The
Loom of Doom Galls Mainly In the Tomb
by Barry Ergang. The Sleuth Extraordinaire, modeled after a famous
shamus we all know and admire, once more leaps into the fray.
"This
murder is a fishy business, sir," Detective-Inspector Shad Rowe
said. "You’ve been of great
assistance to us in the past when it comes to solving
bizarre
crimes, and I hope you can help us now."
The Sleuth Extraordinaire, a gaunt hawk-faced man
with no official status, but possessed of a preternatural faculty for
observation and deduction, sat in a chair opposite Rowe’s
cluttered
desk.
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Inspector
Feghoot by Stephen D. Rogers. I dunno... some
of these stories simply defy my attempts to make cute and pithy
statements about them. I'm in a real pickle about this one,
anyway.
Inspector Feghoot looked away from the pitchfork
protruding from the back of the dead body. "Why did you ask me to
come here?"
The mayor shrugged. "You're an
inspector."
"I inspect pants to make sure the pockets
work." Feghoot produced a piece of paper: INSPECTED BY #9.
"I don't know anything about ... solving a murder."
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Tile
"M" for Murder by Sunny Frazier. I
can SO empathize with the narrator of this story.
I wanted him dead. Not my husband. He was trite
and true, so he could stay alive for now. Not my ex, more than happy
to be divorced and out of the picture. Definitely not my brother, who
had a questionable work history in Las Vegas.
The man I wanted dead was Clyde, my contractor.
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Never
a Trace of Red by Bernie Thomas. I love good
music. And those golden oldies... oh yeah. But some people
can't seem to pull themselves out of the past.
Everything was fuzzy when I opened my eyes. The alarm clock
screamed that it was six-thirty, and judgin’ by the semi rollin’
through my head, I must have had a blast last night. Booze and dames.
There ain’t nothin’ keener. I hauled my keister into the shower
and started getting ready for work. Arlene was waitin’ when I got
there.
"You look like hell, Greyson," she said, wearin’ a
grin that reminded me of the ivories on a baby grand. "You
feeling okay?"
"Yeah," I said. "Everything’s Jake."
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Gag
Bag by Randy Frances Kandel. Word games.
Sometimes they're fun. I mean, Peggy Hill just salivates over
playing Boggle! But word games are sometimes nasty things, too, like
when politicians play them with campaign promises... but I digress.
The Cobb brothers and their wives, Trisha and Jane, were excited.
They had been certain that they would be chosen for the big game
promotion they had found while searching the Internet. The website had
announced:
GAG BAG: THE NEW MYSTERY WORD GAME
Breathtaking Fun
Heart Stopping Excitement
Test GAG BAG in Your Own Home with Our Coach
And Be Rewarded Beyond Your Experience
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Premonition
by John M. Floyd. I used to have a friend who could
just drive you CRAZY with all the "woulda-coulda-shoulda"
garbage. "Well, I felt like we should have taken that left
turn, but I didn't want to say anything..." Grrrrr. But
then again, if she had told me all the times she felt like I should have
(or should not have) done something, I probably wouldn't have
listened.
"Something’s going to happen," Mary said, as she
clipped on an earring. "Something big. I can feel it."
Her husband glanced at her from the mirror he was using to tie his
tie. "I can too," he said. "I think the stew was too
spicy."
"No, I’m serious." She paused, looking thoughtful.
"Maybe it’s the show tonight. I’ve heard that a fine drama,
well written and well presented, can actually change a person’s
life." She turned and regarded him a moment. "What do you
think?"
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Seal
of Disapproval by Chick Lang. Just when you
thought it was safe to go in the water... um, wait... I mean go BACK in
the water. I hate it when people just go in the water.
Especially little kids at the pool. Nasty.
“Calm down, Mrs. Hensley...I can’t understand a word you’re
saying."
My sister, Sheriff. Dorothy—we call her Dottie—she’s
disappeared. We were down on the beach, having a picnic."
"And the last time you saw Dot—?"
"Dottie. And she was picking up sand dollars at the edge of
the lagoon. I turned around to make sure the hotdogs weren’t burning,
and when I looked back, she was gone."
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Anonymous
O'Brien and the Superior Taco by Colin C.
Conway. When the chips are down, the tough get going, even
when the rubber meets the road. But clichés can keep a guy goin'
when the ink of imagination runs dry.
The overhead fan stirred the stale air around my downtown office,
failing to drop the temperature a single degree. My eyes swept over the
room, taking in the steel-gray file cabinets, my beige metal desk and
the two-legged coat rack leaning in the corner.
Over on the east wall hung an autographed poster of The Maltese
Falcon. It wasn’t autographed by Bogart, Astor or Lorre. Instead it
was inscribed: To Harold - For the tough guy who stole my heart - Love,
Ralph. The poster came with the office and since this is a low budget
story, I kept it.
I’d be in a nicer location with a real autographed picture if
the Author wasn’t so cheap.
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Head
Case by Sandra Seamans. A guy oughta
keep his fingers off of other's suitcases, even when he finds a perfectly
good one in a dumpster. Maybe ESPECIALLY when he finds a perfectly
good one in a dumpster.
"The P.I. on my door stands for Private Investigator, not
Public Idiot."
"But, Buck, I can't go to the cops. They'd never believe I
found it in the trash. Not with my reputation."
"Pinky, you shoulda thought of that before you went dumpster
diving this morning."
"Jeez, Buck, how was I supposed to know somebody stuffed a
head in a perfectly good suitcase. That ain't the proper way to dispose
of a body."
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The Cuckoo
Clock Caper by Tony Burton.
I used to have a cuckoo clock in my home, until it got accidentally
knocked off the wall and broken. I couldn't fix it, and nobody else
in town wanted to mess with it, either. They're complex, and
handmade. So, if you have one that's broken, take it to a
professional!
M’name is Bill, and
I’m a burglar. Yep, I
admit it. I’m pretty good at it, too.
My wife has always
wanted one of those Black Forest cuckoo clocks.
You know the kind… lots of carvings, birds, deer, big honkin’
weights on chains that hang down to the floor, and a little bird that
pops out once an hour to tell you how much closer you are to the end of
your life. They drive me
nuts, but the wife, she likes ‘em.
So, I broke into this pawn shop where I saw they had this huge
one hanging on the wall, and stole it for her.
I
wrapped it up all pretty and the next day after breakfast (it was her
birthday), I gave it to her! “Surprise,
honey!”
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