Homicidal Holidays Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  THE CHESAPEAKE CRIMES SERIES

  INTRODUCTION, by Rhys Bowen

  GROUNDHOG DAY

  THE SHADOW KNOWS, by Barb Goffman

  VALENTINE’S DAY

  SEEING RED, by Rosemary and Larry Mild

  PRESIDENTS’ DAY

  COMPROMISED CIRCUMSTANCES, by E. B. Davis

  ST. PATRICK’S DAY

  I WILL SURVIVE, by Shaun Taylor Bevins

  TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY

  DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES, by Cathy Wiley

  HALLOWEEN

  PREMONITION, by Art Taylor

  DISCO DONNA, by Shari Randall

  MONSTER PARTY, by Meg Opperman

  SHADOW BOXER, by Carla Coupe

  LAST RITES, by Timothy Bentler-Jungr

  CHRISTMAS

  HOPPY HOLIDAYS, by Linda Lombardi

  JASMINE, by Debbi Mack

  SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE, by Clyde Linsley

  A CHRISTMAS TRIFLE, by Donna Andrews

  ABOUT THE EDITORIAL PANEL AND COORDINATING EDITORS

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Collection copyright © 2014 by

  Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime.

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  Copyright © of each individual story is held by the author.

  Original cover photo copyright © 2014 by Robin Templeton.

  Cover design copyright © 2014 by Stacey Logan.

  All rights reserved.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

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  This edition is published in 2014 by Wildside Press, LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  *

  Coordinating Editors

  Donna Andrews

  Barb Goffman

  Marcia Talley

  Editorial Panel

  Christina Freeburn

  John Gilstrap

  Alan Orloff

  THE CHESAPEAKE CRIMES SERIES

  Chesapeake Crimes

  Chesapeake Crimes 2

  Chesapeake Crimes 3

  Chesapeake Crimes: They Had It Comin’

  Chesapeake Crimes: This Job is Murder

  INTRODUCTION, by Rhys Bowen

  One thing I’ve learned during a long career as a writer is that a good short story is one of the hardest things to write. To capture mood, character, tension, and a satisfying climax in a few pages requires more skill than having the luxury of a novel to get things right. That’s why I’m so impressed that the writers of Chesapeake Crimes seem to deliver quality work in anthology after anthology.

  This one is especially fun as the theme is holidays. And who hasn’t wanted to commit a murder at a family holiday celebration?

  Not surprisingly the favorite holiday for this anthology is Halloween, followed closely by Christmas. But if you’re expecting traditional pudding or trick and treat, you’re in for a pleasant surprise. So many of these stories come with new approaches to the holiday theme, like Clyde Linsley’s wickedly clever “Sauce for the Goose,” or Carla Coupe’s masterful twists in “Shadow Boxer.”

  Some are pure fun like Barb Goffman’s opening story for Groundhog Day and Donna Andrews’s zany Christmas story involving her beloved heroine Meg Langslow and her impossible family. The mood can also be unsettling as in Art Taylor’s “Premonition” and Timothy Bentler-Jungr’s poignant “Last Rites.” And let’s not forget less well known holidays like Talk Like a Pirate Day and Cathy Wiley’s “Dead Men Tell No Tales.”

  Have fun with this whole year of holiday stories. I certainly did!

  GROUNDHOG DAY

  THE SHADOW KNOWS, by Barb Goffman

  “Good Lord, Gus, what’s got you so down on this beautiful Saturday morning?”

  I nearly spit out my coffee onto the diner’s Formica counter. “Beautiful? Says who?”

  Sally pointed to the picture window by the front booths. Another foot of snow had fallen overnight, weighing down the tree limbs and power lines. I’d almost frozen solid as I cleared my driveway an hour before. Nothing good about any of that.

  “Don’t tell me you can’t appreciate the splendor out there, Gus,” Sally said as she grabbed the pot off the coffee maker behind the counter and refilled my chipped mug. “The way the snow is sparkling in the sunlight. It’s so bright and fresh. Makes you glad to be alive.”

