Crime Stories

by Jack Kilborn

  Contestant #3 was Maria Espinoza. She’d brought her teenaged daughter with to assist, which the rules allowed. Both wore white latex gloves, which was definitely sanitary, but somewhat unusual.

  “This will be the best angel food cake you’ve ever eaten,” Maria beamed.

  Bitsy noticed that Maria’s daughter was opening a package of raspberries.

  “Are you making a raspberry glaze?” she asked.

  “Yes. I know that other lady is making a similar cake, but mine will be better. You’ll see.”

  Bitsy bid her good baking and moved on the Contestant #4, Holly Doolittle. Holly was opening up packages of cream cheese, and Bitsy noted that her counter top was covered with graham cracker crumbs.

  “Bitsy! I’m so excited to meet you! You’re my idol!”

  “Thank you,” Bitsy said, a little embarrassed.

  “I only hope my cake is half as good as one yours. You’ve got the be the best baker in all of Colorado. Boy, I just love you!”

  Bitsy endured a hug, then moved along to the final contestant, Georgia Peters.

  “Ms. Peters, I…”

  “Shhh!” Georgia put a finger in front of her lips. “The first layer of my quadruple golden layer cake is in the oven. With this elevation, I can’t take any chances.”

  “Sorry,” Bitsy whispered, somewhat mollified. “Good luck.”

  “I don’t need luck,” Georgia whispered back. “This cake will win for sure.”

  Bitsy’s walkie-talkie squawked. Georgia shot Bitsy an evil look at the intrusive sound, and Bitsy hurried away.

  “What is it?” she asked into the radio.

  “We found something.” It was Niki James, Bitsy’s assistant. “You’d better come and look.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the hospitality suite.

  Bitsy flew through the kitchen, down the hallway, and to the suite. When she arrived, Niki was as pale as cake flour.

  “It was under the sofa, in a plain paper bag.”

  She pointed to the table, and Bitsy gasped when she saw a gun laying next to a bowl of chips.

  “When I became your assistant, I never knew I’d have to deal with anything more dangerous than a spatula,” Niki said. “Who would bring a gun to a bake-off?”

  “Did you touch it?” Bitsy asked.

  Niki nodded. “I didn’t know what was inside, so I reached in.”

  “No name on the bag?”

  “It’s just a regular paper lunch sack,” Niki said.

  “How about on the gun?”

  “I didn’t look close enough.”

  Bitsy thought out loud. “How long has the hospitality suite been open?”

  “It’s been open all night. I know for a fact that every contestant has been in here, some several times.”

  Bitsy rubbed her temples. She couldn’t believe that one of the women she’d just met would commit murder just to win.

  “Should we call the police?” Niki asked.

  “Yes. We’ll have to cancel the bake-off.”

  “The negative publicity will be devastating.”

  “I know. But there’s nothing—”

  Bitsy’s voice trailed off when her eyes locked on the gun. There was something unusual about it. She crept closer to get a better look.

  “This isn’t a regular gun,” she said. “Look at the writing on the side.”

  Niki came over and read the word engraved into the stock.

  “Starter pistol? What’s that?”

  “It’s used for races. It doesn’t fire real bullets. Only makes a loud noise.”

  As the words left Bitsy’s mouth, she smiled.

  “Call security. I know who the saboteur is.”

  Who is the saboteur, and how did Bitsy know?

  SOLUTION: Bitsy believed Holly Doolittle had brought the starter gun. A loud noise, especially at the high altitude in the Colorado Rockies, would cause flour-based cakes to collapse. Holly was making a cheesecake, which would be unharmed by the loud bang, ensuring a win. Holly had bragged about her plan to her next door neighbor, who placed the anonymous call to Bitsy.

  After I sold Piece of Cake, I figured I had a new market that would take everything I wrote. I was wrong. After buying my previous story, Woman’s World gonged this one. My hat’s off to Encyclopedia Brown, because this isn’t as easy as it looks.

  Only obscure knowledge will lead to a killer…

  The First Annual Spokane Zoologist Convention ended on a very sour note…a murder.

