Fiction: We All Scream
The digital clock slipped from 5:16 to 5:17, and I sighed. I sighed every day at that time, because in one minute – the clocks in the neighborhood were all synchronized – Mrs. Caperson would begin four minutes of scream therapy.
Four.
Minutes.
She had good lungs and a Teflon-coated throat. I couldn’t have done it, that’s for sure.
She had gone around to all the neighbors within earshot to say her therapist, Dr. Weingarten, recommended this practice for her nerves. We all wondered if the good doctor would recommend we scream back for our nerves, but I don’t know that anyone ever asked him. I didn’t anyway, that’s for sure.
Four minutes of synchronized screaming every day except holidays. Or maybe there was enough in-house noise on holidays we just couldn’t hear her. But that doesn’t seem very likely, considering Mrs. Caperson’s ability to attract attention.
And on account of her being a Caperson and all, none of the cops or the city fathers saw fit to tell her to put a sock in it. That’s where money gets you, especially if you’re thoughtful enough to live modestly in a middle-class neighborhood.
“One of these days,” I told Bud Forbish, the guy on the other side of us, “one of these days someone is going to kill that woman at precisely 5:17 p.m., and we won’t be any the wiser.”
Fiction: This Diamond Ring
Sandra tugged at her ring and eventually got it off of her finger. She threw it at Delbert, who lay wheezing softly on the living room floor. It missed his face but landed in plain sight.
“That little thing isn’t even worth trying to resell,” she growled.
He looked at the ring and remembered how gleeful he had been eighteen years before when he went to Kavalitz’ Jewelry and picked out the nicest wedding ring his budget could withstand. It would have to suffice; the matching engagement ring was far too expensive. Mr. Kavalitz assured Delbert he didn’t mind breaking up the set.
Delbert had taken Sandra out to dinner that night. After they both had declined the waitress’ offer of dessert, Delbert had reached into his suit pocket. “Perhaps I could interest you in this, though.” He opened the box and handed it to Sandra.
Fiction: In Its Crib
A man stood at the viewing window, pretending to be interested in all the newborns lying on display. He occasionally smiled at the nurse taking care of them.
He was interested in only one of the babies, though, and when the nurse was occupied with another child the man stared malevolently at the particular baby. He kept one hand in his jacket pocket, fondling the warm weapon there.
He suddenly felt the heat slipping out of his weapon, its titanium housing swiftly cooling. His shoulders sagged and he turned.
In the visitors’ waiting area sat another man, watching the first. The newcomer shook his head.
“Max, the Council said ‘no.’”
Fiction: Canoe Trip
“How did it go bad?” Kallack asked.
Pordman sighed.
“Dabbler and I were headed to the state lake. You know, deep water, real good fishing. Planned to go out just after nightfall. All of a sudden, there’s a roadblock dead ahead and more cops than I’ve ever seen — in front of us, to the sides and outta nowhere behind us. I tell Dabbler to stay cool, but Dabbler didn’t know what cool meant or we wouldn’t have been going to the lake in the first place.
“I stop the car. It’s either that or plow into a couple of big cop SUVs, you know. Dabbler jumps out of the car and starts running. I turned away because I knew what was going to happen, and sure enough, a few gun-filled seconds later he’s dead.
“I kept my hands on the steering wheel and waited. It didn’t take long, you know. But I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. The cops drag me out of the car and push me up against the side. That’s when I see what happened.”
“Yeah?” Kallack prompted.
“We had the canoe on top of the car, upside-down like you carry them, you know. And her body was stuffed under the seats and her arms and legs were strapped in place with bungee straps. Well the hooks were just some cheap plastic and one of them broke, you know, and — we couldn’t hear it over the radio — her hand was flopping in the breeze under the canoe. Some driver behind us must’ve called the cops.”
“Rough,” another lifer said.
“Yeah. Dumb ol’ Dabbler bought the stupid things. I’da never bought cheap crap like that. You just can’t get a job done without quality stuff, you know?”
Fiction: Keeping Cool
“OK, Mr. Avers,” said Detective Curtis. “Let me make sure I’ve got your story straight. You got here a little after 1 p.m. and had been working on the central air unit in the basement for about half an hour when you heard the shots.”
“That’s right,” Avers agreed.
“You waited several minutes and when you didn’t hear anything else, you came upstairs and looked around.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should have come up sooner, but I was afraid.”
“Afraid isn’t a bad thing when you hear gunshots, Mr. Avers,” the detective told him. “Then you looked around and found the bodies in the living room and you called the police on your cell phone.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Curtis tipped his head a bit as he looked at the clipboard. “Then you went back downstairs and completed your work on the central air unit, after which you gave an officer your statement.”
