Chesapeake Crimes Read online

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 2012 by the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime.

  The copyright to each individual story is held by the author.

  Original cover photo copyright © 2012 by Robin Templeton.

  Cover design copyright © 2012 by Stacey Logan.

  All rights reserved.

  Editorial Panel:

  Ellen Crosby, Sandra Parshall, and Daniel Stashower.

  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.

  This edition is published in 2012 by Wildside Press, LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  FOREWORD, by Elaine Viets

  Ever feel like killing your boss?

  Me, too.

  I write the Dead-End Job mysteries, and I know working for a living is murder. Fortunately, I can take out my job-related frustrations by killing people—on paper. I never counted how many I’ve murdered in my eleven-book crime spree, but most had it coming.

  Fiction is my refuge when a job is bleak. And it’s not just my superior who gives me the urge to kill. My fingers have itched to strangle a co-worker. I’ve wanted to leap across the counter to clock a customer. I’ve murdered maddening colleagues, executed overbearing executives, and annihilated annoying customers in my mind. There’s no blood on my hands. No jail time, either. But lots of job satisfaction.

  If you’ve had those same feelings, I promise you’ll enjoy This Job Is Murder, the latest collection of short stories in the Chesapeake Crimes series.

  The other Chesapeake Chapter Sisters in Crime anthologies have launched careers and showcased award-winning crime fiction writers. I’m predicting the fifth addition in the series will continue that literary tradition.

  I like this anthology. I’ve read every story in This Job Is Murder, and there isn’t a dud in the bunch. How do you like your murder: Hard-boiled? Warm and cozy? Fast and funny? Dark and brooding? You’ll find it here. My Chesapeake Chapter brothers and sisters in crime have worked wonders with your favorite mystery subgenres.

  David Autry turns in a fast-paced thriller with “Deadrise.” Harriette Sackler delivers a historical tale of revenge with a twist. “Mean Girls,” Donna Andrews’s take on office politics, makes you feel the helpless rage of a hardworking woman forced to work with bootlickers. Cathy Wiley’s meeting planner discovers a body that was definitely not on the agenda in “Miked for Murder.”

  Bosses, good and bad, abound. Ever worked for someone who acted as if he was God? Then you’ll appreciate Barb Goffman’s tale of a man on a heavenly mission. Karen Cantwell doles out the death penalty to a spouse-stealing boss.

  In This Job Is Murder, even ivory towers are not safe from mayhem. Fans of academic mysteries will enjoy a double dose: “To Adjuncts Everywhere” by Ellen Herbert and Smita Harish Jain’s “An Education in Murder.”

  E. B. Davis takes a shot at delivering justice to husbands addicted to the wild life.

  And those dream jobs? Some of them turn out to be nightmares. If you have any doubts, read “Keep It Simple” by Shari Randall and “When Duty Calls” by Art Taylor. C. Ellett Logan writes about the chef who cooks up creepy critters. Jill Breslau tells us about a mediator in a lose-lose situation. And Leone Ciporin gives us “A Grain of Truth.”

  Working for a living is murder. So is losing your job. Some experts say when a company sacks lots of staff, the survivors aren’t lucky. They’ll have to do the work of their fired colleagues with less money and fewer resources. They’ll work twice as hard to keep those coveted jobs. Their golden handcuffs will turn to lead. And soon they’ll feel the urge to kill. The same way you do.

  But you need to relax after a hard day. Fix your favorite drink and curl up with this killer collection of short stories. Let This Job Is Murder work for you.

  Elaine Viets writes two national bestselling mystery series. Her critically acclaimed Dead-End Job series is a satiric look at a serious subject—the minimum-wage world. Her Fort Lauderdale character, Helen Hawthorne, works a different low-paying job each book. Final Sail, her eleventh Dead-End Job mystery, is set aboard a luxury yacht where Helen Hawthorne works as a stewardess. It debuts in May 2012 as a hardcover and an ebook. Elaine’s second series features St. Louis mystery shopper Josie Marcus. Death on a Platter is the seventh novel. Elaine hosts a weekly half-hour talk show, the “Dead-End Jobs Show,” interviewing people about the extraordinary secrets of ordinary jobs, on Radio Ear Network (radioearnetwork.com). She has won the Agatha, Anthony, and Lefty awards.

