Chapter One

Zach Hargrove held the serrated hunting knife in a white-knuckled grip as he silently crept forward. No room for mistakes this time. This had to be silent, swift and deadly. Just one fierce thrust into the carotid artery. It would be messy, but she had to die.

Nellie sat—unmoving—in a black leather office chair, facing the third-floor windows that looked out over Old Mill Creek. If she was aware that he was behind her, she gave no sign. Her dark straggly hair hung over the back of the chair in tangled clumps. Zach couldn’t remember the last time he’d run a brush through it. She needed a wash too, but he’d given up on that long ago. Nellie had been exactly what he needed at first, but after so many years, she’d become more of a burden than a help. He hated having to move her heavy, awkward body from chair to chair, room to room. Caring for her had become arduous. No one would miss Nellie if he got rid of her . . .

Her head tilted to the right, blocking her neck from his view, and he hesitated. He wouldn’t be able to strike cleanly from this direction with her head tilted. He swapped the knife from his right hand to his left. The rubber handle felt awkward in his grasp. A few practice swings with his non-dominant hand felt odd and clumsy, so he tried some overhead plunges. Maybe he could stab Nellie in the back of the neck instead. A quick blow to sever her spinal cord, and she’d die in seconds. What if he yanked her head back and ran the knife across her neck, slitting it open from side to side? He shook his head. Too clichéd. Everyone slashed throats these days. He toyed, for a moment, with driving the knife through the back of the chair and into Nellie’s back. I’d never get the knife deep enough to kill her, he thought. She’d survive with a flesh wound—if that happened, he’d never hear the end of it.

With a frown, he shifted the knife back to his right hand and decided to continue with his original plan: one fast jab to the right side of the neck. Zach glanced at his prey. Nellie remained still, oblivious of what he was about to do. He inched forward, his gray Skechers silent on the plush beige carpet. His fingers tightened on the knife handle, and he drew his arm back. The muscles on his shoulder were taut, but his arm had a slight tremble. He had to get this right on the first try.

After two more cautious steps, he stood behind Nellie, staring down at a scalp of unkempt hair. Oh, how he hated that hair. With one barbaric swing, he brought his arm down, but the blow didn’t go quite as planned. The knife tip deflected off her head, tangled in a clump of hair, and plunged into Nellie’s shoulder.

“Damn it,” Zach shouted.

He stood for a moment, studying his handiwork. Nellie slumped forward, the knife standing tall in her shoulder.

He tried to withdraw the knife slowly, but the serrated blade caught on several threads and tore the seam in Nellie’s shoulder. Clumps of polyester stuffing—like giant cotton balls—tumbled out of the hole and fell to the floor. Zach let out a long sigh as he placed the knife on the nearby desk. Now he’d have to sew her up. He spun the office chair around and stared at Nellie. Her featureless face and black button eyes stared blankly back at him. Patches—both big and small—covered her arms, abdomen, head, and legs—scars of the many instances of his mistreatment.

“I’m glad you don’t hold a grudge,” he said.

Zach wrapped his arms around the life-size dummy and lifted her out of the chair, her canvas skin rough on his bare arms. A trail of white filling marked his steps as he manhandled her across the room and propped her up on the sofa.

Dropping into his desk chair, he reviewed the previous few paragraphs he’d written just before he attempted to kill Nellie. The murder scene “seemed” to flow, but he wasn’t satisfied with the way it turned out. His antagonist—the mysterious Mr. Price—had entered the home of Dallas Kincaid with the intention of killing Kincaid’s new girlfriend. But Zach had found the scene difficult to write. There was something about the logistics that bothered him, hence his attempt to “kill” Nellie, his long-time partner for acting out crime scenes. For her part, Nellie had endured a dozen or more stabbings, being thrown from windows, run over by cars, and even shot twice. And yet she never once complained.

Zach stood again, snatched a Bic pen from the desk, and paced around the room, pausing on occasion to glance out the windows that covered all four walls. The third floor of his house, his “Author’s Loft,” as he liked to call it, had a 360-degree view of the surrounding yard as well as the creek that flowed past the back of his property. The small Delaware town of Lewes hadn’t been his first choice of places to call home. But when he’d first toured the house three years ago, the bright openness of the room couldn’t have been more perfect for him. It satisfied his need for a place to write, and the room’s openness was preferred over the more confined spaces he’d seen in every other house he’d toured. He’d put an offer on the place immediately and moved in a month later.

As he paced, Zach furiously clicked the button on the pen with his thumb. He passed the lone bookshelf, stuck in the corner between the adjoining walls’ windows, and paused to study the colorful hardback spines of his previous eight Dallas Kincaid Mystery novels. Five of them had become New York Times bestsellers, but not the last two. His protagonist, Dallas Kincaid, had become increasingly more difficult to write over the past couple years. The character had become too clichéd, too much like every other amateur detective in the market, and Zach was struggling to keep each new book fresh and original. He was ready for something new, something different.

“This will be the last Kincaid novel,” he’d told his agent, Mariah Maddison.

“Don’t be too hasty,” she’d said. “You might regret those words once the book is released.”

With a sigh, Zach slipped the Bic pen into his pants pocket, returned to his desk, and hovered his fingers over the keyboard of his laptop. He stared at the text on the screen, the words fading together into a jumble of pixels that made no more sense than when he’d read them a few minutes ago.

Pushing back from the desk, he growled, “Hell,” and stood, rounding the half wall that hid the stairs from view and descended into the house below.

In the kitchen, Zach grabbed a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale from the fridge, twisted the top off and took a long sip. A calendar—tacked to a nearby corkboard—was open to the month of June. A quick glance over the dates made his stomach churn. He had until mid-July to finish the first draft of the next Dallas Kincaid novel. That gave him six weeks. The manuscript was only thirty percent done. He sighed as he eyeballed the next few weeks. There was an upcoming recording session for the Society of Fibbers podcast. A book signing with Jasper Stone and Martina Vargas in Virginia. He flipped up the calendar page and looked over July. The week after Independence Day was blocked out for ThrillNYC in New York City. Damn, that only gives me five weeks to finish the book. His stomach twisted in knots as his anxiety rose.