  Hmph. “You maybe.” I reached for the pepper to spice up my scrambled eggs, and I knocked over the salt. Darn it. I quickly threw a pinch of salt over my left shoulder to ward off bad luck.

  The bell over the front door jangled as my pal Bobby came in, stamping the snow off his boots. “Good morning, everyone. Happy Groundhog Day!”

  The rest of the customers nodded and returned Bobby’s greetings, and Sally smiled at him as he took the stool next to mine. Why was everyone always so doggone cheerful on this blasted day?

  “Usual?” she asked as Bobby unzipped his jacket.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He clapped my back and grinned at me. “Happy Groundhog Day, Gus.”

  I glared his way. Bobby loved needling me. He knew how I felt about Groundhog Day and especially our resident groundhog, Missisquoi Moe. That damn woodchuck was surely in cahoots with the devil, causing our town to suffer through horrible winters every year.

  “Moe saw his shadow this morning. Six more weeks of winter,” Bobby sing-songed.

  “Yeah, I heard.” I cursed under my breath. “I had been hoping for an early spring, for once.”

  Most groundhogs don’t actually control the weather, but here in Missisquoi, ours were different. When I was a kid, every few years we had an early spring. Not anymore. We got our first town groundhog forty-plus years ago and practically every darn year since, he’d predicted a long winter. The prediction always came true. Always. That’s how I knew our groundhogs had special powers. If our town selectmen were pulling the strings like in other places, the predictions would have been wrong at least some of the time. But Moe and his ancestors were dead on year after year after year.

  Spooky, if you ask me.

  Sally set Bobby’s pancakes with extra maple syrup down in front of him. “Is that what’s bothering you, Gus?” She pushed a lock of her wavy gray hair back into her bun. “What did you expect? This is northern Vermont, for heaven’s sake.”

  I swallowed a bite of bacon. “I expect Moe to get with the program. The news keeps talking about that global warming. Well, it’s high time a bit of that warming came here, don’t you think?”

  Bobby laughed. “Maybe you should pay Moe a visit and discuss it with him. I’m sure it would make all the difference.” He winked at Sally, and then she chuckled, too.

  I sipped my coffee, thinking. Bobby was right. If I wanted our weather to change, I needed to do something to make it happen. Sitting on my rump hadn’t been working. And I needed to do it soon, before Moe met some female groundhog and starting adding little ones to the ancient family line.

  Yep. I should have thought of it before. I needed to get rid of that groundhog.

  * * * *

  In late May the last of the year’s snow finally melted—darn groundhog—and I was ready to put my plan into action. I’d spent the previous few months studying the big wildlife sanctuary a few miles from my house where Moe lived. I cased the joint, tracking the pesky rodent’s schedule and plotting the best way to get at him unobserved.

  The sanctuary kept Moe in an enormous chain-link pen on th
e edge of the woods. Bushes, branches, and scatterings of hay covered the ground inside. During the spring and summer, Moe was active most days in the mid-morning and late afternoon, scurrying about. But in the early afternoon, he spent his time sleeping in his burrow or lying in the hay, soaking up the sun. That, I decided, was the time to grab him. His cage’s gate had a latch that I could easily open. I just had to wait until no one else was around.

  Easy peasy.

  I should never have thought that, of course. Never tempt fate. Every time I went to the sanctuary, animal keepers or nature lovers or both were milling about. I’d hang by Moe’s cage, watching, waiting for my moment. Time and time again, the coast would appear clear, but just as I prepared to dash in and grab the critter, someone would come by. I had so many close calls, it was a miracle I hadn’t developed an ulcer. I couldn’t linger near the damn pen all the time, of course, or people would grow suspicious, so I wasted a lot of my days off wandering around the whole sanctuary, pretending to be interested in all the animals.

  When August loomed, I realized I needed to revise my plan. When would no one be there? On a rainy day. But not just any rainy day. Some granola types might enjoy hiking around in a light rain. I had to wait for a real downpour. As if the devil was trying to stop me, a drought set in about then. But I wouldn’t give up. I bought a rabbit’s foot for good luck and waited. It had to rain eventually.