  KEEP IT SIMPLE, by Shari Randall

  “Well, happy birthday to me,” Serena muttered as she pulled into the parking lot of the Dutch Maid Motor Inn. It was her thirty-fifth birthday, but given her current surroundings, it wasn’t going to be her best one.

  She cut the headlights and drove slowly to the rear of the shabby, one-story building. In a few months the lot would be jammed with the minivans and compact cars of budget travelers eager to hit nearby Mistucket Beach. But it was off season now, and just a smattering of old sedans and pickup trucks sat in the near-empty lot. Oh yeah, you blend, she thought, staring at the special edition Jag she’d followed into the lot. It stood out from these sullen old cars like a Vegas showgirl at a church picnic.

  Serena chewed her bottom lip and scanned the building. A few moments later light outlined a flimsy curtain in a ground-floor unit. She sighed and reached for a cigarette. A decrepit Volvo and a slow-moving police cruiser had gotten between her and the Jag. She’d seen her targets pull into the motel but missed them walking from the car into the building. She’d have to see what opportunities the window offered.

  Serena climbed out of her BMW, pulled a black canvas bag from the back seat, and cautiously circled the Jag. She scurried behind a Dumpster, crouched, and deftly assembled her equipment by the erratic light of the neighboring restaurant, its Waffles 24 Hours sign winking like a lecherous old man.

  The curtains to room 112 jerked open. Serena froze. Just twenty feet and a sheet of dirty floor-to-ceiling glass separated her from her targets. Jeez, they must get a thrill out of doing it with the curtains open, Serena thought. Well, it makes the job a piece of cake.

  Cheesecake, she amended, expertly focusing a tiny video camera on the zaftig blonde in the motel room.

  Serena panned the interior of room 112. “Yup, I’m the Cecil B. DeMille of adultery,” she muttered around a smoldering Marlboro, capturing head shots as she had been taught. Establishing identity was the most important thing, her boss, Morty Acerman, said; otherwise it could be any two (or three or four) wandering spouses in there, see? And you need to get the Act Itself, also known as Zero Deniability in Morty-speak.

  In the year she had worked for Morty, Serena had learned that it was the details rather than the Act Itself that steamed the spouses who hired Acerman Security to follow their wandering mates. When the husband dropped big money on jewelry and trips and flowers for the Other Woman, that’s what got them mad. Morty said that he hadn’t met the wife in this case but figured she had money; she had sent a hefty retainer through an intermediary.

  Serena considered enlivening things with a shot of the voluptuous moon wrapped in a gauzy stole of clouds (traditional romantic imagery juxtaposed with the tawdry reality of the squat cinderblock love nest—once a film major, always a film major), but she came to her senses. Morty had warned her more than once about getting artsy. Keep it simple was Morty’s mantra. She appreciated that he left out the �
��stupid” for her. At least lighting wouldn’t be a problem. Every lamp in the room was burning; even the television was on. You guys are making this too easy, Serena thought. Amateurs.

  They were both pretty new to the adultery thing, in her opinion. Serena had followed Krystle, a thirtyish elementary school guidance counselor, and Artie, the sixtyish president of Millard Department Stores, from Krystle’s townhouse to the Camelot Steak House, the neighboring town’s swankiest restaurant and club (if you liked large slabs of red meat and highballs with your senior discount), and finally to the Dutch Maid. They had both worn sunglasses, but Artie left the car’s top down. They had been pretty easy to keep in view, especially since Artie observed speed limits and Serena had a lead foot. Even Serena had to admit that tailing wasn’t her strong suit. She had been practically on their bumper the whole time, until the Volvo and police cruiser cut her off.

  The bed was against the motel room’s right wall. Artie and Krystle perched on it like two kids waiting to see the principal. Behind them was a closet, its door ajar. Serena could see that Artie had taken the time to hang up his expensive gray suit jacket, shirt, and slacks. Krystle’s silky blue dress hung next to Artie’s jacket. Serena noted Artie’s shoes and Krystle’s blue pumps lined up next to each other in front of the bed. She hummed “Devil with a Blue Dress” while dragging on her Marlboro.

