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    Why? A Collection of Mysterious Tales
    Why? A Collection of Mysterious Tales
    Why? A Collection of Mysterious Tales
    Ebook260 pages3 hours

    Why? A Collection of Mysterious Tales

    By Zimbell House Publishing

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    About this ebook

    In Why? A Collection of Mysterious Tales, we hope to answer two questions: Who Did It? and Why? With fifteen short stories by twelve emerging writers, our sleuths uncover a plethora of reasons for murder with suspicious characters throughout. Which will be your favorite?

    Featured Contributors:
    Bruce Harris, Christine Eskilson, Delphine Boswell, Edward Ahern, Jim Norman, Katie Ginger, Matt McGee, Pamela Jeffs, Rekha Ambardar, Sallie Moppert, Tom Larsen,
    and Tony Conaway

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateJun 13, 2017
    ISBN9781945967221
    Why? A Collection of Mysterious Tales
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is an independent publishing company that wishes to partner with new voices to help them become Quality Authors.Our goal is to partner with our authors to help publish & promote quality work that readers will want to read again and again, and refer to their friends.

    Read more from Zimbell House Publishing

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      Book preview

      Why? A Collection of Mysterious Tales - Zimbell House Publishing

      Distributed by Smashwords

      This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other digital or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

      For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below:

      Attention: Permissions Coordinator

      Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

      PO Box 1172

      Union Lake, Michigan  48387

      mail to: info@zimbellhousepublishing.com

      © 2017 Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

      Book Layout and Cover Design by The Book Planners

      a division of Zimbell House Publishing

      Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

      Distributed by Smashwords

      All Rights Reserved

      Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1945967092

      Digital ISBN: 978-1945967221

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2017905952

      First Edition: March/2017

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

      Acknowledgements

      Zimbell House Publishing would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase twelve new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

      We would also like to thank our Zimbell House team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

      Finally, a special shout-out to The Book Planners for creating yet another great cover design and interior layout!

      Contents

      Barrens by Tony Conaway

      Four Dead Lawyers by Jim Norman

      Gasoline Valley by Matt McGee

      Haberdasher Homicide by Bruce Harris

      Lady In Waiting by Christine Eskilson

      Marriage is Murder by Pamela Jeffs

      Murder Upstairs by Katie Ginger

      Pride After a Fall by Sallie Moppert

      Prince of Blood – 1603 by Delphine Boswell

      Seeds of Suspicion by Rekha Ambardar

      Shooting Stars by Sallie Moppert

      Something from Nothing by Sallie Moppert

      The Purloined Oil by Edward Ahern

      To Die For by Tom Larsen

      Contributors

      A Note from the Publisher

      Other Anthologies from Zimbell House Publishing

      New Releases Coming Soon from Zimbell House

      Barrens

      Tony Conaway

      I was a sheriff’s deputy in this county for two months before I learned how to spell my title. I’d been writing ‘sherrif,’ which actually makes more sense to me.

      But what do I know? I’m just a bad guy with a badge and a gun.

      The truth of the matter is this: bad guys like me are needed to protect citizens from the really bad guys.

      That’s what I tell myself whenever someone slips me an envelope full of cash. Like Ernesto will for allowing him to run his cockfighting game.

      Ernesto, now he’s one of the really bad men. He’s a loan shark, runs cockfights, and sells drugs. He’d run whores, but there are some nasty local boys who already have that franchise. He told me he’d killed two men back in Mexico. I believe him. But as long as Ernesto keeps his activities within the Latin mushroom workers, I let it go.

      See, in this county outside Philadelphia, we have a lot of mushroom farms. Sixty of them, at last count. Mushroom Capital of the World, that’s us. And, for some reason, most of the mushroom workers are Mexican. Some are from further south, but most are from Mexico.

      These guys–they’re mostly male–are a long way from home. They do piecework and barely earn minimum wage, six days a week. They live in miserable conditions, risk lung infection from the spores, and basically do stoop labor in mushroom houses filled with some of the worst-smelling manure anywhere on God’s Once-Green Earth. But, since the mushroom growing houses operate all year, they don’t have to keep moving like other farm workers, following crops as they ripen. To some, that makes this better than the usual migrant labor.

      For most of them, their women are over two-thousand miles away. So they have nothing to do on Friday and Saturday night except get in trouble. The cockfights keep them busy. Cockfighting is legal where they come from, so they don’t see anything wrong with it.

      Sunday I don’t worry about. They wake up, hung over, late on Sunday. Some of them go to a Spanish mass, held in the basement of the local Roman Catholic Church. In the afternoon, they have a big Sunday dinner. Then they rest up before going back to work at five a.m. on Monday.

      Now, as county sheriff, it’s not specifically my job to keep these Mexican mushroomers from raising hell. In this poor-ass township, it’s technically the job of the State Police. No local cops here, just Staties.

      But the Staties are stretched thin. They’re happy to let me take care of some things.

      And if there is trouble, I’m the guy who pays for it. You see, in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, we have a lot of jobs that are elected positions. Like Sheriff. So if there’s trouble, I get voted out of office.