Avers nodded in agreement.
“Mr. Avers … I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why did you continue to work on the unit when the people who hired you were dead in the living room? I mean, you’re not likely to get paid for it.”
Avers shrugged. “I never leave a job unfinished. I’ve got my pride, y’know? And besides … isn’t it about 101 in the shade out there?”
“Yeah, it’s a scorcher, all right.”
Avers motioned toward the living room. Curtis looked around the corner where the bodies were lying in blood. It was about 75 degrees in the house.
“Aren’t you glad I kept working?” Avers asked.
“That’s all I need for now, Mr. Avers. Thank you for your help,” Curtis said. He extended a hand to the repairman. “And yes, thank you very much. I guess we’re both making the best of a bad job.”
“Life’s all about keeping cool, Detective,” Avers said. “You can see in there what happens when you don’t.”
Fiction: Wish Fulfillment
The apartment door opened and closed. Emily set her purse down and hung her coat on the hook. When she walked into the living room she stopped cold at the sight of an unfamiliar woman sitting in the rocking chair.
The woman looked down at the cat in her lap. “See? I told you she’d be home soon.” She looked up at Emily. “I haven’t been here long, Ms. Ware; just long enough for Ribbons to get comfortable.”
“Who are you?” Emily asked.
“Please don’t be frightened, Ms. Ware. I’m here to help you.” And she smiled a friendly little smile. “My name is Paula.”
Fiction: The Master of Rusbridge Manor
Dr. Sir Jonas Clark Sheppy stood on the balcony of Rusbridge Hall as the sun set and reveled in being master of all he surveyed.
Well, to the river, anyway, he amended. His neighbor’s property began on the other side of the bank. Still, Rusbridge Manor was a pleasant piece of land, complete with tenant farmers working the acres surrounding the demensne. Sheppy had purchased the manor from the Rusbridge family, which had fallen on hard times due to the riotous style of living its last heir had finally fallen victim to.
There was also, he recalled sourly, some question as to how much the master of the manor he really was. Not quite out of sight was the corner of a barn, almost as ancient as the hall itself. Sheppy didn’t think much of the barn and had voiced his thoughts on it to his estate manager, Pocock.
Fiction: The Side of the Angels
“You’re … what?”
Lonnie had been sitting alone on the park bench, quietly minding his own business, soaking in a little late afternoon sun, and continuing to recover from the excesses of the previous night. He’d come to this part of the park to get away from the old busker playing his trumpet. Still, a few high notes would sometimes drift over. And he’d been alone until an absolutely nondescript middle-aged man came strolling along and sat down next to him. Even at that, the man was so utterly unremarkable that Lonnie didn’t notice him at first, or that he had a cloth bag. Then the man spoke.
“You heard me,” the man said. “I am Satan, and I want you to do a job for me.”
“Look, guy,” Lonnie said. “I had too much to drink last night, too. Go home and sleep it off. I’m not in the mood.”
“Your mood is not relevant to our conversation,” the bland man said. “I need someone killed and you can easily do the job. The target sold her soul to me and doesn’t wish to pay. She’s trying everything she can think of to avoid her fate, and I’m getting tired of it. Even though it will do her no good, she’s holed up in a church, and the priest is sympathetic to her. I want you to go in and kill her.”
Fiction: Murder in the Mansion
The storm raged on, showing no signs of abating, and nearly covering the sound of gunshots inside the Salvorson mansion.
Three men, who had come from different parts of the mansion, stood around the body of their late, unlamented business partner, Brock Salvorson. He was lying at the bottom of a long, steep flight of stairs.
“If it weren’t for the multiple gunshot wounds, we could have said he fell,” Ian Irwin said.
“I think we must also rule out suicide,” Philip Ordell added.
“Gentlemen,” said Tate Fanchon, “one of us is a murderer.”
“And we all have motive for killing the S.O.B.,” Ordell said.
Fiction: The Rodeo
“Welcome back. For those of you just joining us, today on NewsTalk 102 we have Sheriff Ralph Tarbridge. I want to turn now to a sensitive topic: this weekend’s Tri-County Rodeo. Sheriff, as our listeners know, the rodeo used to be the biggest event in the tri-county region. In recent years it’s developed a reputation for being the deadliest place to be on Independence Day weekend.”
“That is, unfortunately, true, Keith. There’s been a murder committed at the rodeo each of the past three years. So far, despite the assistance of the FBI, the murders are unsolved.”
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