The Mystery Megapack

weird. Becca appeared flushed, too. So did Dad. In fact everything seemed blotchy and out of focus. I shook my head, which made things worse. My stomach cramped, my head spun.
    “Gwen,” Becca said, “are you all right?”
    I blinked and tried to answer, but I couldn’t speak. Gasping for breath, I slumped to the floor. I was sweating yet felt so cold.
    “Damn it, Gwen,” I heard Mom say. “I told you to lose weight!” My eyes fluttered open. She was leaning over me. “Becca, call 911.”
    “It’ll be faster if we drive to the hospital,” Becca said. “It’s started to snow. They’re probably busy with accidents.”
    “Henry, go start the car!” Mom yelled.
    “Mom.” Becca knelt beside me as I began to shake. “Grab a blanket from the spare bedroom for Gwen!”
    “Of course.” She ran off.
    Becca shifted closer. “I told a little fib earlier. I bought Mom’s lemon torte from the bakery. I made your dessert from scratch.”
    I opened my eyes wide—the only movement I could make.
    “That’s right, Gwen. I can be crafty, too. Like how I’ve used that video camera you gave me last year. I set it up at first to spy on the nanny. Imagine my surprise these past few weeks, seeing you come and go.” She sighed. “I’ll look at today’s tape next week and discover that you tampered with ingredients in my kitchen this morning. I’ll tearfully hand it over to the cops and let them figure out that you … did yourself in.”
    I began wheezing. Dad ran over and, straining, lifted me up. While he carried me to the door, I saw Becca smile. Then I spied the Christmas gifts I’d put under the tree, and I smiled, too.
    My back-up plan.
    I felt peaceful as I drifted away, thinking of the sweets I’d made Mom and Becca for Christmas.
    ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    Barb Goffman is a three-time Agatha Award nominee, including for this story, “The Worst Noel,” which originally appeared in The Gift of Murder anthology (Wolfmont Press 2009). Barb has also been nominated for “Volunteer of the Year” from Chesapeake Crimes: They Had It Comin’ and for “Murder at Sleuthfest” from Chesapeake Crimes II . Barb’s stories also have appeared in The Killer Wore Cranberry , Murder to Mil-Spec , the Deadly Ink 2010 Short Story Collection , and Chesapeake Crimes 3 . A slightly altered version of “Volunteer of the Year” was published in Magnolia Blossoms and Afternoon Tales . Barb is program chair of the Malice Domestic mystery convention, serves on the national board of Sisters in Crime, and is a past president of the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime. She’s also a co-coordinating editor of two Wildside Press anthologies, including the upcoming Chesapeake Crimes: This Job is Murder . She lives in Virginia with her miracle dog, Scout (a three-time cancer survivor!). Learn more at http://www.barbgoffman.com .

MR. CLACKWORTHY’S POT OF GOLD, by Christopher B. Booth
    I.
    Although the relaxed posture of his body suggested indolent ease as he reclined in the depths of a luxuriously comfortable, overstuffed chair, Mr. Amos Clackworthy’s shrewd brain was exceedingly active. Between his eyebrows there was a faint frown, and the eyes themselves lacked that whimsical twinkle which so often accompanied the incubation of a scheme, one of those clever ideas of his, calculated to swell the Clackworthy bank balance to the corresponding diminishment of someone else’s.
    The truth of it was that the master confidence man’s mind, while diligently in pursuit of that alluring coinage called “easy money,” was only running around in circles, starting at nowhere and arriving at precisely the same place. Even a master confidence man’s fund of originality must run low at times.
    Occupying his favorite place by the window which looked out upon Sheridan Road, Mr. James Early, otherwise “The Early Bird,” tapped the toes of his shoes soundlessly on the thick nap of the beautiful Chinese rug of blue and gold, woven together in a perfect harmony of shading. For more than an hour he had kept his peace, but not without many anxious glances toward the meditative Mr. Clackworthy.
    “What’s the matter, boss?” he demanded at length. “Ain’tcha able to coax an idear from the ol’ bean? Mebbe if you primed the think-cylinders with a li’le joy-juice now—”
    “It is the weather, James.” The master confidence man sighed in admission of his discouragement. “The heat has gotten next to me, it seems.” His hand