Zach moved through the open dining room to the sliding glass door, stepped onto his back deck, and gazed out across the creek. The tide was out, and the muddy banks were exposed to the Tuesday afternoon sun. An eagle was perched in the tree that hung over the water. The lush cordgrass stood tall along the edges of the creek, outlining the maze of the twisting waterway. A gentle breeze rustled the tips of the grass. The faint aroma of marsh water punctuated each deep breath. So peaceful. So relaxing. He closed his eyes and listened to the tranquility around him. But it did little to subdue the angst within him. When was his next therapy appointment? Maybe it was time to try some of the meds his therapist had so often suggested.

From within the house, the shrill of his mobile phone interrupted the serenity of the moment. Moving back into the kitchen, he scooped up the phone from the counter where he’d left it.

The voice that greeted him was grave and somber. “Zach? It’s Rebecca. Something terrible has happened. Martina Vargas is dead.”

***

Excerpt from Those Who Shall Die by Michael Bradley. Copyright 2026 by Michael Bradley. Reproduced with permission from Michael Bradley. All rights reserved.

On my way to the house I’m hoping Moish isn’t home. But as soon as I walk in there he is, standing in the living room, holding the Post in one hand and the News in the other.

I gird myself for what’s coming. “So I guess you read about me in the paper.”

His smile gets broader. “You bet I did.”

“It was all a huge misunderstanding. Believe it or not, you’re my alibi. I was here with you last night when it happened.”

He sticks his thumb in the air. “Of course you were. I’ll back you up a hundred percent. Just tell me what time I was supposed to be here and I’ll swear on a pile of Bibles.” He winks at me. “Old Testament, of course.”

“No, really.”

He shakes his head. “This is better. We were here together all night, playing pinochle. Wait a minute, you never learned to play pinochle. How about gin rummy? You know how to play gin rummy. Of course you do. Any moron can play gin rummy.”

“Pop, listen to me. We don’t have to make up a story. If it ever comes up, just tell the truth.”

“Okay, son,” he says, still grinning. “Whatever you say. But I still think the gin rummy routine is the way to go.”

Son? He never calls me son. Putz, schmendrick or shmuck with earlaps, which for my father is the absolute worst thing you can be, are his usual terms of endearment for me, but son? Never.

Since my mother died, giving me a hard time has become my father’s favorite pastime. Even more than playing cards or going to the track. After forty-five years of arguing with her, he needed someone else to yell at. Not that he didn’t yell at me when she was alive, it’s just that she was his number-one target. She told me that he never means anything by it. She used to say, “When he gets quiet, that’s when you have to worry. As long as he’s yelling, everything’s fine.”

That’s why I’m so confused. Here’s the perfect chance for him to tell me what a shmuck I am for getting myself into this mess, instead he’s kvelling like I just won the Nobel Prize.

“You did see the paper, didn’t you?”

“Of course. I bought extra copies. I’m gonna hand them out to everyone at the track.”

“And you’re not upset?”

“Upset?” He puffs out his chest. “I’ve never been prouder.”

“But everyone thinks I’m a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I know.” There’s that grin again. “It’s terrific.”

“I don’t get it.”

“What’s to get? You finally made a name for yourself. Made it to the front page. The page that’s usually reserved for presidents, governors and generals. And now my boy is right up there with them.”

“They made me look like a homicidal maniac. It’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It’s better.”

At this point I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there with my mouth open.

“You know where I grew up, right?”

I nod. “Yeah. Brownsville. Chester Street, right?”

“You know my mother had a chicken market around the corner on Dumont Avenue?”

“Of course. You told me that story a hundred times. They called her the Chicken Lady. She made you get up at five in the morning to pluck chickens before you went to school. Made you come back before you went to bed to sweep up.”

“She was a hard woman, my mother. She had to be. After that goddamn flu killed my father, she had three babies to feed. But that doesn’t matter now.” His eyes start to twinkle. And Moish wasn’t usually a twinkler. “Do you know what was down the street from my mother’s store?”

I shrug.

“Rosie Gold’s candy store.”

“Okaaaaay?”

“You know who hung around Rosie’s?”

“Not a clue.”

He puffs out his chest. I’m thinking it’s gonna be some old-time Jewish sports hero like Kingfish Levinsky or Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom.

“Murder, Incorporated. That’s who. The toughest SOBs in the country. And they were all Jews. Louis Lepke, Abe Reles, Buggsy Goldstein. Killers, every one of them. Everybody feared them. The Italians, the Irish, the coloreds. They had class too. Money, women, fancy cars, you name it. When I was a kid, twelve or thirteen, I’d sneak out of my mother’s shop and hang around outside Rosie’s. Those guys loved me. They treated me like I was their little mascot. Their good-luck charm. I’d run errands for them. Bring them cigarettes, drinks, the paper. Whatever they wanted. And they’d throw me a twenty-dollar tip like it was a nickel. You know what that’s worth today? Five hundred dollars. I was a snot-nosed pisher with more money in my pocket than most of the grown men in the neighborhood. In a couple of years I coulda been one of them.”

I don’t know whether to be impressed or aghast. “So what happened?”

He shrugs. “This and that. Reles turned rat. Then he fell out of a hotel window. Pretty soon they were all dead or in jail. The Depression hit. The war happened. I spent five years in the Philippines shooting Japs. And when I came home I married your mother.”

I’m a little taken aback that he puts marrying my mother in the same category as the Second World War and the Great Depression.

“Besides, when your grandmother found out what I was doing, she beat the living crap outta me. Told me if she ever caught me hanging around with those bums again she’d pluck me like one of her chickens.”

