Table of Contents
Copyright
Also in The Killer Wore Cranberry Series by Untreed Reads Publishing
Introduction
Chicken Little
The Capo-Clipped Capon Caper
Stakeout in a Maple Tree
Spiced Molasses Pancakes
Turkey Underfoot
Kid Kelly
Killer Bro-vember
Nameless Turkey Trot of Terror
“Clean” Turkey Pot Pie
A Season to Worry
The Mac Salad Killer
No Starch in the Turkey, Please
A Family Affair
The Golden Potato
Holiday Sugar Cookie Dough
Ginger Snapped
Death for Dessert
The Guests at Our Table This Year
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos
J. Alan Hartman, Editor
Cover Copyright 2017 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Copyright 2017 by
Barbara Metzger: Chicken Little
Arthur Carey: The Capo-Clipped Capon Caper
Earl Staggs: Stakeout in a Maple Tree
Lisa Wagner: Spiced Molasses Pancakes
KM Rockwood: Turkey Underfoot
Herschel Cozine: Kid Kelly
Kelley Lortz: Killer Bro-vember
Bobbi A. Chukran: Nameless Turkey Trot of Terror
Lisa Wagner: “Clean” Turkey Pot Pie
Lesley A. Diehl: A Season to Worry
Albert Tucher: The Mac Salad Killer
Maryann Miller: No Starch in the Turkey, Please
Liz Milliron: A Family Affair
Terrance V. Mc Arthur: The Golden Potato
Lisa Wagner: Holiday Sugar Cookie Dough
Betsy Bitner: Ginger Snapped
DG Critchley: Death for Dessert
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also in The Killer Wore Cranberry Series by Untreed Reads Publishing
The Killer Wore Cranberry
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Second Helping
The Killer Wore Cranberry: Room for Thirds
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fourth Meal of Mayhem
www.untreedreads.com
Introduction
There’s a popular adage that says, “Sometimes it’s not about the family you’re given, but the family you make for yourself.” Some people find themselves with their blood relatives come the holidays, some celebrate with dear friends who have come to feel like family to them, and some spend it alone except for their twelve cats and that one damn dog that never comes when they call him.
The same can be said for putting together an anthology such as The Killer Wore Cranberry. Each year that we put the collection together is like putting on a comfy pair of bunny slippers, because you just know it’s going to feel warm and comforting once everyone gets involved. It’s the feeling of gathering around the fireplace after that second slice of pumpkin pie, without the need to let out your belt or unzip your pants. Or seeing that favorite aunt who gets drunk after only two glasses of wine and proceeds to tell you some of the most outrageous stories of when your dad was a kid. You just know you’re going to be surrounded by fun people, you’re going to laugh, and inevitably, somebody’s going to die (hopefully only on the page).
What’s really surprised me is the series’ ability to instill the same feeling in people from around the world, even in countries that don’t celebrate the particular form of Thanksgiving in our pages. Every installment brings emails from readers who fall in love with a particular character or author. And since many of our contributors over the years have found themselves returning to the series, curling up with one of their stories once again brings home that feeling of being in the presence of someone who makes you feel cozy. Sometimes while literally reading a cozy. With tea. From a pot that’s under a cozy. You get the idea.
As an editor, I love the opportunity to work with familiar faces, and this year was certainly no different. Returning Untreed Reads authors for this year’s collection include some folks that have been with us almost as long as Untreed Reads has been around, including Barbara Metzger (did you know award-winning Regency romance authors can write hysterical murder mysteries too?), Arthur Carey, Herschel Cozine, Kelley Lortz, Betsy Bitner and Albert Tucher. Lesley Diehl and Earl Staggs are true family at this point, having appeared in all five installments of The Killer Wore Cranberry, plus several other works with us. Maryann Miller and Bobbi Chukran recently joined the family. And, of course, there are the new folks that we’re welcoming with open arms: KM Rockwood, Liz Milliron, Terrance V. McArthur and DG Critchley. Every family needs fresh blood introduced. In the mystery business, sometimes we take that a little too literally.
And, of course, there’s K.D. Sullivan, my cohort-in-crime, who started out as a business partner, and now I would still have as family in my life even if there was no Untreed Reads. There’s my amazing sister, Lisa Wagner, who every installment of TKWC I beg to send me new recipes, and always willingly rolls up her sleeves and hits the kitchen to come up with new tasty creations.
Most importantly, there’s the amazing readers out there. Family is often defined as the people who support us the most, and that’s certainly true of all of you. If it weren’t for readers, we wouldn’t be able to keep putting together these collections celebrating holidays and murdering people.
Err…I don’t think that came out quite as I intended.
So, please enjoy these stories from our family to you and yours. Here’s hoping we don’t give you too many good ideas for knocking off the people at your Thanksgiving table.
