Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

Veronica sighed and drained her glass of cabernet. “Yes, Rupert, I remember you.”

  “My novel is a literary tour de force any agent would die for. I bet you’re glad I picked you.” He sipped a double whisky on the rocks.

  Veronica flagged a passing waiter. “A bottle of Chateau Montelena 2012 cabernet sauvignon, right away, please.”

  Rupert yelled, “Put it on my tab.” As he grinned at Veronica, tiny bits of dark nuts studded his teeth. “So,” Rupert leaned forward, squeezing her arm, “where should I send my manuscript?”

  Veronica recoiled. “Toss it in the incinerator.”

  “I thought you liked my thriller set in India.” He slumped back.

  “Puhleeze, the Ganges River is a slow-moving, shallow cesspool about as thrilling as a trip to a toxic waste dump.”

  Rupert’s face reddened, and he fled the ballroom. Veronica drank her wine in peace.

  After the banquet, she retired to her room and savored a hot bath. She was half-asleep in the tub when she heard the door to her room open and close. “Who’s there?”

  Moments later, someone entered the bathroom, plugged her laptop into the electrical outlet, switched it on, and tossed it into her bathwater.

  The next morning, Detective Lou Manly looked at the portly matron in the tub and sighed. “This mystery conference is turning out to be a murder fest,” he said to his partner. “It was supposed to be a conference for writers, not murderers.”

  “Three murders so far.” His partner pulled out his notebook. “I interviewed the president of the Florida chapter hosting the event. After the first murder, she found a website called PoeticJustice@AgentsWhoDeserveToDie.com, run by some guy called Freddy the Fixer. The dead agents are among those listed on the website.”

  “Get me a list of all the writers who posted complaints about them.”

  “They got hundreds of angry letters.”

  “Match them with the list of conference attendees.”

  “Already did. Only three matches.”

  “Great! Round ’em up. I’ll interview them individually in a small conference room.”

  After completing lengthy interviews with the three suspects, Lou stared at his notes. “They all have airtight alibis,” he said to his partner. “What are we missing?”

  A foul-smelling police officer blotted with garbage stains entered the room. “Detective Manly, I found this buried in the trash.” He held up a small crossbow. “Could have been used to fire that pen into the vic. It’s been wiped clean.”

  “Excellent work, Officer Santiago. Get this to the lab.” Lou turned to his partner. “I hope we’re dealing with a lone wolf.” Lou checked his watch. “The conference ends in two hours. Lock down the hotel. No one associated with the conference leaves.”

  Conference attendees were held in the ballroom.

  “I searched the rooms of Frieda Frobisher, Lily Whimple, and Rupert Finch,” Lou’s partner said. “Nothing.”

  “Each writer has an alibi for the murder of the agent who rejected them,” Lou said.

  “Yeah, but not for the other agents.”

  “No reason to murder agents they didn’t know.” Lou shook his head. “I have to release them.”

  When Frieda, Lily, and Rupert checked out, they had one identical room charge: a pay-per-view fee for Hitchcock’s classic movie, Strangers on a Train.

  Surprised Delivery

  D.M. Littlefield

  Ralph, the seventeen-year-old delivery boy, stomped through the Pizza Palace’s back door with a bloody handkerchief to his nose and his clothes splotched with red. “This is a dangerous job. I’m not sure I want to do this anymore.”

  His boss, Enzo, glanced at him while taking a pizza out of the oven. He did a double-take and wiped the sweat off his swarthy face with his apron. “What happened to you?”

  Ralph heaved a sigh and leaned against the counter. “My first delivery was Mrs. Harris, and her twin brats had their squirt guns filled with red Kool-Aid. They nailed me. On my next delivery, Mrs. Bank’s terrier jumped up and bit my butt.” He turned around and looked down over his shoulder. “Did he take a chunk out of my jeans?”

  Enzo shook his head and lit a cigarette.

  “I just came from the Lopez house. Mrs. Lopez answered the door in a sheer negligee. I couldn’t help staring at her, so her husband punched me in the nose. I ain’t ever going back there again. I took this job to save up for a car, but it looks like I won’t live long enough to buy one.”