“Let me get this straight, your childhood dream was to be a gangster?”

“It was different then, not like the scum-bums you see now. Back then, if you were in the rackets you were somebody, a big shot, a mensch.”

“So seeing my commercials on TV and the awards I won, that all means nothing to you, but having everybody in New York think I’m the Jewish Dillinger, that you’re proud of?”

“It’s not like you’re a senator or governor, but it’s something.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you but I really didn’t do it.”

“Whatever you say.” He pauses for a second. “Listen, do you know Shifty, the bookie from back in our old neighborhood?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“He’s been giving me a hard time. He says I owe him some money but he’s fulla shit.”

“How much money?”

“I dunno, two . . . three hundred.”

“Dollars?”

“No, kishkes. Of course dollars.”

“And you’re sure you don’t owe him the money?”

“Of course I’m sure. You think I wouldn’t remember something like that?”

I don’t say anything.

“He says he’s gonna come over here with some leg breakers and take it if I don’t give it to him. How about you pay him a little visit and convince him to lay off?” He holds up the paper and grins. “He’ll listen to you.”

“Listen, Pop. I’m not a thug. I don’t even play one on TV. There’s no way I’m gonna threaten your bookie or anybody else.”

He shoots me a scornful smirk. “I shoulda known you didn’t have the guts.” He walks to the bathroom. Before he shuts the door he looks at me with disgust and shouts, “Putz!”

***

Excerpt from GET GRIBNITZ by Howard Gimple. Copyright 2026 by Howard Gimple. Reproduced with permission from Howard Gimple. All rights reserved.

PROLOGUE

Hudson Lake, Michigan

I know everyone in this diner is looking at me like I’m strange.

Well, I’m sure used to that by now. It wasn’t always that way, of course. I mean I’m blonde-haired, just turned 30 and once – a million years or so ago before the terrible times happened – people said I was pretty. But now I realize that I look old beyond my years. I’ve lost a lot of weight, my face is pale and gaunt and I’m trembling noticeably right now even though it is the first real warm day of spring.

I make my way unsteadily over to a stool at the diner’s counter and sit there quietly, without talking, even when a guy comes over and asks for my order.

“What’ll it be, ma’am?” he smiles.

I stare at him with a confused look on my face. Nothing people say these days - even simple questions like that - seem to make sense to me anymore.

“Ma’am,” he repeats.

“Pardon?”

“My name is Danny. Danny Heller. I own this place. What do you want?”

I think about if for a second, then say: “Do you think I could have some tea?”

“Tea, sure.”

He walks over to the kitchen area, pours a cup and brings it back to me.

“How about something to eat?” he asks. “A sandwich. Some soup. Maybe a nice piece of pie. We got some nice pies today. Apple. Cherry. Lemon meringue.”

“Lemon meringue?”

“Sure. Want a piece?”

I nod. “Yes, that would be nice.”

Danny Heller cuts an extra large slice of the pie, places it onto a plate and carries it back to where I am sitting. I begin eating. Silently and without any emotion. Just like I do everything else now.

“Are you from around here?” he asks.

“No, not from around here.”

What’s your name?

“Uh, I’m Megan…

“Well, I’m glad to meet you, Megan. Are you just visiting around these parts?”

“I’m…,” I hesitate, because it’s painful to say the words., “I’m…looking for a vacation house.”

“Hey we’ve got some good ones. The lake this time of year is one of the prettiest spots in all of Michigan. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Have you looked at many houses?”

“Not here. Other places.”

“You’ve been traveling then?”

“Yes, I’ve been traveling quite a bit.”

The truth is I have been traveling for nearly a year. I started back east, moving from resort town to resort town along the New England coast. When fall came, I started moving down along the coast toward the winter resorts. Miami Beach. The Gold Coast. The Gulf Shore. Then, with the advent of spring, I had come north and inland to look at lake areas. Ohio. Minnesota. And now Michigan.

In all the places, I’ve done the same thing. Gone through ads for house rentals. Checked with real estate brokers. Driven aimlessly around shore areas looking.

Always looking.

Looking for the house.

The house I can never forget.

The house of my nightmares.

“We have some local house listings on that bulletin board over there,” Danny Heller says, pointing to a wall at the end of the counter. “People with a place to rent put stuff up there. Maybe you’ll find something you want.”

I get up from my stool and walk over to the bulletin board.

Looking through the ads posted on the bulletin board without really expecting to find anything.

But then I see it.

And I scream!

I scream so loudly that everyone in the diner stops eating and looks at me.

It’s a scream that keeps gathering momentum as it goes on like a runaway train, terrifying everyone there.

“What’s wrong?” Danny says, rushing over to where I’m standing by the bulletin board.

I point to a picture of a house in one of the ads.

“It’s here,” I whisper.

“What?”

“The house.”

And it is.

The house I’ve been looking for.

The house from Pleasant Street.

“I don’t understand,” Danny is saying.

“It’s the house,” I sob. “Oh, my God, it really is the same house…”

***

Excerpt from The Vanishers by R. G. Belsky. Copyright 2026 by R. G. Belsky. Reproduced with permission from R. G. Belsky. All rights reserved.

Elcira

The Cranberry Farm, Cranberry, CT 1833

Elcira closes the potting shed door and locks it with the key from the hook on the main house door. She taps on the door twice and then once. She waits for the response. One tap, a pause, and then two. Good. Now, they need to keep quiet. At least it won’t be too hot in there, with the late spring breezes from the North carrying the sweet aroma of fresh-cut hay from the stables and surrounding fields.

The birds know.

They are witnesses. From a distance, they call to one another to spread the word so that all know to stay away. She sees them circling the fields, respectfully keeping their distance from the barn, even now, months after the incident. The field mice were safe for a while, but no longer. The birds have mustered up the courage to return. Now that the hawks and vultures make their way homeward or off to their next meals, everything is returning to normal, or almost everything. Some secrets need to stay locked away, hopefully for good.