  To make matters even worse, no one knew who the dead man was.

  “I’m sure he’s a registered zoologist,” said the convention organizer, Dr. Myrna Simmons, who claimed she recognized the deceased from the day before. “I checked him in at the reception table. I remember searching for his name tag. But for the life of me. I can’t recall his name. The poor man.”

  The victim was a handsome forty-something male, wearing a blue suit and a red tie. His wallet was missing. A cheese knife pierced his back—it had apparently been taken from the hors d’oeuvres table. A napkin was wrapped around its handle, preventing the killer from leaving fingerprints.

  The body had been found lying face-first on the coatroom floor. One of the convention attendees had gone to hang up her jacket, and almost tripped over him. Immediately afterward, the police had been called, and the banquet hall sealed. No one was allowed to leave without permission from the authorities.

  Detective Robbie Walker personally checked the alibi of every person in attendance, and was left with four remaining suspects. During the course of his investigation, Walker cross-referenced the guest list and discovered that there was one person too many in the banquet hall. Walker deduced that this convention crasher was the murderer, and he’d taken the dead man’s name tag in an attempt to blend into the crowd and escape.

  None of the four suspects had any form of picture ID on them, and each was unable to confirm his identity.

  Walked needed to figure out who the imposter was.

  He approached the first man, an elderly fellow with a bushy white beard who claimed to be Dr. Jordan McDermott.

  “Dr. McDermott, what types of animals do you specialize in?”

  “I study the duck-billed platypus,” McDermott said, a bit too cheerfully considering the morbid circumstances. “Its fur is among the softest in the world. It lays eggs, and after they hatch it nurses its young. The male platypus is also poisonous. Quite an amazing animal.”

  Walker was skeptical. “Is all of that true?” he asked the others.

  They each shrugged.

  “Zoology has so many specialties,” said Dr. Apu Patel, a tall, thin man with penetrating brown eyes. “It’s impossible to know everything about everything.”

  “What do you specialize in, Dr. Patel?”

  “Elephants. They can smell water from three miles away. And an elephant is the only animal that cannot jump.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s true. Did you know that African elephants only have four teeth?”

  “I did not know that,” Walker admitted. It sounded very suspicious.

  “That’s nothing,” said Dr. Harry Reinsdorff, a fat man with thick, round glasses. “I’m a marine biologist, and I’m studying why sharks don’t get cancer. Did you know that sharks can smell a drop of blood in the water from five miles away? And besides the five senses humans have, they also have an extra sense called the Line of Lorenzo, which lets them detect electrical fields in the water.”

  Walker felt a headache coming on. He didn’t know if any of these outrageous facts were true or false.

  “How about you?” he asked Dr. Mark Kessler. “What do you specialize in?”

  “I unashamedly admit that I study cockroaches,” Kessler said. His bulging eyes and brown suit made him look sort of like a cockroach himself. “They’re really fascinating creatures. Their blood is white, not red. They can hold their breath underwater for more than ten minutes. And did you know a cockroach can li
ve up to two weeks with its head removed?”

  “Yuck,” Walker said. The other suspects echoed the sentiment.

  “Let’s go over your stories again. Dr. McDermott,” Walker said, turning to the platypus specialist, “Where were you when the body was discovered?”

  “In the bathroom,” McDermott said. “I wasn’t feeling very well. Too many libations last night. I tried a drink called a rusty nail. Vile stuff.”

  “How about you, Dr. Patel?” Walker asked the pachyderm professor.

  “I was on my cell phone, checking my voice mail. I’d gotten a message from the San Diego Zoo. Apparently one of their elephants has elephant pox.”

  “And you, Dr. Reinsdorff?”

  “I was also on the phone, confirming my reservation tonight at an expensive Japanese sushi restaurant that serves sea cucumbers. They can be poisonous, unless you remove the brain at the center.”

  Walker said, “Yuck,” again, and then asked, “How about you, Dr. Kessler?”

  “I’m afraid I was just staring out the window, doing nothing at all. I’m not a very sociable person.”