  “Kid, everybody has bad days. Working in a hot kitchen is no picnic either. At least you get to enjoy cool air while driving all over town in my new delivery car. You think you’ve got it bad? When I owned a big pizza place in Chicago, I had to pay protection money to the mob. I grabbed the first offer I got, sold it, and moved fifty miles down here to our quiet little town of Dumpling Falls.”

  Enzo exhaled smoke. “I’ll call Mr. Lopez and tell him we won’t deliver his pizzas anymore. Don’t quit. Start defending yourself. Get a squirt gun and shoot back at the brats and dogs.”

  Ralph wiped the remnants of blood off his face and sighed.

  Enzo checked his list. “You have one more delivery tonight—the last living relative of our town’s founder.”

  “Oh, you mean Tillie Sparks.”

  “Yeah, she said she left the kitchen door unlocked and to come right in. She can’t hear you knock with her television on full blast. Try to relax on the long drive, okay?”

  Ralph ran his hand through his red hair and moaned.

  “Okay, give me her pizza.”

  Enzo checked his watch. “By the time you get there, Dancing with the Stars will be on. Wait for a commercial before you talk to her. She’s a fanatic about that show and won’t want to be interrupted.”

  On the drive over, Ralph thought about how much he liked the feisty old lady, the town celebrity. Even in her nineties, she was sharp and tipped well. Her fat male bulldogs, Starsky and Hutch, named after an old TV detective show, were her constant companions. He thought they should have been named Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber.

  In Tillie’s driveway, Ralph parked behind a beat-up Toyota Corolla he’d never seen before. When he got out, he noticed a man entering Tillie’s kitchen. Who was he? Ralph went in and closed the door. The stranger spun around and pointed a gun at him.

  Ralph froze.

  The dogs barked.

  “Take the money from my purse!” Tillie shouted over the blaring television and woofing. “It’s on the counter. Bring the pizza in here.”

  The gunman, a stocky man with olive skin and dark hair, pressed his finger to his lips and scanned the room. He spotted the purse on the opposite counter.

  Transfixed, Ralph watched the stranger, who was so focused on the prize he was oblivious to the pool of water on the linoleum floor around the dogs’ water dish. His feet flew up in the air when he slipped, and he landed on his back. His right elbow slammed the floor, which triggered his gun with a deafening bang. The bullet ricocheted off the stove’s steel hood and struck the man in the forehead. Dead.

  “Ralphie? What happened?” Tillie yelled.

  Ralph was rendered speechless as blood pooled around the motionless man on the floor.

  The dogs bolted in and sniffed the body but soon turned their noses up to the pizza box in Ralph’s hand.

  Tillie hobbled in, wearing pink plastic curlers and fuzzy bunny slippers with part of their ears chewed off. She glanced at Ralph and poked the body with her cane. “Who’s the dead guy?”

  His lower lip quivered. “I ... don’t know. I ... I ... thought you knew him.”

  “Nope.” Tillie glanced at her watch. “Bring the pizza in by the TV. The commercial’s almost over.”

  “Wait! Aren’t you going to call the police?”

  “He’s not going anywhere. I don’t want to miss Dancing with the Stars. I’ll call when it’s over.”

  Before Ralph could respond, two thugs burst in with guns drawn. Ralph leaped over the body to Till
ie, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Hands up!” the taller man yelled.

  Ralph dropped the pizza box and raised his hands. The dogs tore it open and started devouring the pizza.

  Tillie looked down in disgust. “There goes my dinner.” She glared at the intruders. “This is your fault.”

  “Hands above your head, ya old biddy!” the other man shouted.

  “That would be a miracle. I’m ninety-four. I haven’t been able to raise my hands that high since I was eighty-five.”

  He shook his head and reached for the gun next to the body. “So who knocked off Eddie da Mooch?”

  “Not me. I was watching my favorite TV show,” Tillie said.

  The goons glared at Ralph, who was teetering on shaky legs.