  Krystle stood up abruptly and starting shimmying with Artie’s tie, then flung it away. She was in pretty good shape, kind of jiggly through the bust and hips, but not bad, Serena thought. Krystle quickly shed a polyester, industrial-strength bra and lace g-string. “Red and black! Tacky, tacky,” Serena scolded. She zoomed in on Artie’s face. Even through the telephoto lens, the sweat crowning his balding head and the purple flush of his complexion were evident. Hope he lives long enough to enjoy this, Serena thought. Jeez, if a guy ever looked that miserable about doing a mattress mambo with me, I’d hang up my thong.

  Serena spat out the cigarette, ground it with the toe of her black, high-top sneaker, and returned her attention to the scene on camera. Krystle pushed Artie back on the bed, then coyly pulled up a sheet. Serena yawned. Evidently, Krystle felt that the best way to finish a disagreeable task was to get it over with quickly. Artie’s head was wedged between two pillows and was hard to see. After awhile, they both sat back against the tattered vinyl headboard, sheet tucked in under their chins, and shared a cigarette. It was the most intimate and loving gesture of the evening.

  Serena glanced at her watch, mentally begging the hands to move faster. 10:30 p.m. Morty had told her to get as much as she could, so Serena leaned against the Dumpster, camcorder at the ready, although she had a feeling she’d seen all the action, such as it was, that would be happening in room 112.

  She tried to get the motel room television in the shot, hoping the lovers were tuned in to Operating Theater. Monday night stakeouts made her miss her favorite television show. Serena carefully scanned the rutted parking lot. Artie’s Jag gleamed like a dull gold wedding band in the darkness. She scrambled to it, careful not to step into the pool of light from the lovers’ window, and draped herself comfortably on the hood of the car. She focused on the television screen and paused. CNN? Stock quotes? Weird and kinky.

  Serena resumed filming the couple on the bed. Artie had poured himself a generous splash of… She zoomed in on the bottle of Chivas on the bedside table. Krystle sipped from a can of Diet Coke. Only the best for Krystle.

  Serena yawned again and stretched as Artie worked on the Chivas and Krystle channel surfed. More than once Serena’s head nodded to the cool metal hood of the Jag. She hadn’t expected the sheer monotony of the private detective-in-training’s life. Following people and filming their most intimate moments had seemed an exciting way to make a living, but after only a few months, Serena had been amazed at how dull watching other people have sex could be.

  The late spring air was warm and soft; the murmur of the ocean, only two blocks away, an irresistible lullaby. Serena carefully placed the camera on a mini pod, slid off the car, ran in place, and did jumping jacks. Feeling minimally refreshed, she resumed her place on the hood of the Jag and played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Herbert Lom was in The Ladykillers with Sir Alec Guinness…hmm…who was in Star Wars with Harrison Ford, who was in The Fugitive with Tommy Lee Jones, who was in Men in Black with Will Smith, who was in Independence Day with Bill Paxton, who was in Apollo 13 with Kevin Bacon! Too easy. Esther Williams—

  Movement from the room snapped her back to alertness. Artie was stumbling from the bed to the bathroom. Not surprising after all that booze. Krystle sat at the edge of the bed, glanced at her watch, then rose and yanked the curtain closed. Shadows spattered the flimsy gray fabric as lights in the room were turned off.

  “Hallelujah,” Serena whispered. The camcorder’s date/time icon read one a.m. She broke down her equipment and stowed it in the duffel.

  Serena started up her BMW and drove slowly from the parking lot. Once out of the lot, she flicked on the headlights and floored it. The Dutch Maid receded in the rear-view mirror as she sped past darkened T-shirt and souvenir shops and into the drive through of the twenty-four-hour Crusty’s Crab Shack. She hadn’t eaten anything except some breath mints since she began tailing Krystle and Artie. She shouted her order into Crusty’s shell-shaped mike, then picked up a Double Dynamite burger and—since it was her birthday—a large chocolate milkshake from a glassy-eyed teenager at the window. She needed a pick-me-up. Krystle and Artie’s encounter at the Dutch Maid was the most depressing assignment of her short career.

