The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Second Helping

Bios

The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Second Helping

Edited by J. Alan Hartman

Copyright 2012 by

Reign Check, Arthur C. Carey

Thursday Night at Pins & Pub, John Weagly

Justice for Elijah, Earl Staggs

All in the Family, Amanda Lundberg

Campaign Seasoning, Betsy Bitner

The Over the Hill Gang, S. Furlong-Bolliger

Good Times, Steve Shrott

Felony at Farquhar Farms, Andrew McRae

Secret Ingredients, Zoe Burke

Green Beans & Murder, Arlen Blumhagen

Mashed in the Potatoes, Lesley A. Diehl

The eDone Him Wrong, Gail Farrelly

I Yam What I Yam, Herschel Cozine

Talkin’ Turkey, Linda S. Reilly

Drumsticks Can Be Deadly, Stephen D. Rogers

Murder a la Mode, Barb Goffman

Perfect Pumpkin Pie, Laura Hartman

Cover Copyright 2012 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

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.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. 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. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Another Thanksgiving Anthology by multiple authors and Untreed Reads Publishing

The Killer Wore Cranberry

http://www.untreedreads.com

The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Second Helping

Edited by J. Alan Hartman

Introduction

Two years ago, I had the idea of inviting a group of authors to sit down together for a virtual Thanksgiving dinner. The price of admission was a mystery short story that had to be both humorous and feature a specific Thanksgiving dish such as turkey or mashed potatoes. The result was a brilliant combination of hilarity and hijinx known as The Killer Wore Cranberry. This proved to be one of Untreed Reads’ most popular collections of short stories and a best-seller around the world—even in countries that don’t celebrate Thanksgiving!

Although the anthology went on hiatus in 2011, I felt it was definitely time to bring it back for the 2012 holiday season. It seemed that with it being an election year and the economy as it is, the world probably needed a few good laughs to get it through. So, I sent out a call for submissions, but this time I decided to give the anthology a little more leeway in terms of content. Instead of being hyper-focused on the stories being centered around food, I decided to entertain ideas of what else could happen at Thanksgiving that might make someone want to bump off their family, friends and enemies. After all, who doesn’t eventually want to strangle that person at the table who has the boring stories or who tells all the relatives personal stuff about you?

I received three times the submissions for this anthology as I did the original, which made it more difficult to whittle it down. In fact, in the end, this anthology features more stories than I had anticipated because, well, they were just so darn good.

Although typically you tire of having the same family members at your table, I was so pleased to bring back some folks from the original The Killer Wore Cranberry: Lesley A. Diehl, Barb Goffman and Earl Staggs. Then, there were the folks who had been published through Untreed Reads before: Arlen Blumhagen, S. Furlong-Bolliger, Art Carey, Herschel Cozine, Stephen D. Rogers and John Weagly (part of the amazing anthology Discount Noir). And, as always, you want to leave room for some fresh voices, so I’m welcoming the following folks to the table this year: Betsy Bitner, Zoe Burke, Gail Farrelly, Laura Hartman (no relation to me), Amanda Lundberg, Andrew MacRae, Linda S. Reilly and Steve Shrott. I’m so glad you pulled up a chair!

Here’s hoping you folks out there in Ebookland enjoy The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Second Helping as much as I’ve enjoyed putting it together. All of you are in for a treat, and I sincerely hope you get a chuckle or two, and some ideas in case you need to have a family member removed permanently from your table. OK, so we do ask that you NOT follow any of our authors’ tips for doing away with offensive people. I understand that the turkey that’s served behind bars just isn’t that tasty.

Happy Holidays!

Jay Hartman

Editor-in-Chief

Untreed Reads Publishing

Reign Check

Arthur C. Carey

George Simmons switched off the ignition of the John Deere tractor and climbed down gingerly, favoring his left hip. The family dog, Lucy, a shep-lab mix, had followed him from the house. She began nosing about the dried cornstalks in the barren Iowa cornfield.

George walked down a row of dead plants. In summer, he’d have been stopping periodically to crumple the tassels of ears between his fingers, checking for signs of rootworm or borer infestation. The field normally yielded 145 bushels of corn to the acre, slightly above the state average.