  “Don’t look at him. He just got here.” Tillie glanced at her watch again. “Can we wrap this up? Maks is dancing next. He’s my favorite.”

  The taller man scowled. “We had a contract for the hit on Eddie, so we’re takin’ the credit.” He turned to his partner. “Vito, take Eddie’s picture. The boss’ll want proof.”

  Vito squatted for a good angle. “The damn dogs are in the background.”

  Tillie stamped her cane. “I don’t allow swearing in my home!”

  The tall thug rolled his eyes. “Just take the shot from the other side,” he said, waving his gun in front of Tillie and Ralph. Ralph trembled as he stared at the gun. He felt a warm liquid trickling down his pant leg and glanced down, hoping he hadn’t lost control. A dog was lifting his rear leg toward him with a satisfied look. Ralph grimaced and closed his eyes.

  Vito stood next to the body and focused the camera phone on the dead man’s face. He hesitated and sniffed. “What the...?”

  His partner stepped away from the dog and the boy. “Geez, Vito, take the damn picture. Let’s get the hell outta here!”

  Tillie stamped her cane again. “I said no swearing!”

  He waved her aside with his gun. “Go watch yer stupid show already.”

  Later, the coroner’s van and two police cars parked at Tillie’s house. She sat on the sofa with her dogs while a deputy questioned her. Ralph leaned against the wall, staring into space and mumbling.

  The deputy spoke on his cell phone. “Sheriff, a pizza delivery driver noticed a body on his customer’s kitchen floor and asked her to call us. Yes, sir, Tillie Sparks. She admits she waited until her TV show was over. She claims two mafia guys armed with handguns made the hit and came back to take his picture for proof.”

  One of the dogs jumped off the couch and trotted over to Ralph. The dog sniffed Ralph’s pants, lifted his leg, and covered the other dog’s scent in fresh pee. He took one more sniff before prancing back to the couch with his head held high. “Yes, Sheriff, Mrs. Sparks is fine.” The detective smiled at Tillie as he held the cell phone to his ear. “The pizza delivery guy? Hang on, I’ll ask.”

  The detective walked over to Ralph. “Hey, kid, you all right?”

  Ralph sucked in his breath and yelled, “I hate my job!” His shoes squished as he stomped out.

  The Golden Years

  D.M. Littlefield

  Ray and Abby Morris finished their waltz and sat next to each other, facing the dance floor at the Senior Center. With their walkers handy, some of their friends enjoyed refreshments at tables as they watched the dancers swing and sway to the big-band music of the 1940s.

  Ray knew Abby loved to dance and considered it good exercise. Although he felt golf was enough of a workout for him, he liked dancing because the music brought back memories of when they were young, and it eased them into a romantic mood. Now in his late seventies, Ray’s aches and pains diminished amorous thoughts. No matter the mood, his chances were slim until he tried the magic sex pill his buddies bragged about. Now he was frowning less and smiling more.

  Abby’s response surprised him. She no longer stayed up until the wee hours of the morning watching classic movies. As soon as he said he was ready for bed, she was too, and she began flaunting sexy nightgowns. Ah, yes, life was good again.

  Ray smiled, anticipating the evening’s romantic climax after they arrived home. A frown quickly replaced his smile. Damn! I forgot to refill my sex prescription.

  He felt Abby’s hand on his thigh but stared straight ahead as he nudged it aside.

  She grabbed his thigh again, clutching it in earnest with pleading eyes. “Ray, I need you ...,” she whispered.

  Red faced, he tried to push her hand away. “Abby, please control yourself. You’re embarrassing me in front of all these people.”

  She glared at him. “Is sex all you think about? I need help. I’m feeling dizzy, and I don’t want to fall off the chair!”

  Sky Gods

  S.L. Menear

  A month after my twenty-first birthday, I began a career as a Pan American World Airways flight attendant based at JFK International Airport in New York City. I flew to eighty-eight countries spanning the globe.

  Those were the glory days of the airline industry, and Pan Am was the premier international carrier. Their pilots were revered as sky gods, and their stewardesses were treated like movie stars. People stopped me on the street and asked me for my autograph—no idea why. We cooked gourmet food to order in first class and served baked Alaska flaming. Heads of state, Hollywood legends, and international tycoons were frequent passengers.

