More stories from the latest issue:

• Minerva James and the Goddess of the Hearth
  Minerva’s gray eyes regarded me as if I was an impudent child. “It is unnecessary,” she said simply. “Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. I am not.” She sat at her enormous desk, papers and files forming a small mountain range across the top. Minerva wore a dark blue blouse, one button open at the collar. Her curly black hair was perfectly in place. She lifted a file with long elegant white fingers. “Because I think you could dazzle ’em,” I said. “It might make them more enthusiastic about paying the fees.” “The Sherlock Holmes bit, as you call it,
• THE WALKOUT
  Foxx stood among the court officers lining the two brass rails that climbed the center of the imposing courthouse steps. He performed the math in his head: thirty-two steps, two officers per step, then double that for each rail, equaled 128 officers, all decked out in full dress blue uniforms, eight-point duty hats, and white gloves. Up on the portico, a color guard stood at attention, the flags for both New York State and the New York Courts dipped in deference to the Stars and Stripes. Down on the sidewalk, the Emerald Society band played softly to keep their bagpipes
• WAS THAT SO HARD?
  I had worked in retail hell for six years, three months, and two days, but the night of the robbery was the first time I had ever been in charge of a store at closing time. Now I was beginning to understand why Pops Franke had that twitch around his left eye. The place had been dead empty until ten minutes before nine. That’s when a mob stormed through the doors like someone announced we were giving out free ponies. For this crowd: free polo ponies. The Emporium was a gourmet food store located in a strip mall, except in
• The Wedding Photographer
  She asked for me at the door of the altar boys’ sacristy, behind Saint Joseph. The groomsman who answered her knock turned and pointed to me. “It’s the bride,” he said, raising his eyebrows. Tom, the groom, stood near the vestment closet fixing his cuff links. He looked up, his eyes wide. “Terri?” The other three groomsmen surrounded him and, hooting loudly, blocked his view. “Wo, champ,” one of them said. “Can’t see the bride now. Baaaaad luck.” I approached the door. “Where is he?” she almost shouted, her voice echoing through the still-empty church. Her thin, lacy white veil
• Scraps of the Consequential
  When you’ve worked somewhere longer than anyone but the owner himself, other members of what some must refer to as “their team” share secrets. I know more about employees of Bartholemew Specialty Fasteners than Daniel Bartholemew did. I’m surprised no one killed him sooner. Mr. Bartholemew was difficult. When other employees of our little company—our supposed team—grumbled privately about the boss, I always listened, nodded, and eventually observed that Mr. Bartholemew was, despite his flaws, consequential. Yes, he berated overworked employees, steamrolled bankers, crushed competitors, and alienated three wives. But he achieved results. He made money. He was supremely and
• LOOK BACK WITH KINDLY EYES
  Olki was sorting through a new collection of cursed cosmetics left behind by a sorcerer who created them in exchange for enchanted pearls. Olki didn’t know what the old man was planning to do with the pearls, but he never asked his customers what they were going to do with nail polish that would give the wearer earlobe warts either. In any case, he had just about moved all of the ensorcelled eyeliner to one corner of the box when the urgent knock sounded at his front door. Being just eight inches from the latch, he opened it quickly, as
• We, the Aging
  I was sitting in my office in the strip mall by Back Cove staring out the window at the changing leaves. It was midafternoon early in November and we were on the precipice of an especially ugly election. I had my opinions, and like everyone else, I was pretty sure they were right. But it didn’t make me any less tired. So instead of all of the ugly, I was thinking about the color of those leaves reflecting on the water. It reminded me of a poem I’d read once about autumn and a child’s clumsy words and the inevitably
• THE CASE OF THE BALLYHAVEN BANSHEE
  The tiny hamlet of Tiperon graced the western shore of the River Shannon, not far from the straddling mountains of lower Lough Derg. Though small it was roomy, spreading out on a quilt of light and dark green gently rolling vale, which fell away to the grassy skirt of the river. Small farms populated the vale, where potatoes grew in garden patches and blond piles of hay dried in the occasional sun. On these farms were white stone, thatch-roofed cottages with square-cut bricks of black peat stacked high against their outer walls, the smoke from peat fires curling up their
• The Ordnance Special
  Everything was as ready as we could make it on the platform. A railroad employee was busy lighting the lamps around the station. I could now see the station clock, which was showing ten minutes after midnight, local time. Then I looked south, toward Wilmington. I thought I heard a train whistle, but peering into the darkness I could see nothing. Carney, or “Blarney” as he is known to the men assigned to temporary duty, came running over from the direction of the telegraph office. He saluted and offered me a chit. I turned toward him slightly, returned the salute
• THE BULLY MUST DIE
  The bully had to go. That hit me like a brick on a cold rainy afternoon full of thunder, lightning, and flooding. The storm accentuated the thought like a film soundtrack building in crescendo to that moment when the hero finally prevails over the villain. Dark clouds hung heavy in the sky spreading out murky shadows in our office complex. I remember the day clearly. Every minute crystal in the deepest recesses of my mind. And the tears. Oh, yes there were buckets of those too. The bully had to go. And that meant one thing: The bully must die.