Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

A world in a fog
Lost amid sleepwalking
I stumble through a day
Sinking into hostile sheets
Wide awake
Is it the world that keeps me up
Or do I keep up the world
As crickets sing
And light fades
Into the west

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Join or Dye Furniture
Whether you want ready-to-use heirloom-quality furnishings or prefer to land the finishing blow yourself, Join or Dye has you covered. Fine local joinery, in both stained, upholstered, and naked varieties, has been its watchword for over three decades. Try one out, and you’ll agree: their chairs rock!

Play’s the Thing Toyshop
If you think that the best toys don’t have flashing lights, batteries, or wireless internet connectivity, you’ve come to the right place. All the shop’s toys are handmade in the grand santaclausian tradition and guaranteed to put up with decades of roughhousing and chaos.

Scoop! Creamery
This just in: Scoop! Creamery is a cool place until you fudge it up and have to split. A local favorite for decades, with everything from hand-dipped shakes to legally distinct copies of flavors from national brands, everyone has a soft spot for Scoop!

Vol-Au-Vent Fine French Dining
This tidy little Gallic bistro has been catering to sophisticate tastes since the 1970s. Reserve a table and get ready to receive the full brunt of French gastronomy; we’re talkin’ snails, veal, and everything in between. Be sure to leave room for dessert and try one of the famous “fin d’eclair” pastries.

Pollywanna’s Caribbean Cuisine
If you’re looking for tempting treasures from the south seas, then look no further than the fabulous golden horde that is Pollywanna’s signature fried fish. Plunder up a plate from the all-you-can-eat buffet, but be warned: it’s rated arr!

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City Hall
This impressive structure is from the late 1800s and was originally the pavilion of the River Heights Regional Progress Fair, intended to show off the sophistication of local industry at the end of the century. After being rebuilt in stone rather than painted paper-mache, it has served faithfully as the municipal building for over 100 years, except for the period 1954-56 when it was closed due to a one-two punch of black mold and potato bugs.

St. Kilda’s Church
There is no St. Kilda in the General Roman Calendar or the Martyrology, but the deacons of St. Kilda’s just say that proves the church is for everyone. The current edifice dates to 1880, replacing an earlier wooden church on the site that was burned down following a lightning strike. When asked if this was a sign of displesure from above, the then-minister replied that if they build a prettier church, it would be less offensive to the heavens. Indeed, the current building hasn’t been hit by lightning since opening across the street from City Hall, which coincidentally incorporates a lightning rod.

Graveyard
St. Kilda’s Churchyard features the final resting place of many of the town’s founders and luminaries, from the first mayor to the first street popcorn vendor. Rumors of buried treasure have led to occasional vandalism, and some of the oldest tombstones are enciphered, but that’s probably perfectly normal for a small-town graveyard, right?

Bowlsley Florists
Named after its original proprietor, long since passed away, Bowlsley mixes the old and the new like a fresh bouquet of pansies and Tudor roses. Its longtime success stems from an enduring eye for arrangements, a passion for peonies, and of course its signature heritage rose breed, Mr. Prickles.

French Flap
This charming booktique invites you to turn over a new leaf with its generous selection of contemporary authors, local favorites, and of course a mystery section loaded with an unknown number of genre thrills. If you feel the need–the need to read–and you prefer the novel idea of shopping local to sending your money to line the pockets of e-commerce billionaires, French Flap has got a timely tome for you.

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Le Clinique Chic
Just because you’re unwell doesn’t mean you have to be unfashionable, and Le Clinique Chic here to make sure that your recovery is as stylish as possible. Come and see why this is River Heights’ fastest growing medical practice, and the only one with a Michelin star.

Old Post Office Public Library
This former house of letters now houses belles lettres, with the dead mail office now given over to the works of dead males. With much of the original architecture preserved even after the post office left, this library is a real package deal. Come in today to get some stamps (on your date-due cards)!

River Heights Boardwalk
What better way to see River Heights than by strolling along its river heights? This chic and eco-friendly area rises to the occasion where other boardwalks, without either rivers or heights, are all wet.

The Barrel Fish Market
For the freshest fish, cleanest crustaceans, and curliest kelp, look no further than the Barrel. Stocked with sushi every Tuesday and Thursday, you’ll know the quality of the bycatch by its fresh odor! With seafood from small-time fishmongers all the way to the massive Happy Fugu zaibatsu, finding what you need is as easy as fish in the Barrel.

Pancake City
You’ll flip for the wide selection of flapjacks at this local rise-and-shine diner. Become a citizen of Pancake City and build a towering skyscraper short stack, or plot out a syrupy zoning ordnance on an award-winning* waffle. Open 24 hours for every meal from breakfast to brunch to breakfast-for-dinner.

*River Heights Breakfast Battle (formerly the Flapjack-Off), 1997.

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That explained the wild rumors, about aliens and assassins and other wild things.

Again typing, because there was no air left in her lungs to make the question: “How did Dr. Quiria die?”