  And it did. The morning of my birthday, August 22nd, I awoke to thunder and lightning. Wind whipped against the clapboard siding, and sheets of rain sluiced down the windows of my house. Yes! I called in sick, then drove to a grocery store outside of town where no one knew me. I bought bread, lunchmeats, and corn chips for myself and a couple of apples, a few carrots, and a head of lettuce for Moe. I didn’t normally keep that healthy stuff in the house, but I’d read that groundhogs like ’em. I headed home and sliced up the apples and carrots and ripped the lettuce into small pieces. I put the food in plastic bags and tucked them inside a knapsack. Then I went to the closet, removed the eighteen-inch cage I’d ordered months before from some outfit on Amazon, and stowed it in my truck. All ready to go, except it wasn’t time yet. Back in the house I went, spending hours flipping through TV channels, waiting for early afternoon to come, when Moe would be most vulnerable. Finally after lunch, when I could barely stand to wait another minute, I pulled on my boots, shouldered my knapsack, and slipped a rubbery blue rain poncho over my head. I felt calm as I drove toward the sanctuary, knowing that victory soon would be mine.

  I parked my truck behind a large berm at the edge of the woods, about fifty yards from the sanctuary entrance. No one would spot it there. Then I flipped the poncho’s hood over my head, tucked the cage under my arm, and started sloshing through the muddy woods, keeping the trail to Moe’s pen in sight.

  The walk had never seemed so long before. The rain kept pounding me, and the wind was ripping leaves off the trees, sending them sailing right at my face, kamikaze style. I shook my head and blinked repeatedly. Not only was water cascading off the poncho, it was dripping from my eyelashes and nose. I kept marching, all the while trying to shake the water off, just like a dog.

  Suddenly my boot smacked hard against something, and I began to flail. As I pitched forward, the cage flew from my hands. I hit the ground hard, my right knee and wrist bearing the brunt of the fall. Son of a bitch. That hurt. I lay there for a minute in the soggy leaves, trying to catch my breath and cursing the groundhog while the rain continued to pour. For a second I thought about quitting, but no, I wasn’t going to give up. Instead I took a deep breath, shakily stood, and continued on my quest.

  I found the cage a few yards away. Its door was busted. Gosh darn it. Now I’d have to catch the groundhog with my bare hands. I kicked the cage and nearly screamed from the pain that shot through my big toe. I leaned over, hands on my knees, panting hard.

  When I got a hold of that groundhog, I’d wring its furry neck.

  After a minute or two, I headed off again, limping. When I finally neared Moe’s pen, I was soaked to the skin, and had half a mind to send a nasty letter to the poncho company. But first things first. I paused and peered around. The area was deserted. Thank God. I hobbled over to the cage, lifted the latch, and shuffled inside. That’s when I spotted another flaw in my plan. On sunny days, Moe liked to lie out on the hay, which would have made him easy to catch, but now, I couldn’t spot him at all.

  “Here, Moe,” I called.

  No response. That bastard rodent was hiding from me.

  I started limping around the enclosure, rustling the shrubs and hay, trying to flush Moe out. At the entrance to his burrow, I laid out the apple and carrot slices like a trail, hoping they’d entice him if he was in there. Then I stood out of sight and waited.

  And waited and waited. Any second now, someone from the sanctuary could be coming by, and my plan would be ruined. C’mon, you rat bastard. Come out. I hunched down behind a bush, hoping it would work as camouflage, but after a few minutes, I had to stand up. My right knee ached too much to crouch like that for long.

  So I began pacing. Why wasn’t Moe taking the bait? I stared at the burrow, sending mental messages to Moe, willing him to come out, when suddenly—oh, crap, now of all times—I had to pee. Had to. I hurried over to a corner of the enclosure, unzipped my jeans, and began to relieve myself.

  That was the moment, of course, when Moe crept from his burrow and began eating the carrots. Son of a bitch. Normally I could stop midstream, but not today. So I stood there, helpless, while my body did its thing and Moe ate and the rain continued to come down as if a dam had broken. The seconds felt like hours. Finally I finished, zipped up, and dashed for Moe, but he saw me coming, natch, and scurried off. Afraid he’d scamper into his burrow again, I yanked off my useless poncho and stuffed it in the opening. Then I chased Moe around his cage for a good three minutes. I came close to catching him a few times, but he always eluded me, with—I could swear—a glint in his eye.