J. Alan Hartman
Editor-in-Chief
Untreed Reads
Thanksgiving 2017
Chicken Little
Barbara Metzger
1. So the smooth private eye ambled into the sleazy bar and ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey. He ordered the same for the gorgeous blonde broad in the dark red sweater at the end of the bar.
Or, in my case, the scruffy insurance investigator limped into the Stanhope Hotel’s lounge. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pale ale from the local Stanhope brewery. The attractive young woman nearby raised her martini glass to me, a smile on her lips. They were nice, full lips that were the same dark red as her nicely filled turtleneck sweater.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Layla.”
I finished my beer and left. I didn’t do hookers.
2. The hardened private dick went home to his bare-bones hired rooms, to a restless, watchful sleep with his gun nearby.
I got to the apartment over my downstair
s office and slept like a baby, a sketch pad by my side, with sweet dreams of a green-eyed blonde in a red sweater. I woke up feeling I’d missed out on something, but with time for some shop work in the basement.
My managing bully of a brother called down, reminding me of an appointment I knew I didn’t have. Seems I did now. “Important people are coming. You need to impress them. Coffee is on, and I sent out for pastries for the clients.”
“You’re fired.”
“You know you can’t fire me, Chick. I’m a lawyer and your partner. We need the money.”
We didn’t, but Bill was an investment counselor as well as a patent attorney. He lived for money. I’d rather tinker with my inventions in the basement than see clients.
At precisely eleven, Bill tapped on my office door, opened it and started to usher in my unwanted guests, introducing them as they proceeded to shake my hand. Mrs. Ceci Barr came first, obviously the matriarch of the group. Or the queen mother, the regal way she held herself. Seventies, I guessed, with a trim figure showcased in a deep red wool pantsuit, black silk blouse, and black and white pearls worth more than my car. I had a flashback like the PTSD I hadn’t suffered in years, to a similar color on a cashmere sweater last night. Damn, I should start dating more.
I shook it off in time to shake the next woman’s hand as Bill left and Mrs. Barr took over the introductions. “My daughter, Sally Fredrickson-Barr.”
The younger version had streaked blonde hair instead of the mother’s silver, but she had the same erect posture and the same sharp nose. And the same damned red clothes, this time a dark red jacket with a black skirt and a thick gold necklace.
The elder Mrs. Barr proudly presented her granddaughter next, Layla. I proudly kept myself from jumping through the window. She wasn’t a hooker?
Thank goodness for Sally, the middle Barr. She became hostess, offering tea or coffee and passing the plate of pastries, because I could not get a word past my lips that didn’t start with an f.
Who the fuck gave their daughter a porn star name, and why were they dressed like a fucking set of Russian nesting dolls? Layla had on a skimpy, sexy dress—in the same fucking red—with a black belt and high black boots.
While they were all fussing with creamers and sugar tongs—where the fuck had they come from? I studied the three gold business cards Bill had placed on my desk. Raised red letters informed me that they all belonged to—or it belonged to them—a company named Cran-Barree Couture, kind of like crème brulee is pronounced, I supposed, which also kind of explained the dark red clothing they all wore and likely produced. Nothing explained what the fuck they were doing in my office. I handled insurance claims, not trust funds.
I cleared my throat. “So what brings you ladies here?”
If I thought I was in charge, Ceci Barr quickly set me straight. “Before we start, Mr. Lydell, please be kind enough to satisfy my curiosity.” She waved one of my own plain white business cards from the front desk. “We carefully investigated your background before making this appointment, without discovering why in the world you would name your company Chicken Little.” She gestured at the well-furnished room. They’d sent the hot-looking granddaughter as an advanced scout. I glared at Layla. She returned my glare with a grin.
“The name came from my older brother,” I told Mrs. Barr. “He was a bully as a kid”—and the bastard still tried to be—”who always terrorized me. So he called me Chick instead of the Chuck our parents intended for me, Charles Lydell Junior. Chicken Little was inevitable.”
Layla smiled again and said, “But you’re no cringing coward. You’re a decorated veteran, a retired police officer, even a hero at your college.”
Anyone could find that on the Internet, along with the other bullshit. I joined the Army to avoid an arrest for beating the crap out of brother Bill, over a woman who happened to be my wife at the time. I got blown up in the god-forsaken desert. Rehabbed and sent back in time to get shot. In the back, in the head, in the leg. I got an honorable discharge, a handful of service medals, my back pay and a disability allowance. Then I went to college on the Army’s dime. And got shot there by a rogue security guard with a rifle. Brave, no. I tripped him with my cane when I was down. Bill, finally an attorney, threatened to sue the school, the state, the gun-seller, the local police and anyone else responsible for letting the psycho on campus. Hence the house, my workshop and Bill’s student loans all paid off. I got unlimited years of free tuition and nine months more of agonizing rehab until I managed to pass the local police force’s physical by sheer will power. And got shot again, this time by friendly fire. Hence more surgery, more rehab, more disability payments, an early retirement, a pension from the union, and a quick granting of my P.I. license and carry permits. I also had a permanent limp and a body that could never pass an airport security screening. “No hero, just a survivor. Now I work for insurance agencies and private employers, checking liability claims,” I said, hoping to bring this entire conversation to an end. “Nice, safe work. So is that what this is about? A workman’s comp issue?”