“Suicide.” The database’s tone was cool, chilly. “Dr. Quiria had volunteered for many experiments to find a cure. Dr. Burton oversaw the procedures.”

That explained the marks, then, and the appearance of murder. He must have been truly desperate, to turn himself over to those butchers.

Ashtar’s fingers trembled on the keys. “Where is Dr. Burton?”

“Dome D, in his lab.” A pause, as data was collated. “He is alone in the complex.”

“No guards?”

“He has been abandoned by his guards.”

There was only one other thing that she could ask. “Am I infected?” she whispered in a breathy rasp.

A pause. “Insufficient data to determine at this time.”

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“Single-called Martian organisms exist in the polar ice cap; analysis has been attempted several times but each subsequently resulted in contamination with human DNA. The current quarantine protocols were written to prevent any possible mutation or spread of the resulting organisms.”

“What about decontamination,” Ashtar said. “Kill all the…hybrids…or whatever.”

“Decontamination protocols exist,” the database replied. “But they are expensive, time-consuming, and have a high barrier of absolute secrecy.”

Those rich bastards hadn’t been going off-world, Ashtar thought. They’d just been decontaminating.

“Is there…a record of known infections?”

“Affirmative.”

With trembling fingers, because she couldn’t trust herself to croak the name, Ashtar entered her brother’s name.

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Ashtar tried again, speaking as clearly and calmly as possible into the database. “Why did the Mars colony of Bloomville fail?”

“It did not fail.” The system repeated itself with the same emotionless, but smug, affect. “It was quarantined.”

“…what?”

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“He killed me, poison, and it’s only now that he learned of my gold horde he wants to speak to me.”

Speaks-With-Skulls looked up from the ritual ossipathy altar, his hands still splayed across the white bone. “I’ve made a connection.”

“Lead him to destruction, and I’ll tell you where the gold is as a reward.”

The customer shifted nervously, one foot to the other and back. “Does…does my father say anything about having something to tell me?”

“There’s a sinkhole near the cave that you can trick him into. It wouldn’t be murder.”

“Oh yes,” Speaks-With-Skulls said, evenly. “This one’s very receptive to ossipathy.”

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She smiled. “My grandfather was ‘Bull’ Penn. I may not look it, but I’ve got this town in my veins.”

“‘Bull’ Penn?” I said. “I feel like I’ve heard that name.

“He was one of the all-time great football players to ever come out of this town,” said Dr. Penn. “On the college team in the 50s, and a pro in the 60s. He played for Texas in the AFL championship, same time as town was falling apart over integration. Really gave the folks here something positive to latch onto, you know?”

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“Doug, please. I was expecting a woman, based on your name.” The corners of his eyes crinkled up in a genuine smile; that much, at least, I could still see around his mask. A mask with the old team mascot on it, in point of fact, a cartoon slaveowning plantation owner leaning nonchalantly on a cane, eyes shaded by a massive hat. The mascot looked like he ought to be selling fried chicken, not emblazoned on NCAA merch.

“J. Terry Plummer,” I said, reaching out a gloved hand. “The Terry is for Terrence. I’m sure you can guess what the J is for and why I don’t use it.”

Doug grasped my hand and pumped it vigorously and once. “I have a cousin that does the same. L. Maddie Leslie. She’d be Leslie Leslie otherwise!” A barklike laugh, almost a cough, bubbled up.

He pointed me to a seat, which I took, sinking rapidly into the expensive fabric.

“Now, your email said that you were with the paper,” Doug said, his eyes shining above the cartoon plutocrat. “But I happen to know that you’re also a private investigator, isn’t that so?”

I responded with my own–fake–laugh, but I made sure my eyes crinkled just right. “As the most powerful man on this campus, sir, I shouldn’t be surprised to find you so well informed.”

“It’s all the alumni and the fans,” Doug said. “They’re better than the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation.”

“Well, your football fan bureau of investigation is quite right; I’m a private investigator licensed to practice in Alaska, Idaho, Mississippi, South Dakota, and Wyoming, and a registered member of the Mississippi Private Investigators Association. I’m doing contract work for the newspaper, and I’m sure you can imagine why.”

“Yes, I read about the editor being down with the Chinese virus,” Doug said. “And I imagine they want someone with less of a stake in local politics, am I right? A private investigator isn’t so different from a reporter. Might even be better, since there’s some professional ethics and courtesy there.”

I nodded, eyes artificially crinkled. There was no way for him to know I was po-faced behind my protective Mario mask. “I’m not surprised that you did your homework,” I said. “But I am surprised you agreed to see me.”

“During the Chinese virus, all the unpleasantness in town, and in person to boot?” Doug said. “Look, Terry, I’m going to be honest with you. I want to make two things very clear. First, I have nothing to hide. You’ll find we’re an open book here. And second, we are trying to get back to normal around here. Our mayor still insists on the masks, for now, but before long this old virus will be a dim memory. And what says back to normalcy like giving a press interview in person?”

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