The Mystery Megapack

caught in one room where the fire started. A steel door jammed and they were trapped. The fire spread along the floor and gutted the whole place. It had a big start before an alarm was turned in, and the fire department was blocked by the steel walls. They just brought those fellows out now. The floor fell through and the bodies dropped to the basement. There was one woman in another part of the house. She was asleep and went goofy, I guess. She flung open the front door as we got here, put a gun to her head and blew herself off.”
    Roy moved slowly toward his car. He turned for a last look at the brownstone house. Why say anything to the police? He decided to leave that to Irma Rollins. So far as he felt, it could serve no possible good and would result in much unwelcome publicity for Margaret. It seemed poetic justice for the Bengali to be trapped within his own steel walls. Roy thought of the beautiful wife of the mad Ishan Das Babaji. He wondered how much she knew of it all. Well, she knew enough, or she wouldn’t have killed herself at the door, he decided.
    Roy returned to his sister’s home. Margaret had come out of her heavy sleep. Roy, his sister, Margaret, and Irma Rollins sat in a bedroom and discussed the question of going to the police.
    Irma didn’t think much of the idea from the start. She decided it would be a lot more fun to be Margaret’s companion on a round-the-world cruise.

DRIVEN TO DISTRACTION, by Marcia Talley
    When Harrison keeled over and died I didn’t think I’d marry again, but Mama said, “Life goes on, Marjorie Ann. When you fall off a horse, you have to climb right back on.”
    Given a chance, Mama would have matched me up with one of Harrison’s law partners, right there at South River Country Club as they converged on the roast beef carving station after the funeral, but I have my pride. I waited a respectable year before marrying Stephen, who swept me off my feet with the lean, rawboned, good looks of a Montana rancher, a laid-back wrangler who spoke fluent U.S. Tax Code. The way Stephen handled Harrison’s estate was nothing short of dazzling.
    Stephen was clever with gadgets, too. In his office at home, he had a desktop computer, a laptop, a scanner, three monitors—one as big as an over-the-sofa painting of the Last Supper—two cameras that scanned the room like disembodied eyeballs, and wires that snaked kudzu-like around the table legs. I pretty much kept out until cleaning day when I’d have to run the vacuum and dust his office myself. Theresa refused. The blinking and beeping unnerved her. She was convinced the machines would steal her thoughts, and to tell the truth, I half agreed with her.
    The last thing Stephen needed was another piece of electronics, so for his fortieth birthday, I gave him a fabulous five-course dinner at Northwoods Restaurant and a gift card from American Express. He reached across his crème caramel, gathered up my hand and pressed it to his lips, his green eyes flashing “thank you” in the candlelight. By the way he glanced at his watch, I suspected he wanted to skip the after-dinner glass of Remy Martin and rush straight off to the mall, but, fortunately, it had closed.
    I hoped he’d use the card at Nordstrom or Eddie Bauer, but the next morning Stephen left the house early and was probably waiting at Circuit City when the doors slid open. He came home lugging a box labeled MapMasterIV, and spent the rest of Saturday morning holed up in his office, reading the manual. After lunch, he plopped his new toy onto the dashboard of his pickup and drove off, happy as a clam.
    Sunday morning when I eased into the passenger seat of the BMW, I found Stephen balancing the MapMasterIV on his knees. He plugged its cord into the cigarette lighter socket and jiggled what I took to be an aerial up and down. He leaned sideways, so close I could smell his Drakkar Noir aftershave, adjusted the MapMaster on its bean bag base, positioned the whole shebang on the dashboard, and punched a few buttons. Then he backed carefully out of the driveway, grinning. “Just listen,” he said.
    Drive point two miles west and turn right.
    The MapMaster was female and she spoke in a calm, non-judgmental voice, like the 411 information lady.
    Obediently, Stephen turned right onto Dogwood Lane. “It’ll direct us to church.”
    “You know how to get to church.”
    “Of course I know how to get to church, Marjorie Ann, but it’s interesting to see how the