The sparrows come first. They like having no competition. Like the mice, they did not have to worry about what might be hanging around in rafters or on rooftops.

Elcira steps into the lilacs, letting the pillows of fragrance slip over her face like a veil. She closes her eyes for a quick respite to reflect on the day Chester planted this yellow variety, one of the seven hues along this border, protecting the shed from the prying eyes of neigh-boring farmers and others who chance to come by to transact business or lodge a complaint. More of the latter these days than the former since the incident. But those visitors are not the ones she is concerned about today. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the refreshing aroma of life for her and the bees rushing to carry the first buckets of nectar back to their hives near the pond.

The snort of her neighbor’s Morgan startles her. The riderless horse, still bearing its bridle but no saddle, nestles up to her.

“What are you doing here, Charlie? Did the colonel send you?” she asks, rubbing her hand on his snout. She grabs the reins of the chestnut-colored beauty and walks him to the well. “Want some water?”

She lets the bucket down with a splash and pulls it up using the crank. She places it before him. While the horse drinks, she pulls on the reins to position him closer to the well, lifts her skirt, and places her boot on the stone wall to boost herself onto Charlie’s back.

“Good boy,” she says, patting his neck. “Let’s take you home now.” It’s not a long ride. The colonel’s home used to be part of the farm,

closer to the road than the main farmhouse.

When Colonel Daniel Townsend returned to Connecticut after the war with Britain, known as the Second War for Independence, in 1815, he was a lieutenant, already married and with a child. Elcira remembers her mother talking about these eligible militiamen in his charge.

Go with your father, Ellie. You are the one who can ride like the wind. Your sisters cannot impress a young militiaman like you can. Besides, you are like me. You need to feel the breeze in your hair.

Her mom was especially fond of the looks of this dashing young man who would come to the horse farm to do business with her husband. Mom always dressed to attract the eyes of men and women alike. Elcira remembers the way men looked at her, even married men, like Townsend. Elcira’s father provided the U.S. Army and the Connecticut Militia with Morgan horses, one of which was Charlie’s father. Elcira learned to ride at an early age, but Mother taught her to ride bareback, like a man, not like a lady. It’s all about keeping your skirt between you and him. Good advice for more than horses.

The ride to the cottage at the edge of the property is not long, nor is it difficult to negotiate, so long as the ground is hard and not awash in mud like it is today. A gallop would not be advised if one wants to keep from looking like a pig in its pen.

At the house, Elcira dismounts and ties Charlie to the post near the back door. She hears men talking inside. Sneaking around to the screen and peering in, she sees Deborah, nanny to her children and daughter of the colonel’s freed slave, standing with her hands folded in front of her.

“Can you present evidence of birth, Colonel?” asks a husky-voiced male, out of sight.

“Of course, I can,” says Townsend, his voice polite but with a hint of authority only the colonel could convey. “I find this visit most disturbing, gentlemen and lady.”

“The likes of her need to follow the rules, or they’d be subjected to a fine whipping, and a fine, that’s right, isn’t it, Constable?”

One doesn’t need to get too close, nor would one want to, to recognize the lisp and slurred speech of the country store owner, Mabel Crossan. What is she up to now? Deborah has been working here since Elcira’s first child was born, and she has lived with the colonel since birth. Why would they be questioning her legitimacy now, when she is about to give birth to her child, Chester’s child? Maybe that’s it. Mabel wants to know who the father is. If she knew what Chester had done to Deborah, maybe she would accuse Deborah of killing him, instead of Elcira.

Mabel has tried to keep her away from her store for years since Deborah was able to take her first steps. But Deborah’s mom was one to be reckoned with, even though she was born a slave. Those who

didn’t love her feared her, and she was good friends with the colonel’s wife. That was the kind of friendship Mabel despised.

“Perhaps if you just show us what proof of age you have, Colonel, we can get on our way. A birth certificate, perhaps?” A second male voice, higher in pitch than the first, sounds like the pastor.

“You all have known Deborah all her life. Why question this now? You must realize how odd this is, given the Gradual Emanci-pation Act grants freedom to women who turn twenty-one after March first of 1784. God grant you wisdom. Forgive me, Pastor. But this is 1833. As you can easily see, Deborah is pregnant with her first child. If she was forty-eight years old, would she be in that state?”

“I see your point, Colonel, but there have been reports of slaves coming North without having been freed, and we do have to abide by the law, which requires a pass when traveling.” The Pastor steps into the light. A halo of red hair makes the top of his head glow like the moon in the slightest light.

“So, that’s what this is about? A pass is required when traveling from town to town, not for transport within one’s own jurisdic-tion. Have you forgotten what my role is, Pastor? Admit it. You’re conducting a witch hunt.”

“Can’t you do something, Constable?” asks Mabel of Tucker. “You’re the law here, not the colonel. Maybe we should come back when he’s not here.”

Elcira opens the door and enters. “Deborah, I need you to mind the children. Their lessons are just about completed.”

“Oh, lookie here,” says Mabel, standing at the front door with her arms folded and her black, ankle-length dress looking like death personified, “The Widow Murderess herself.”

Elcira holds the door open for Deborah. “I believe you can accept the sworn testimony of two respectable individuals who can attest to her age. Isn’t that correct, Constable Tucker? I’m one, and Colonel Townsend is the other. Now, if you don’t mind, we have work to do. This is a big farm that we manage here.”

“We?” asks Mabel, “Listen to her. I will not rest until this town is rid of the likes of you.”

“And just who do you mean, Mabel?” asks Townsend. “Surely you don’t mean the negroes. Once they all have their freedom, they will no longer be restricted to where they can go.”

Mabel looks at Elcira, then Deborah. “Stay out of my store.” “Come on, Mabel,” says the constable. “There is nothing we can do here.”

As they leave, Colonel Townsend nods, pulling on his beard. “They are going to be trouble.”