  * * * *

  It was almost noon when Serena parked in front of Acerman Security. The company shared a graffiti-tattooed brick storefront with AAA Pest Control and New U! Weight Loss Clinic.

  “So you decided to come to work today, Mata Hari.” Estelle Rein, Morty’s secretary, barely glanced away from her computer screen as Serena entered.

  “Good morning to you too, Estelle.”

  Morty poked his head out of his office.

  Serena smiled at Morty. “Rhett and Scarlett kept me up.” So did the Crusty burger and milkshake, she added silently.

  Serena handed Morty the canvas bag. It held the camera equipment plus some stills she had printed.

  Although he wore his belt a little too high for her comfort, Serena had to admit that Morty still carried himself with the confidence of someone who had once been a G-man. She liked Morty. He had given her a chance when she really needed one. Though he did a tough job for some pretty crummy people, Morty still hustled. Serena didn’t want to hustle herself, but she admired it in Morty. And she liked the way he called her “kid.”

  “Get in here.” Morty waved her into the office. “Hold the calls, Estelle.”

  Serena could feel Estelle’s disapproving eyes follow her as Morty shut the door.

  Morty shuffled behind the desk in the cramped office, and then sat down heavily on his squeaky office chair. “Heard the news this morning?”

  Serena shook her head.

  “I taped it. Watch.” Morty pressed a button on the TV remote, then clasped his hands as if in prayer, and leaned his forehead against them. Serena sank onto the brown vinyl couch opposite Morty’s desk.

  A newswoman spoke urgently as wind whipped her hair about her face. She stood before a huge white clapboard house. The ocean visible behind it was a glossy postcard blue.

  “Prominent Wavecrest Hill socialite Beatrice ‘Bunny’ Millard Stanley was found dead early this morning at Millard Hall, her seaside mansion. When the well-known community leader missed a breakfast meeting where she was scheduled to speak, family members and police were called to the home. Police are investigating the death, and sources confirm that an antique handgun from her family collection was found at her side. An apparent suicide note also was found and made available exclusively to the RIN news team by a source close to the family. The note was addressed to her husband, Millard Department Stores President Arthur Stanley. The note re
ads, ‘I can’t go on, Arthur. I can’t stand to see you unhappy. Once, the gift of love belonged to you and I. Now, I love you enough to set you free.’”

  The reporter looked up from her clipboard. “For news team RIN, this is Becca Morecci.”

  Serena’s eyes met Morty’s.

  “Yeah, that’s right, the wife of the guy you tailed.”

  Serena groaned.

  “This thing feels dirty, well, dirtier than usual.” Morty opened the canvas bag. “Let’s look at that tape.”

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Yes, Estelle?”

  “Mr. Acerman.” Estelle spoke loudly, distinctly, and nasally. Serena’s eyes met Morty’s again. Usually Estelle mumbled. This could only mean two things: trouble, or that a good-looking man was in the waiting room.

  “Mr. Acerman,” Estelle continued with a wounded, maddening slowness. “Detectives Ritter and Falcone from the Oceanview Police Department are here to see you about a matter which they won’t discuss with me.”

  Morty zipped the bag and handed it back to Serena. He pressed the intercom button. “Very well, Estelle. I’m almost finished here. Why don’t you get the two detectives some coffee?”

  “Now I know it’s dirty,” Morty said. “Keep everything with you, get out of town, and turn off your phone. I want to look at everything before the police do. Rendezvous at the Sand Dollar at 1800.”

  Serena resisted the urge to salute. She shouldered the bag and walked slowly and casually out of Morty’s office. She approved of Estelle’s taste; one of the detectives was a very good-looking blond (wedding band) and the other was even better looking, with dangerous dark eyes and tousled black curls (no wedding band). Serena smiled slightly at them both and then hustled into the parking lot as Morty invited the detectives into his office. She popped into her car and decided to treat herself to some shopping. No reason a girl couldn’t enjoy eluding the police.

  That evening, after lobster rolls at the Sand Dollar, Serena and Morty drove to her oceanfront condo.