Mrs. Barr placed a check on my desk and announced it was a retainer fee. A quick glance showed a lot of zeros.
“So talk to me.”
“My husband Auggie died recently in an automobile accident,” the matriarch said, a tremor in her voice at having to say the words. I expressed my condolences and waited.
“And the insurance company will not pay.”
Ah, finally where I came in. “So the insurance company denied death benefits. On what grounds?”
Layla spoke up, maybe to save her grandmother from having to tell the story over again. “They are calling it a suicide.”
Not quite my field, but I told her to go on, from the beginning.
Layla continued, with help from her mother and grandmother. Mr. Augustus Barr, CEO and cofounder of the family’s highly successful clothing company, was driving home from work by himself one evening a few weeks ago. No one witnessed the accident.
Mrs. Barr was at home, waiting. Layla had an apartment of her own in the city. Her mother was cooking, and Rudy Fredrickson, Sally’s second husband, not Layla’s father, was in his garage working on his model airplanes at their own house nearby.
Weird hobby for the CFO of Cran-baree, but not pertinent. “Okay, so what did the police say happened?”
“The back road was well-lighted, with no animal remains left, and no skid marks. They said he aimed straight for the bridge, hit the concrete head-on and died instantly.”
Ah, the abutment did it. “So why not call it a freak accident? A heart attack? An animal that leaped away? A mechanical malfunction?”
The autopsy, it seemed, found no disease or drugs, just the tiniest trace of liquor that Mrs. Barr insisted was from Auggie’s usual cocktail at lunch. They searched the scene, had the car inspected. All they found was a text message on his phone that he sent Ceci saying before the accident: “I’m sorry.”
Ceci was quietly weeping. Layla patted her hand. “I’m sure he was sorry to keep you waiting for dinner.”
The police were undecided, Layla told me, what to label the crash until they got an anonymous caller claiming Barr was having an affair, that he had offshore accounts, that he was embezzling funds from the family trust and the IRS.
Mrs. Barr sat up straighter. “None if it is true.”
It all could have been true, though. That was enough for the insurance company, but not for Ceci. They’d held a memorial, but no proper funeral yet, because they had so many questions.
So did I, like why they thought I could convince the insurance company to pay up.
“You can look into things the police haven’t had time or inclination for once they made up their minds.”
I could, but I would not. “There is a problem. If your husband’s death was neither accident nor suicide, then it was murder.” Now I turned around the nameplate on my desk so they could read the reverse side. Instead of Ch. Lydell, PI, this side spelled out: I DO NO
T GET SHOT. In capital letters. “Murderers are dangerous. They’re willing to do anything to keep from being caught, including eliminating the investigator who gets close to finding proof of the crime. They fight back. Often with guns.” I tapped the wooden block on the desk for emphasis. “I do not get shot. And that is why the company is called Chicken Little.” I slid Mrs. Barr’s check back to her side of the desk.
She sighed. “Other than wishing to repair the damage to my husband’s reputation, did I mention that the accidental or wrongful death insurance policy Auggie carried was for four million dollars? I am prepared to pay you a quarter of that if you can prove he did not die by his own hand. Aside from your retainer fee, of course.”
Ah.
“And, yes, I am the sole recipient, so the police look at me sideways for fighting so hard to find another cause of the accident.” She started to weep again. “As if I want to live without him.”
They all had tears in their eyes now too. Not me, not the ex-soldier, not the former cop or the tough as nails private eye. Spenser would be proud of me. My mother wouldn’t.
“You don’t need me, Mrs. Barr, you need forensic experts for the accounts, the accident scene and the autopsy reports. You need computer wizards and phone hackers to track down that anonymous tip. Then you might have something to show to the police. Let them go after the bad guys. It’s their job. Not mine.”
She took another check from Sally, the details person. This one also had a goodly amount of zeros.
“The retainer is yours to keep, no matter the outcome. Use this money to hire all those people, ones you trust, experts who won’t fit the evidence to some preconceived notion. I do not expect you to confront a cold-blooded killer, just find him for me. I will have no peace until you do.”
I excused myself while I conferred with my brother.
“What, are you crazy?” He was already making out contracts for them to sign, document release papers to have notarized, search warrants and deposit slips for the checks. “If you don’t get them in here to make this official, I’ll shoot you myself.”
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 1