“Yes,” says Deborah, her right hand on her extended belly. “What got her started?”

Townsend places his hand on Deborah’s hand. “They are convinced this little one is mine. They would love to have me relocated elsewhere in the state.”

“We’re not going to let that happen,” says Deborah. “Thanks for letting Charlie come and get me,” says Elcira. “He loves you. He always has,” says the colonel.

“I had better let our guests out of the shed before it gets too hot in there.”

Elcira walks up the road to the house and stops at the potting shed, clutching the brass key in her hand, wishing she had the second one they found on Chester’s body. She could have another key made or have the lock changed, but that would raise eyebrows and create suspicion. It is bad enough that witch Mabel has given her the moniker Widow Murderess. The fact that this key was found on the hook in the house should have eliminated all doubt of her innocence, but some just won’t let sleeping dogs lie.

Elcira

Mommy, Deborah’s sick!” Susie runs barefoot from the house, shouting.

Elcira drops the basket of provisions for the kitchen back in the cart. “Is Mrs. Ryan there? She can help her.”

“She won’t,” says Susie.

“Stay there,” says Elcira. “I’m coming.” She won’t help her? What’s all this about?

The children are all on the floor surrounding Deborah. The older ones know what is happening, while the three youngest, Sally, Wally, and Tubby, have no memory of Mommy giving birth. Sally was old enough, but Mrs. Ryan managed the whole process while she took her nap, so she missed all the excitement and beauty.

“Mrs. Ryan?” Elcira runs to the center of the house to find her cook, cleaning woman, and occasional midwife stirring a pot hanging from the tripod in the fireplace. “Did I hear correctly? You won’t help Deborah.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cranberry. I can’t.” She puts the ladle on the tiled table and wipes her hands on her apron. “It’s bad enough she’s in this house all day with those children. I can’t be seen helping her give birth.”

“And who is going to see you?” Elcira looks around. “Where’s Agnes?”

“She can’t do what I can do for her,” says Mrs. Ryan. “She’s just learning how to cook.”

“She could get Colonel Townsend.” Elcira runs to Deborah’s side and wipes her brow with her skirt. “Felix, go run down and fetch Colonel Townsend.”

The oldest, a scrappy nine-year-old with curly brown hair and pants too short for his legs, jumps up and runs, also barefoot.

“Will someone go find Agnes?” asks Elcira. Susie points out the door to the outhouse.

“Go get her. Make sure she’s cleaned up, and you two will help me with Deborah.”

“Is she gonna die, Mommy?” asks her second-oldest son, a lanky seven-year-old with longer hair than his brothers.

“No, Marty. We are going to bring a new life into this world, Deborah’s very own child.” Elcira feels the mixture of fear and anger rise up to fill her eyes, making everything look dreadful and watery. Damn you, Chester.

Deborah lifts her head and reaches for Elcira’s hand. She mouths the word, Sorry.

After all these months, wishing this day would not come, Elcira needs to face the fact that Deborah is giving birth to Chester’s child. If the child looks like Deborah, with dark skin and similar features, they will be able to adjust. It will be just like any other Negro child born on the farm, and all will be fine. But, if the child has his father’s features?

She can’t let herself think of anything else. This will go well, and all will be well.

“You boys are going to help prepare this room for the arrival of Deborah’s baby. Marty, go get two clean sheets out of the closet. Sally, grab a broom and sweep all this dirt out the door, and don’t make a cloud of dust.”

“I’ll help,” says Tootsie, scratching her leg where she was stung by a bee.

“Don’t scratch that, Tootsie. I told you what could happen,” says Elcira. “Grab a sheet and follow behind your brother to keep the dust from returning to the room.”

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen is Mrs. Ryan.

“Is it against your religion or whatever is keeping you from being human to tell us what to do so we don’t lose this child?” Elcira’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

Mrs. Ryan turns around and goes back into the kitchen.

“Fine,” says Elcira. Dear Lord, find it in your gracious heart to slap some sense into that woman.

The boys return with the clean sheets and spread them alongside Deborah, where their brother and sister swept the floor.

“Deborah,” says Elcira, “you must help us now. We’ll get you onto the sheets, but we will do it by lifting your legs and turning you around.” Elcira angles Deborah so that the back of her head is all Mrs. Ryan will see from the kitchen. Elcira will be able to quickly wrap the baby in a sheet and keep it out of sight, if she has to. Mrs. Ryan has refused to help, so she will not be the first to see the baby. Will Elcira be able to keep her from seeing it at all? She will if she has to. The longer she can keep the gossip hounds at bay, the better.

Susie returns with Agnes in tow. Agnes, a stocky girl with blond hair and bright blue eyes, looks like an angel in her cream-colored dress and white apron. But instead of an angelic voice, no sounds come out when she opens her mouth. Agnes has not spoken since the bandits killed her parents. That was three years ago. The schoolteacher, Mrs. Crane, adopted her, but it is far from the best of all possible arrangements for Agnes who needs to be around children and needs to have responsibilities. The Cranes treat her like a child, protecting her from life itself. When Agnes completed her studies at the end of last summer, Elcira gave her a job as Mrs. Ryan’s assistant. Now, Elcira wonders if Mrs. Ryan has neglected that job as well. The murder of Agnes’ parents has gone unsolved. Sometimes, it can be a blessing, like the unsolved murder of Chester, but even then, the situation comes at a price. The Widow Murderess. People seem content to let old wounds fester around here.

“Agnes, honey,” says Elcira, “sit here and hold Deborah’s head in your lap. When she lifts her hands over her head, hold on to them with all your might. You’re a strong girl. You can do this.”

Agnes nods and smiles. She will be too busy to notice much. She is good at concentrating on one thing at a time, and her body will shield Deborah and the baby from Mrs. Ryan, who most likely will avoid getting too close.

Felix returns. “Well?” asks Elcira.