  Walker had no idea what to ask next, but fortunately Dr. Myrna Simmons, the convention organizer, came hurrying over.

  “Detective Walker! I’ve got that book you wanted.”

  She handed him a copy of The Complete Encyclopedia of Animals. Walker thanked her, excused himself, and went into the other room for some fact-checking.

  He returned ten minutes later, a broad grin on his face. With dramatic flourish, he pointed at one of the suspects.

  “I’ve discovered that you are lying. I’m afraid you’ll have to come downtown with me to answer some more questions.”

  Which of the suspects was lying?

  SOLUTION: The so-called shark expert. Walker discovered that sharks do in fact get cancer, that they can only smell blood in the water from a quarter mile away (not five miles), and that the sense that detects electricity is called the ampullae of Lorenzini, not the Line of Lorenzo. He also discovered that sea cucumbers don’t have brains, therefore their brains could not be poisonous, and the man must have been lying about his sushi restaurant reservations. Incredibly, all of the other facts strange animal facts were true. The imposter soon confessed that he had snuck into the convention and murdered Dr. Reinsdorff for having an affair with his wife.

  Another Amazon.com short, this one in response to the email spam we all get, seemingly all the time. I’ve remained undecided if the last page hurts the story or helps it, and I’ve cut the ending many times. Here it is uncut.

  When Conroy saw the message in his INBOX, he smiled.

  URGENT REPLY NEEDED!!!

  Allow me sir to introduce myself. My name is Dr. William Reingold, executor to the estate of Phillip Percy Jefferson III, former CEO of…

  According to the email, Dr. Reingold had 17 million dollars that he was required to distribute to Jefferson’s heirs, and a detailed genealogy search had turned up Conroy.

  Conroy considered his luck. Just last week, a diplomat from Nigeria had emailed him requesting assistance to help distribute 42 million dollars in charity funds, and a month prior he was contacted by an auditor general from Venezuela with 24 million in a secret arms account and a lawyer from India trying to locate the relatives of a billionaire who died in a tragic plane crash. He’d also recently become a finalist in the Acculotto International lottery in Madrid, which wanted to give him a share of a 30 million euro prize.

  Conroy hadn’t even bought a lottery ticket.

  “Wonderful thing, the Internet,” he mused.

  “Playing computer solitaire again?” Ryan, from the cubicle to his right, spoke over the flimsy partition.

  “Email. If I just give this fellow my bank account number, he’ll wire 9 million dollars into my account.”

  Ryan laughed. “Spam. I got that one too.”

  Conroy darkened. “Did you reply?”

  “Of course not. Who would reply to those things?”

  “Who indeed?” Conroy thought. Then he hunched over his keyboard.

  Dear Dr. Reingold, I’m very interested in discussing this with you further…

  The warehouse where Dr. Reingold had scheduled their meeting was located in Elk Grove Village, a forty minute drive from Conroy’s home in Elgin. The late hour troubled Conroy. Midnight. If Conroy hadn’t needed the money so badly, he never would have agreed to it. Insurance barely covered half of his mother’s nursing home costs, and since his layoff he’d only been able to find temp data entry work at nine dollars an hour—not even enough for one person to live on.

  Conroy pulled his BMW into the warehouse driveway, his stomach fluttering. This was an industrial section of town, the area deserted after hours. Conroy wondered how often the police patrolled the area.

  He switched on his interior light and reread the email he’d printed out.

  Park in front and enter the red door on the side of the building.

  Conroy stuffed the note into his jacket and peered at the warehouse. His headlights illuminated a sidewalk, which led to the building’s west side. A few seconds of fumbling through his jacket pocket produced a roll of antacids. He chewed four, the chalky taste clinging to the inside of his dry throat.

  “I don’t like this at all,” he whispered to himself.

  Then he killed the engine and got out of the car.

  The sidewalk was invisible in the dark, but Conroy moved slowly toward the warehouse until he felt it underfoot. He followed the perimeter of the building around the side, and saw a dim light above a red doorway, a hundred feet ahead.