  My flight attendant career began long before the existence of the Internet, debit cards, and smart phones. Pan Am’s hiring standards for pilots and cabin crew were the most stringent in the industry. All the pilots had military backgrounds, and many were former U.S. Navy because Pan Am’s first aircraft were amphibious flying boats. Those were long before my time. All Pan Am flight attendants were required to speak at least two languages, but three or more languages were preferred. Consequently, many more Europeans were hired than Americans. Back then there was no such thing as fairness or political correctness. All cabin crew had to meet strict appearance standards and weight limits. White gloves, makeup, and nail polish were mandatory as were nylons and heel heights on uniform shoes. Flight attendants had to pass weight and appearance checks before every flight sequence.

  Trainees had to pass an extensive course that included far more than pointing out the location of emergency exits and serving food and beverages. We had to memorize a world map and then fill out a blank map with the names of every country and all the cities Pan Am served in their proper locations.

  Coach passengers purchased alcoholic beverages, rented headsets for music and movies, and paid for them with cash from any country, so we had to learn the currency and exchange rates for all eighty-eight countries in our route system. The bartending course covered all mixed drinks, premium beers, lagers, and extensive knowledge of the best wines and how to serve them properly.

  The biggest challenge was learning how to cook gourmet foods in blower ovens. Rack of lamb, roast beef, filet mignon, filet of sole, chicken cordon bleu, and Cornish game hens were a few of the many foods on the menus. Eggs to order for first-class breakfasts were the most difficult to prepare. They too had to be cooked in blower ovens. If eggs were left in the ovens a moment too long, they turned a grayish green color that was quite repulsive looking.

  We had to learn the customs of many countries to avoid giving offense, as well as how to address their heads of state, and how to recognize all the various military insignias from around the world. We were also required to dress appropriately for whatever country we stayed in during our layovers. Pan Am flight attendants were expected to be above reproach and represent our employer positively at all times.

  We also received extensive medical training as well as training for a variety of aircraft emergencies, including bombs, inflight fires, crashes, water landings, and dealing with hijackers and terrorists.

  I didn’t mention everything taught in the training school, but suffice it to say it wasn’t an easy course, and many trainees failed and were sent home.

  After passing
the new-hire course, my travels with Pan Am included many exciting adventures most people experienced vicariously in books or movies.

  In a country full of brunettes, my blond hair helped save me while shopping in the bazaar in Tehran, back before the Shah was deposed, when rebel factions opened fire with automatic weapons. A shop owner herded me and two blond friends into a back room, down a stairway, and into a dark escape tunnel. He ushered us to safety under the glow of an oil lantern. The other shoppers had to fend for themselves.

  In 1972, our crew overnighted at the Intercontinental Hotel in Managua, Nicaragua where Howard Hughes resided in the penthouse suite. That night, a major earthquake destroyed almost every building in the city, except our pyramid-shaped hotel.

  HH flew out in his private jet before the aftershocks ruined all the runways and trapped our Boeing. The sky gods drove us south out of the burning city to the international airport in San José, Costa Rica. We thanked God for our sky gods.

  Throughout my Pan Am career, I endured many earthquakes, rebellions complete with bombs and bullets, KGB agents following me, lots of crazy people, and famed international criminals on my flights. Way too many adventures to mention here.

  I helped with the evacuation of Saigon during the final days of the Vietnam War. The Pan Am cabin crew carried Department of Defense cards with military officer ranks in case we were taken prisoner. The pilots retained their commissions as former flight officers in the U.S. military.

  The evacuation flights were chaotic and tension filled with mobs of people crowded into every open space in the cabin, including sitting in the aisles and beside the doors. Safety rules were ignored during the extreme emergency, all of which could’ve been avoided if the populace had heeded the warnings and left a week or two earlier. Our huge B747 was in danger of being targeted by an enemy missile as we struggled into the sky with our heavy load of human cargo.