“He isn’t there. His horse is gone, too.” Felix squeezes himself between his sisters.

“He had to go into town,” says Deborah, straining to talk. “Move over, I want to see,” says Elcira to Felix.

“Mom!” Suzie bends forward, staring between Deborah’s legs. Deborah lets out a moan, raises her hands, and Agnes grabs them, holding tight.

“Stop fussing behind me. Boys on the right, girls on the left. Now.

Felix, keep them in line.”

They line up and kneel, legs tucked under them, sitting on their heels.

Elcira lifts Deborah’s legs, bends them at the knee, and holds them. “Susie, you hold this foot here and don’t let it slip. Tootsie, you do

the same on this side. Now, we’re ready.”

As they count out the minutes between contractions, stomachs growl, and tongues run across their lips. The aroma of garlic, onions, beef, and allspice makes its way from the pot on the hearth to their noses.

Deborah’s moans and pushes are more frequent now, and every-one’s brows, including Agnes’, are wet. She looks into Elcira’s eyes, making a connection she will never forget. Elcira wonders if the girl keeps a journal. She knows she can read and write.

The hours pass quickly as each one includes more frequent moans and pushes until something starts to appear. The boys lend their hands to their sisters to keep Deborah’s legs planted so Deborah won’t slip.

“I see the head,” says Elcira, trying not to get too excited, but unable to contain her emotions.

“Ooooh,” says Deborah, taking a breath after the last big push. “Work twice as hard,” says Elcira, placing her hands on either side of the emerging head. “Now. Push!”

One long, painfully loud moan fills every corner of the room. Mrs. Ryan sticks her head out of the kitchen and watches. Elcira can feel her eyes on her, but she needs to focus.

“Agnes, push against Deborah to help her push.”

Another moan, even louder and longer, suddenly ends in panting as the baby’s body emerges, slowly at first, and then in a swoosh once the shoulders appear.

Elcira quickly wraps the baby entirely in the sheet and cradles it close.

“You need to cut the cord,” says Mrs. Ryan. “I can do that.” “No,” says Elcira, “you focus on dinner. I have this.” Deborah looks worried, and then the baby cries.

Everyone sighs.

“It’s a boy,” says Elcira.

All the children stare at the red-stained newborn, wanting to see his face. Elcira cleans him off and takes him away.

“Mom? What are you doing?” asks Susie, jumping up to follow her to a table in the corner of the room.

“Go get some fresh water from the well and bring it here.” Elcira turns around. “Agnes, continue to hold Deborah. Tootsie, cover Deborah’s legs. Boys, just stay where you are.”

Elcira stands between the baby and the rest of the people in the room and stares into the big brown eyes of the newest member of the Cranberry family, Chester’s son.

“Mom,” whispers Susie as she returns with the water. “He’s white.” “He’s your brother.” Now, everything changes.

Felix

The second floor of the Cranberry farmhouse bursts into activity before the rising of the sun, while the downstairs has been busy for hours. The smell of baked bread drifts up the

stairs to tickle the noses of the children, drawing them out of their slumber and drawing them down the stairs as if in a trance. Felix, the oldest, is the last to venture down, for it’s his turn to gather up the chamber pots. Being the strongest, he transfers the contents to a large bin, which he carries down and to the outhouse in two trips. With seven children, one’s turn should only come once a week, but the younger ones must pair off with someone older.

Felix waits at the top of the stairs, holding the large bucket with both hands on the handle. He keeps the top closed until the last minute, and then when Tootsie and Sally head for the stairs, he pops the top open and shoves it close to them.

Screaming, they race down with Felix bounding after them, laughing. “Felix,” shouts Mom from her room at the end of the hall, “I

know what you’re doing. Stop teasing your siblings.”

After emptying the bucket, Felix climbs the stairs. All of them have come down, and he can hear them chattering at the table.

The door to Mom’s room is closed, as it used to be when Father was alive. He wouldn’t dare knock but would wait patiently until the door opened.

“Are you spying on us?” Father would growl at him. “No, sir. I’m just waiting to empty the pots.”

Felix would feel his knees weaken when his father spoke to him. Even now, almost a year after his murder, Felix shakes at the closed door. He knows it’s because Deborah is in the other bed with Henry in the basket near her, but the memories are hard to forget.

The door opens.

“Good morning, darling,” says Mom, kissing him on the forehead. “Can I see him?” Felix asks.

Deborah is dressed and standing before the mirror, combing her hair. Her skin glistens in the light of the oil lamp.

Felix walks around the bed, stepping carefully as if a sound would cause the little one to cry.

“He’s getting big,” says Felix. “They grow fast, don’t they?” Deborah chuckles.

“You were once that size,” says Mom, tying a scarf around her neck. “All of you were in that very basket.”

“Really?”

Felix kneels next to the basket and peels back the blanket from Henry’s chin. Big eyes study Felix’s face, and little pink hands grab the air between them. Felix looks closely at Henry’s skin and then back at Deborah.

“Are they always this light when they’re born?” he asks.

Deborah turns and kneels beside him. “Not always,” she says. “He’s special that way.”

“Special?” Felix looks into her eyes. “What makes him special?” “He has all of you as his family.”

Felix looks at his mom and then back at Deborah. “Are you going to be living here now?”

“Let’s go down to breakfast, and we can all talk about that,” says Mom. “Deborah and Henry will join us in a little while. Henry needs his breakfast first.”

“Oh,” says Felix, remembering how mom fed the little ones. As he leaves the room, he hears Deborah singing softly.

None of the other children understand except Susie. She was the one who saw Dad with Deborah in the barn. Felix was the only one she told. At first, he didn’t know what to make of it all.

Now, Mom is explaining how much better it will be to have Deborah live here in the house rather than be alone in the Colonel’s house when he’s away.

“Can’t she stay there when he’s home and here when he’s away?” asks Sally, wiping snot from her nose with his sleeve.