  Ultimately, in an act of desperation, I threw myself at him, like a football player making a tackle. Mud and hay flew up, practically blinding me, while Moe thrashed beneath me, desperate to escape. I grabbed his coarse brown fur and wrenched him to my chest. I’d got him!

  The smile that began to creep across my face was instantly erased when a whistle so deafening it could have awakened the dead erupted from that animal. Clutching Moe tight, I held him at arm’s length hoping to save my hearing should he decide to scream again. That was when he started kicking. I tried to hold him off, but soon he connected, scratching my cheek, drawing blood. Damn, his feet had sharp claws.

  Instinctively, I touched my hand to my cheek, and the beast bit me! Dear God, I thought he’d taken a chunk out of my neck. I would have punched him, but that would have given him the chance to escape. Instead I stumbled over to my knapsack and stuffed him in. I zipped it up almost all the way, leaving just an inch or so open so he could breathe. I stopped a second, catching my own breath, and surveyed the pen. Hay and pieces of carrots, lettuce, and apples were strewn all about. Clear signs that a struggle had occurred. I shook my head. This had all seemed so simple when I’d planned it.

  Then Moe began to screech again. How could such a loud sound come out of such a small animal? Begging him to shut up, I slipped the knapsack on, arranging the pack over my chest so I could be sure Moe wouldn’t jump out. Then I grabbed my poncho, limped out of the pen, wiped my fingerprints off the latch, and headed back to the woods, my toe throbbing and knee aching with every step.

  Finally, after the longest, wettest walk of my life, I made it back to my truck. I tossed the knapsack and poncho onto the passenger seat, threw the truck into gear, and hightailed it out of there. I was so wet and cold and pissed off that I had to fight the urge to floor the accelerator. Moe kept squirming inside my knapsack, hissing, making the bag jump, as if it were possessed. I felt stupid doing it, but I leaned over, found the end of the seatbelt, and strapped the bag in. Then I turned
on the radio loud to drown Moe out. Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” was playing. Perfect. I wasn’t planning to kill Moe. That surely would bring bad luck. But I didn’t mind putting the fear of God in him.

  I headed out to the far side of the county, down quiet country roads, over two covered bridges, passing faded barns and houses even older than the century-old one I lived in. I intended to dump Moe in some isolated field far enough away from the sanctuary that he couldn’t find his way back. I didn’t know if groundhogs had a homing instinct, like pigeons, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  After driving for half an hour, I figured I’d gone far enough. I pulled over to the side of the road, turned down the radio, and grabbed the knapsack. In the sudden quiet, the thwack thwack thwack of the windshield wipers seemed awful loud. I set the pack against the steering wheel, aiming to open it far enough from my face so the bugger wouldn’t be able to get another swipe at me. I unzipped the bag tentatively. My face still stung from the last time he got at me.

  To my surprise, Moe didn’t try to jump out. He was wiggling, so I knew he hadn’t suffocated. I risked leaning closer. Moe sat quietly, nose and whiskers twitching, eyes wide, watching me. I hadn’t noticed before how small his ears were, lying so close to his head. Couldn’t believe I was even thinking it, but Moe was actually kind of cute.

  Then I started worrying. What if he couldn’t fend for himself out there in the wild? He was used to being fed at the sanctuary. If I set him free and he died, that definitely would bring a world of bad luck down on me. I sat there a while, with the rain pounding and the wipers thwacking and Moe’s black nose twitching. I couldn’t chance it. I couldn’t let him go.

  I had to take Moe home.

  I drove back to my house and brought him inside. Having left the busted trapper cage in the woods, I decided to leave Moe in the cellar while I went out to buy a new cage. After I closed the door carefully behind me, I washed the mud off my hands, face, neck, and arms, put peroxide on my scratches and bandaged them, and then changed into dry clothes. I felt like a new man.