  The walk seemed to take an eternity. When he finally put his hand on the cold knob, his knees were shaking.

  The door opened with a creak.

  “Hello?”

  Conroy peeked his head inside, almost crying out when he felt the steel barrel touch his temple.

  “Hello, Mr. Conroy.”

  He dared not turn his head, instead peering sideways to see the thin, rat-faced man with the .38. His light complexion was pocked with acne scars, and he wore too much aftershave. Standing behind him was another, larger man, holding a baseball bat.

  Conroy couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice when he said, “Where’s Dr. Reingold?”

  The man snickered, his laugh high-pitched and effeminate.

  “Idiot. I’m Dr. Reingold.”

  He didn’t look very much like a doctor at all.

  “You bring your bank account number?”

  “No, I—”

  Dr. Reingold grabbed Conroy by the ear and tugged him into the room, a small office lit with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  “I told you to bring that number! Can’t you follow instructions?”

  Conroy didn’t see the blow coming. One moment he was on two feet, the next he was flat on his back, his head vibrating with pain, his world completely dark.

  “I can’t find his wallet.”

  A different voice. Probably the big guy.

  “No wallet. No check book. What a loser.”

  A jingle of keys.

  “A Beemer. That’s worth a few grand. Wasn’t a total waste of time.”

  “In his email, he said he was rich.”

  “Could have been lying.” There was a cold laugh. “Internet is filled with liars.”

  A gun cocking, close to Conroy’s head.

  “So let’s waste him and—”

  “I have money,” Conroy croaked.

  He managed to open his eyes, unable to focus but sensing the two men staring down at him.

  Dr. Reingold nudged him with his foot. “What did you say, buddy?”

  “I have a coin collection. Worth over fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Where is it?”

  “At my house.”

  “Where’s your house?”

  “Please don’t kill me.”

  Dr. Reingold leaned down, scowling at Conroy. “I’ll do worse than kill you if you don’t tell me where your hou
se is.”

  Conroy cursed his own stupidity. He doubted he’d live through this.

  “In Elgin. It’s in a safe.”

  “Marty, find a pencil on that desk.”

  Conroy tried to touch his throbbing head, but Dr. Reingold kicked his hand away.

  “The safe combination is tricky. Even if I gave it to you, you probably couldn’t open in.”

  Dr. Reingold tapped the gun against his own cheek, apparently thinking.

  “You live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any dogs? Guns? Nasty surprises?”

  Conroy’s eyes teared up. “No.”

  Dr. Reingold grinned. “Well then, Mr. Conroy, let’s go see this coin collection of yours.”

  Conroy sat wedged between the two thugs. The big one, Marty, drove. Dr. Reingold kept the .38 pressed into Conroy’s ribs, hard enough to bruise.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen, Conroy thought. This should have ended in a bank account deposit, not in my death.

  He pictured his poor mother, who would be sent to a State nursing home if the checks stopped coming. Filthy living conditions. Nurses who stole jewelry and medication. Sexual abuse.

  Conroy pushed the images out of his mind, focusing on the problem at hand.

  “This it?” Marty asked.

  Dr. Reingold gave Conroy’s sore ribs a jab.

  “Next house, on the end.”

  “Nice neighborhood. Real quiet. Bet you can put the TV volume all the way up, neighbors don’t complain.”

  Conroy didn’t answer.

  Marty pulled the BMW into the driveway, parking next to the garage. Dr. Reingold tugged Conroy out of the car and shoved him up to the front door.

  “Move it. We gotta another sucker to meet later tonight.”

  Conroy’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely get his key into the lock. He took a deep breath before he turned the knob.

  “I’d better go in first,” he said, quickly pulling the door open. His house was dark, quiet.

  “Easy there, speedy.” Dr. Reingold had Conroy’s ear again. “You’re a little too eager to get inside. I think I’d better…”

  The bear trap closed around Dr. Reingold’s leg with a sound that was part clang, part squish. He screamed falsetto, dropping the gun and prying at the trap with both hands.