“It’s just easier this way,” says Mom. “Besides, we love Deborah, don’t we?”

Everyone cheers.

“Good,” she says, “it’s settled, then.”

Deborah comes down the stairs alone. “Agnes is with him,” she says, taking her seat at the table with a family member.

Felix spots Mrs. Ryan staring at Deborah from the kitchen. He looks over at Mom and sees that she sees her as well.

Deborah reaches for the plate of eggs. “Does anyone want some more?”

“Me, me,” says Wally, holding his plate up.

She scrapes the last of it onto his plate and holds the empty plate out for Mrs. Ryan. “Could we have some more eggs, please, Mrs. Ryan?”

Mrs. Ryan looks at Elcira and walks into the kitchen without taking the plate.

Felix can hear her say, “That’s all there is.”

“Mrs. Ryan,” says Elcira, “did you not hear Deborah?” “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, ma’am.”

Elcira stands and walks to the kitchen door while Felix clears the empty plates from the table. “There’s something wrong with your manners.”

“I’m not the one who lets Negroes sit with family at table.”

“I suppose you don’t. Deborah is family. And you will serve her the way you serve me, or you can leave.”

Pots and lids bang, followed by Mrs. Ryan exiting the kitchen, tossing her apron on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” says Deborah.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” Elcira picks up the apron and puts it on. “Felix, run to the hen house and get some fresh eggs. Susie, slice some bread and toast it on the grill in the fireplace. Deborah, sit back and relax. Welcome to the Cranberry household.” After breakfast, it’s time for chores. Mom takes one of their school slates and writes down what each child is responsible for. Instead of writing out their names, she lists the days of the week. Each child knows which day of the week they represent. Sunday is Susie, Monday is Marty, Tuesday is Tootsie, Wednesday is Wally, Thursday is Tubby,

Friday is Felix, Saturday is Sally.

Felix helps the younger ones read the chart, and he recalls the song Deborah taught them about the days of the week. The actual chores change day by day and week by week. The seedlings turn to plants, the colts learn to be led, the chicks become hens, and the apple blossoms become fruit.

Ushering them off, he turns to watch his mom and Deborah clear the table.

“I can do that,” he says.

Deborah reaches for him and hugs him. “You are becoming a man.”

“Why do you say that?” Felix looks at his mom, confused. Deborah walks up the stairs. “Time to check on Henry and

Agnes.”

Elcira comes over to him and rubs his head. “What?”

“I’m going to need your help with this place.”

“But Mom.” He lets her pull him close. “I’m only nine.”

Deborah

Deborah gathers the muslin cloths she uses to wrap Henry and soaks them in the boiling water in the large copper kettle hanging from the iron tripod in the hearth. After they boil

for a while, she uses a long wooden stick to lift them out of the water and place them in a smaller pot to soak overnight. Using a knife, she shaves the bar of lilac soap into the water. Tomorrow, she will scrub, boil, rinse multiple times and wring them out before hanging them to dry in the sun.

The younger children watch with wide eyes, taking turns stirring the water with the stick to make the soap dissolve.

“It smells nice,” says Sally, sniffing the bar of soap.

“Yes, we’ll need to make more soap soon. Keeping all of you in clean clothes is hard work.” Deborah takes the pot and sets it out of the way in a corner of the main room, so it won’t be disturbed with the normal bustle of the kitchen.

“Can I empty the kettle?” asks Felix.

“It’s too hot and too heavy for you,” says Elcira, entering with Henry in her arms. She hands him to Deborah. “I cleaned him up and wrapped him in fresh muslin.”

“Thank you.” Deborah takes her son into the other room to nurse him. “You don’t have to care for him. That’s my job.”

“And you helped me with my job for all seven of mine,” says Elcira. “Mommy, was I that small?” asks Tootsie, leaning over Henry as

he suckles.

“You were all that small, even smaller. He’s growing fast. By the Fall, he’ll be following you around.”

“I remember you crawling after me everywhere I went.” Felix says to Tootsie. “I had to run upstairs to get away from you.”

“And you would cry,” says Deborah. “What a loud cry that was, too.” “Me?” asks Tootsie. “How come Henry doesn’t cry?”

“He does,” says Deborah, “but not like you. He’s a very happy baby.” “Mom, wasn’t I a happy baby?” asks Tootsie.

“You were all happy babies.”

“Not so much now,” says Felix, poking his sister in the side. “Come on, we have chores to do. We need to cut up some turnips and bring them to the horses.”

“Can I go too?” asks Marty.

“What does it say on the slate?” asks Felix.

Marty picks up the slate from the desk against the wall and reads, “Hay for the horses.”

“Come with us to the root cellar, and we’ll go with you to the silo.” “Take the pushcart,” says Elcira.

Deborah stares at her baby’s lips. They seem larger as he suckles her breast, big, pink lips around her near-black nipple. She puts her head in her hand. “He looks more like yours than mine,” she says to Elcira when the children are all out and about.

“You are safe here.”

“That’s not what I mean. Will it help him or hurt him?” A tear forms, and she lets it fall onto her cheek. “If we want to pass him, now would be the time.”

“Pass him? You mean say he’s mine and not yours?” “It would go better for him, wouldn’t it?”

“This was Chester’s doing, so he’s already part of this family through him. I will never turn my back on Henry or you. If the truth comes out, we will both be in jeopardy.” Elcira pulls a chair over and sits beside Deborah. She touches Henry’s cheek.

“Some think the Colonel is his father. He hasn’t denied it because he cares about me, but it can hurt him.” Deborah bites her lip. “I don’t know what to do.”

“When is he coming back?” asks Elcira. “We can talk to him.” “His regiment is on some mission throughout the state. He may

not be back for weeks.”

“A lot can happen in that time. We’ll think of something.” Felix, Marty and Tootsie run in, gasping for breath.

“The lock is broke,” says Tootsie.