      The worst that would probably happen to a Statie is he’d get transferred to another barracks. Like up in Potter County, which is a nice place if all you want to do is hunt or fish. Not so great if you want a decent bagel or cup of coffee. I have no desire to hunt and fish. If I want fish, I’ll go to the Friday fish fry at the local fire house. Not just because the fish is good there, but because there are lots of voters to shake hands with. They make good donuts there, too–much better than that Dunkin Donuts crap. (Did you know that those donuts are delivered frozen and heated up at each local store?)

      Damn. I’m making myself hungry.

      No, I’ll be here ‘til I die. If I get voted out, well… without my badge, I’d be just another bad guy.

      I couldn’t even get a job as a regular cop. I spent twenty years as an MP, but I’m too old to go back in the Army. Then I spent a dozen years as a sheriff’s deputy. I can’t go back to that after being the top man, The Sheriff.

      I was never an actual municipal cop or an officer in the State Police. Both of those have their own academy, and I’m too old to go back to school.

      I look at my watch. When I was a young MP, we used to talk about ‘the two a.m. boner.’ You’d be sitting in your vehicle, and around that time you’d get a hard-on for no reason. Now I’m fifty-six years old, and all I get is hungry.

      Here’s a tip: don’t eat the dead chickens at these cockfights. Their owners juice their fighting cocks up with all sorts of hormones. I knew a murderer who blamed his ‘roid rage rampage on eating hormone-juiced chicken. Didn’t help him. The judge gave him the death penalty, which is basically just a life sentence in this state. We rarely get around to executing anybody. This ain’t Texas.

      By the way, one thing Texas and Pennsylvania have in common is that we both elect our judges. So lawyers in both states charge more because they have to contribute to the election campaigns of the judges they’ll argue in front of.

      You need a successful lawyer in Texas or Pennsylvania? Find one who donates a lot to judicial elections.

      It’s almost two a.m. on a Friday night, and the cockfights are winding down. I’m parked on a hill, overlooking the depression where they hide the cockfight. Here in the barrens, they used to quarry stone a hundred years ago. The cockfight is in what used to be a shallow quarry. I stay nearby but out of sight. Cockfights are illegal here, and my presence tends to intimidate the betting. But I’m close enough to hear if there’s trouble so I can step in if need be.

      A few minutes later, the cockfight is breaking up. I make Ernesto keep it going until the bars close at two a.m. Let his Mexican buddies get tired, then go home and sleep.

      Finally, Ernesto’s main man, Nino, came up the hill with my envelope. I got out to meet him. Ernesto has been delegating a lot lately. I don’t like it.

      "Donde esta Ernesto?" I asked Nino. Nino is short for Saturnino.

      In the shed, alone. He’s been drinking all night, Nino said. He likes to practice his English.

      I shook my head. Ernesto’s been doing that a lot lately. Man’s got a broken heart.

      Nino shrugged. It’s not his place to analyze his boss.

      See you tomorrow night, I said. I got back in my big SUV and headed out. That’s what the Sheriff drives in my county. My twenty-seven deputies drive more utilitarian vehicles.

      I drove back towards the county seat. Reception is lousy here in the barrens. We need another communications tower here, but no one wants to pay for it.

      In wealthier parts of the county, they don’t want more towers because it will ruin the view from their McMansions. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

      Once I cleared the barrens, reception returned. I used my radio to call into my office.

      Any problems tonight? I asked my dispatcher.

      Sheriff, there’s some sort of incident at the University. A 10-35. Female.

      That’s a major crime. A rape, a fatality.

      My county has three colleges in it. There’s a Catholic Girl’s College run by nuns.

      There’s what they call a ‘historically African American college,’ which is always on the verge of going bankrupt.

      But when you say The University, you mean the State University. It’s better known for its parties and football than its intellectual… whatever. Rigor… that’s the word. Intellectual rigor. I only use that word in rigor mortis.

      The female populations of those three colleges come to over 15,000 girls. When one of those college girls gets killed, why, who gets blamed?

      Me, of course. I’m the only law enforcement officer in the county the people can vote out. Even though my department has nothing to do with this sort of crime. It makes no more sense than when a mayor is voted out because the citizens were inconvenienced by heavy snow last winter. But that happens all the time.

      I was at the far end of the county. It took me almost a half hour to get to the crime scene. The State Police have been called in, since the college and the town police don’t have a forensics department. The body has already gone to the morgue.

      Technically, I don’t have any standing here. Sheriffs don’t investigate crimes. We serve warrants and protection orders, we transport prisoners from jail to court and back again, and we provide security at the courthouse. But we can get called in, for anything from traffic enforcement to manhunts.

      It’s well after three a.m. now. There’s no traffic. Now that the body’s gone, so were the spectators, so there’s no need for crowd control. I looked around for someone willing to talk to me. I don’t have a good relationship with any of the Staties milling around. The State Police tend to think they’re better than the local law. An elected local lawman, like me, is the lowest of the low.

      Then I spot the county coroner. He’s an elected official, like me.