But it was November, and the field had been picked clean for months. But not completely. A few collapsed stalks still had dried, discolored ears of corn, and that’s what he wanted. He spoke apologetically to the dog, still panting from exertion. I know… I know… Lucy, it’s odd to be out here with snow on the ground. But when Em wants ears of corn for a Thanksgiving decoration, the least we can do is find some. He paused. "Well, the least I can do is find some anyway."

He had left his wife Emiline in the kitchen with their grown daughter Alma and the two grandkids, Aaron and Jill, preparing Thanksgiving dinner. George licked his lips at the thought of roast turkey, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, and Em’s special sage-flavored stuffing, the recipe for which she never shared. All of that would be topped off by choosing either pumpkin or mincemeat pie for dessert. It was always a tough decision, but he was up to it. Or maybe he’d have both.

George picked up a desiccated ear of corn but it broke apart in his hands. He walked a few feet down the row and reached for another when he heard a yelp. Lucy had risen to her feet in alarm. George heard a rumbling sound and the earth trembled beneath his feet. The dog barked again and bolted in the direction of the barn.

When his heart rate returned to normal, George realized there had been an earthquake. Iowa is better known for blistering August heat and frigid January cold, but he recalled earthquakes weren’t unknown. The New Madrid Quake of 1811 had originated in Missouri, but it had been felt in half a dozen Midwestern states.

A rank odor—hot, steamy and sulfur-like—wrinkled his nose. An outcropping of rock bordered one end of the cornfield, and he noticed the quake had sent some of the boulders tumbling, creating a gap the width of a man’s body. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the gap, rising in the chill air. George studied the smoke and frowned. It was a no-burn day. He peered between the rocks and saw flickering light far back in the shadows.

The last tremors ended and blackbirds resumed calling harshly over the frigid field. George assumed the danger had passed. Where was the smoke coming from? Was there a fire? He walked to the tractor and rummaged for a water bottle. He doused his handkerchief and returned to the smoking gap. Being the adventurous sort, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the hole, wet handkerchief over his nose and mouth. As he crawled, the gap widened and the light grew stronger, changing from white to yellow to orange. The sulfur stink grew stronger, but the smoke wasn’t as concentrated. A wave of heat struck him and he began sweating. The heat had almost dried the handkerchief so he stuffed it in a pocket. He squeezed around a bend in the narrow passage and climbed to his feet, gaping. Before him loomed a vast cavern bathed in the flickering flames of countless fires. Steam boiled out of vents, coalescing in gray clouds. Pools of magma bubbled and hissed. It looked like a scene from hell. And then George realized with a shock it was a scene from hell. The earthquake had opened a door to the netherworld.

Imps waving nasty-looking pitchforks noticed him and started jumping up and down, caterwauling. He had trouble breathing. Just as he was debating whether to turn around and leave the way he had come, a sudden blast of heat seared him and a brilliant explosion blinded him. When he opened his eyes, he saw Satan.

The devil was smaller than George, barely 5 feet tall, but well proportioned and muscular. Corded muscles ran down his arms, and he had the washboard abs prized by bodybuilders. Demons and imps cavorted about him. They lacked the baby goat horns that adorned Satan’s head, but had whipcord thin bodies and faces ratcheted into screaming masks. George wondered if hell had a fitness center where the inhabitants worked out to stay in shape.

At home, an elliptical trainer sat out in the barn gathering cobwebs and mouse droppings. George recalled his wife had ordered it after seeing an infomercial on television, but she had quickly tired of bouncing up and down and pulling handles back and forth. He got enough exercise just running the farm.

You’re smaller than your pictures, George said to Satan, more to break the awkward silence than as a putdown. He brushed gray-white ash off his jacket and coveralls. The heat was becoming unbearable, which, he thought, probably was to be expected.

Satan glowered. Who are you? How did you get here?

George told Satan his name and apologized for intruding. He refrained from pointing out that he owned the cornfield above ground and that technically the devil was trespassing. No need to get him riled. He looked riled enough already.

The devil glared at George. He turned to an imp and held out a hand. Phone!

The imp handed him a smartphone. Long, sharp talons danced over the screen. No, the devil said at last, lips curling in disappointment. He tossed back the phone and fixed his gaze on George. You’re not on today’s list of the damned!