“Someone broke into the root cellar,” says Felix.

“It’s all gone,” says Marty. “And the hay, too. The silo is empty.” “The only hay we have is what’s in the barn,” says Felix.

Elcira jumps out of the chair and grabs her rifle. “Watch them,” she says to Deborah.

“What are you going to do?” asks Deborah.

“I’m going to take two of the men and go see the constable.” “You know he would love an excuse to come back here and look

around,” says Deborah.

“I know. But they need to know I’m serious and not afraid of them.” Elcira heads toward the stable to get her horse and the men.

Deborah lifts Henry up and covers herself. “Agnes, please come and take Henry.”

“What are you going to do?” asks Felix.

“We’re going to take the wagon and visit a friend.” Deborah hands Henry to Agnes and turns to Felix. “Find your brothers and sisters and meet me at the barn.”

The ride into town to find the constable and return with him will take Elcira at least two hours, plenty of time to get to Shady Farm, on the New York side of the border between the states.

“Where are we going?” asks Susie, sitting beside Deborah in the wagon.

“I have family nearby. They own a small farm in New York.” “New York? Is that far?” asks Wally.

“Not far,” says Felix. “We learned that it’s the next state over from Connecticut.”

“That’s right,” says Deborah, talking loudly so the children in the back can hear. “My dad moved us here when I was your age.”

“Is it like our farm?” asks Tubby.

“Not nearly as big, but it has a stream flowing through it, and I remember catching fish in it. There’s also a big hole in the ground that we called a cave.”

All the way, Deborah keeps them occupied with stories of her childhood. She avoids the toll roads, keeping to the dirt roads, making the trip longer.

As they approach the farm, the children pile up close to each other to look.

“Hello!” shouts a tall, thin negro man in overalls. “Who are all these beautiful children? And what can I do for you?”

“I’m Deborah Townsend from Old Cranberry, Connecticut, and we need some root vegetables and hay for our horses and pigs.”

“I’m sure we can help with that. I don’t believe we have an account set up with you. Will that be cash or credit? Or maybe we can negotiate a trade?”

“A trade would be perfect. We have some lovely Morgan horses, as well as some hogs,” says Deborah.

“And we have chickens,” says Sally. “Lots of chickens, hens with eggs.”

“Well, why don’t you all come down to the barn? We can work this out,” he says, smiling as though they have known each other their whole lives. “You said, Townsend? That wouldn’t be Colonel Townsend, would it?”

“Yes, it would,” says Felix.

“Well, well, he’s an old friend. In fact, my cousin and his family went to work for him years back.”

“That would be me,” says Deborah.

“Well, why didn’t you say you’re family?” He wraps his arms around her and pats Tubby on the belly. “Let’s get some food in you folks and do some business.”

After a relatively long and pleasant visit, they return with a wagon full of turnips, potatoes, carrots, squash, and hay. Sitting in the back with the hay makes all the children itchy. But they couldn’t be happier to pull up and see their mom and two of the farm hands talking with Constable Tucker.

“Your mom doesn’t look so happy, Susie. You all better jump off and run into the house. I’ll take this to the root cellar and barn.”

“I can help,” says Felix.

“Then you stay. The rest of you go inside and stay there.” Deborah directs the horse around to the barn and steps down.

As long as she stays here, Constable Tucker will stay away. He doesn’t need to investigate this barn again. That incident is history.

She has been in the barn many times with the children over several months. She often needed their help since her growing belly kept her from bending. While watching Felix unload the hay today, she senses something is bothering him. He keeps his head low when he is near her, and occasionally, he turns quickly as if someone is behind him.

“What’s wrong, Felix?” she asks, carrying a basket of onions from the wagon to a smaller handcart.

“I’m fine,” he says, but he is not convincing.

She walks over to the bales of hay he just stacked and leans against them. “Come,” she says, patting the hay, “sit here and talk to me.”

He hesitates, taking each step slowly and cautiously. She pats the hay bale again, but he doesn’t sit. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

“Does what bother me, Felix?” She thinks he knows what he is asking, but she wants to hear him say it.

“Is this where Dad-? Does it bother you to be here?” “I’ve been here with you many times, Felix.”

He turns his head and steps away, his hands in his pockets. “Come here,” she says, opening her arms to him. She doesn’t wait for him to come but goes to him instead, wrapping her arms around him.”

“How is Henry our brother?” he asks.

She slips behind him and folds her arms around him, clasping them across his chest to whisper into his ear. His hair is soft and curly, and it smells of lilacs. He has washed up. She can feel his chest rise and fall with an occasional spasm, as though he is holding back tears. “Henry is your dad’s son, just like you and your brothers are his

sons, and your sisters are his daughters.”

“Why did he want another son?” Felix bows his head. “Didn’t he love the ones he had?”

“Of course he did,” says Deborah. “He loved you very much.” She can feel her chest tighten as she recalls the day he died. What can she tell Felix? What will he understand?

“But Henry is your son.”

“Yes, he is.” Deborah presses her face into the soft curls of Felix’s hair. “Your father didn’t know he would have another son.”

“He didn’t?” Felix turns and looks at Deborah. “You’re crying.” “I’m sorry, Felix,” she says. “I’m sorry you don’t have your father

to hold you like this and answer your questions.”

Felix places his hand on her shoulder. “He wasn’t that kind of dad, not like Mom. He would place his hand on my shoulder and squeeze tight. He made promises, but he didn’t keep them.”

She places both hands on his shoulders.

Felix pulls himself away and goes back to his work. “Next time he grabs my shoulder, I am going to make him tell me he loved me. That’s what I’ll do.”

Deborah feels him slip out of her grasp.

He looks at her and nods. “Thank you, Deborah.”

***

Excerpt from THE WIDOW MURDERESS by Bill Cusano. Copyright 2025 by Bill Cusano. Reproduced with permission from Bill Cusano. All rights reserved.