      In the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the coroner doesn’t have to know a thing about dead bodies. He just has to get elected. If we had a Medical Examiner, well, that’s someone with a medical degree. My county’s coroner is a funeral director, so at least he knows something about dead bodies.

      Which is good, because you aren’t officially dead in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania until a coroner says you’re dead and issues the paperwork.

      Hello, Bud, I said to the coroner.

      Sheriff. Hey. I haven’t seen you since… since Brooke. My condolences.

      Thank you. Had it only been a month since my wife died? It seemed longer.

      So, how you doin’?

      I was a lot better before I heard about this. What happened?

      Murdered college girl. Or college age, at least.

      Definitely murdered?

      The forensics will tell for sure, but there were signs of strangulation, and her neck was broken, so…

      Yeah.

      And raped, most likely. Clothes ripped, no panties.

      Well, shit fire. My night just got a lot worse.

      Yeah, the coroner said. Not as bad as hers, though.

      ****

      The University is in the county seat. That’s where the courthouse and the Sheriff’s Department are. Also my house.

      My house is small. I live alone now. I’m once divorced, once widowed.

      It’s now four a.m., but I couldn’t sleep. I opened the refrigerator. There’s nothing in there except one slice of cold pizza, which I ate. I had some ice cream in the freezer. I left that alone. Instead, I removed something else.

      A few minutes later I drove over to the county morgue, a few blocks away.

      ****

      The morgue attendant said that the victim was definitely raped. As soon as the chief examiner gets here, they’ll do a full examination and an autopsy.

      I’d like to see the victim, I said.

      The attendant said, You know the way.

      I’m another guy with a badge and a uniform, and he’s used to taking orders from uniforms. He’s basically a security guard, making sure none of the dead escape.

      I went inside, taking my hat off out of respect for the dead.

      The victim was on the center table. Naked, covered with a sheet. Her hands were bagged in case she managed to scratch her attacker. They’ll scrape under her nails and hope to find something. Her nails were short, which doesn’t help.

      All dead are unlovely. This was not a pretty girl to begin with, and she looks even worse in death.

      I do what I have to do. Sorry, darlin’, I whispered. She was a little younger than my daughter. From my first wife. My second wife was barren.

      A Statie came in. One of the ones who didn’t like me. Sheriff! You don’t have any business in here.

      Just here to help, I said.

      We’ll let you know if we need help.

      I picked up the girl’s ID in an evidence bag, straining to read it through the plastic.

      You have to go, he said. Forcefully, this time.

      I put down the bag. Glad you’ve got it under control. Because, publicity-wise, this case just got worse.

      He stiffened. What do you mean? Is the vic a nun or something?

      No. But she’s probably Amish.

      What?

      I put my hat back on. She’s got the look. And her ID says her last name is Stoltzfus. That’s one of the most common Amish names.

      He grabbed the evidence bag with the ID as I walk out. I felt good about spotting something he didn’t, but I realized he’ll probably try and take credit for it. So I used my smartphone to text my observation to the local State Police Captain, the Captain of the local cops, and the county District Attorney. I ignored the college cops; they don’t matter.

      Even bad men had soft spots. Me, I always felt sick after visiting the morgue. I didn’t bother to get back in my SUV. It’ll be there in the morning. I needed to walk in the cool night air until I felt better.

      I walked to the crime scene, then made a big spiral around it, checking every route the victim could’ve taken. The local cops will do the same once it’s light.

      Dawn comes early in May. I said hello to the few people on the streets. They’re used to seeing me, and it made them feel safe to see a uniformed law enforcement officer. I’ve walked the streets at dawn for years. I’m sure it helped me get elected.

      I started walking the streets of town years ago with a local banker. He could point out every business his bank loaned money to. He was proud that his bank helped build this town. This was back when we had locally-owned banks. Now all the banks have consolidated; the owners aren’t even in this state.

      Three months after his board sold his bank out from under him, the banker put a gun in his mouth and swallowed a bullet. Well…  there are worse ways to go.

      The ATMs reminded me of the banker and our walks. I’m looking for cameras that might have caught the vic and her rapist. Bank ATMs are the most obvious. Even though this is the county seat, we didn’t have many cameras that take pictures of people on the street. The whole town only had 20,000 people.

      The local cops will pull the images from cameras once the businesses open. Some businesses might ask for a court order first, but that will be easy to get. Courts aren’t in session on Saturdays, but a judge can sign an order from home. This is the county seat–we’re lousy with judges, and they all live nearby.

      When I got home, I really wanted a beer. Instead, I started the coffee maker while I took a shower. It’ll be a busy day.

      After I’d showered and dressed, I headed over to a diner for breakfast. It’s still early, but apparently, my texts have already been read. One of them worked. The DA’s office officially requested that I assist with the case. As an elected official, the DA knew better than the others what a media clusterfuck this would become.

      A white girl, raped, and murdered? That can be the lead story on a slow news day.

      But an Amish girl, raped, and murdered? Only a terrorist attack can knock that off the front page.

      The DA wanted to get out in front of the story with an immediate press conference. But the police departments

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