacefully for days on end, reading all the novels youve ever wanted to read, youll relax and thank me.

I can read all the books I want to right here in this chair, Charles. This chair doesnt get rained on. This chair doesnt leave me sunburned and throwing up. This chair doesnt rock back and forth.

She pushed herself up out of the chair in question, making her husband rear back to avoid knocking heads with her. The boating magazine fell to the carpet.

Hey, he objected. Youve made me lose my place.

Your place is exactly right, Lenore said heatedly, turning around to glare at him. This is all about you and what you want, and anything I want be damned. Talk about control freaks! She started to stomp out of their living room.

Where are you going? he called after her.

To my book club! If its liver and onions, it must be Thursday.

Oh, right. What bit of fluff are you reading this month?

She whirled around and stuck the book out in lieu of hurling it at him so he could see the jacket.

Life of Pi? Why are you reading a math book?

It wasnt a book about mathematics. It was a beautifully written, wildly imaginative, smart novel that also just happened to be at the top of the bestseller lists, not that he would ever know that, since he never recognized the worth of any novel written after nineteen hundred. Because Ive always been able to tell when things add up, Lenore shot back at him as she departed the room. To herself, she added, And when they dont.

The women at the book club that night all professed to love Life of Pi, which was a fantastical story about a boy trapped on a boat with a Bengal tiger named Richard Parker. Lenore laughed out loud the first time somebody said the name aloud. Its such a funny name for a tiger, she said.

A few of the other women also laughed and shook their heads, sharing her puzzled amusement, but she noticed that others seemed to be looking at her... or at one another... with odd expressions, as if she had said something surprising or, worse, stupid. What? Lenore said, looking at the nights discussion leader. They all sat on couches or chairs their hostess had pulled into a circle in her living room. The womens laps held plates full of homemade molasses cookies and lemon-raspberry cake. Cups of coffee or tea sat on tables in front of them or beside them.

Each woman had a copy of the same book tucked nearby for ready reference.

What did I say? Lenore asked, her heart already beating faster.

The discussion leader smiled in the kind of pleased, condescending way that Lenore associated with people who worked at the university with Charles. Why, Lenore! You mean to say your own husband is one of the worlds experts on Edgar Allan Poe and you dont know that spooky story?

With a sinking feeling, Lenore realized she had stepped in it again. It was one of those moments when she revealed her total ignorance and lack of interest in the passion that had made her husband better known than tenure ever would. It didnt help that he had left his first wife, whom most of these women had known, to marry his undergraduate student, Lenore. The first wife shared his passion for Poe or pretended to, Lenore thought even going so far as to fashion a Poe costume for the great man to wear when he lectured on the greater man. Lectures and conventions still took Charles out of town many nights and weekends a year, though his second wife never accompanied him unless she just couldnt think up a good enough excuse to avoid it. Sometimes Lenore wished Edgar Allan Poe were still alive so she could personally strangle him. Maybe shed let a raven peck his eyes out.