It sounded like an accusation, but George breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t smoke, kept his drinking to a bottle or two of Bud, and grudgingly ate the rabbit-food salads his wife forced on him. Also, he didn’t recall dying. It wasn’t likely a fellow would forget that. So he explained about the earthquake and the rockslide and the passage leading outside, all the time peeking at the scene behind Satan. He didn’t want to appear nosy.

Impressive operation you’ve got here, he said politely.

Satan waved a hand dismissively. This is just an addition—a new ring of Hell. It’s still under construction.

But clearly parts of the cavern were being used. George looked at a section where demons with pitchforks jabbed men and women who scribbled frantically on smoldering blackboards. What’s that?

Lawyers, responded Satan. They are translating the unreadable fine print of contracts and insurance policies into plain language.

In another corner, sinners writhed, immersed up to their necks in pools of steaming magma that glowed golden. Their mouths were frozen open in agony.

Satan read George’s glance. Telemarketers who call during the dinner hour, he said. With pride, Satan pointed out reality show producers, strapped into red-hot metal chairs while they watched their own programs looped endlessly on a giant screen.

In one large alcove, naked men and women were chained screaming to stakes as imps pulled off strips of skin and threw them into fires, where the skin shriveled and blackened. Members of Congress who inflated the tax code with deductions for special interests, explained the devil. They lose a strip of flesh for every addition.

George blinked in the glare and wished he’d thought to bring his sunglasses. In a side cavern, two familiar figures, one wearing a beret and the other bearded and dressed in a flowing robe, struggled up a rugged slope amid explosions and gunfire. When they had almost reached the top, they tripped landmines that blew them apart. The body parts rolled down the slope and reformed into the same two figures, who began trudging up the slope again.

‘Are they…" began George.

Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden, smirked the devil.

Well, this is certainly interesting, George said, brushing ash off one shoulder with the now-dry handkerchief. But I’ve got cows to milk. He hoped Satan wasn’t going to try and persuade him to sell his soul. He was wrong.

Don’t worry, Satan said jovially, reminding George of a used car salesman he had dealt with once. You’d never have to suffer like this. He gestured grandly at the mayhem taking place before them and raised his voice above the screams.

I can offer you the usual choices: fame or fortune or power. Enjoy now, pay later. Satan smiled a nasty smile and his pointed ears twitched.

Now he really did remind George of a used car salesman. George certainly didn’t want fame. He was shy. He’d never have met Emiline in the first place if she hadn’t asked him to dance at a church social. Fortune? Corn yields were down with the drought, but that meant prices were up. And farm belt members of Congress kept sponsoring bills to encourage use of ethanol made from corn even though nobody seemed to want it.

Besides, George had just gotten a new 60-inch, high definition, 3-D, flat screen TV to go with his satellite dish. Right now Emiline was Tivoing an NFL game for him. And power certainly didn’t interest him. He had a gas-operated generator in the barn in case a bad winter storm knocked out the electricity again.

No thanks, I think I’ll just be going, he said.

Satan’s eyes flashed and his tail flailed about, the spade-like tip at the end raising puffs of dust. He sneered. What’s one more worthless soul? I’ll gather countless souls when I widen the path you used and unleash my dark army of demons and imps. This time we shall defeat heaven’s corps of angels. Armageddon! The End of Days is upon us! I shall rule supreme!

George pursed his lips. He hadn’t thought about that.

Well, not today, any way, he said. It’s a spare-the-air day. If you widen the passage, more smoke will get out and increase air pollution. That’s illegal. You’ll be in violation of the district clean air ordinance. The fine for a first offense is $25. He winced at the rank air. Your fine would probably be more than that.

What…? growled Satan.

George sniffed. "Then there’s the smell. The County Board of Health is pretty tough on bad odors. Why Jim Jenkins had to shut down his pig farm because the smell blew right into town when northwest winds kicked up.

"Also, you’ll need a permit from the town council to hold a battle with the angels. After those Civil War re-enactors upset folks by firing rifles and a big cannon last summer, getting permission may be a problem. The noise upset a lot of chickens. Egg production fell off for