WHAT LEADS A MAN TO MURDER Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  What Leads a Man To Murder

  Story

  Notes

  Adalet

  Story

  Notes

  Furrows

  Story

  Notes

  A Simple Glass of Water

  Story

  Notes

  Tickling The Tiger

  Story

  Notes

  The Sodden Spectators

  Story

  Notes

  Blessings and Curses On a Calico Cat

  Story

  Notes

  Bedtime Story

  Story

  Notes

  Rachmaninoff's Peasant

  Story

  Notes

  Absolution

  Story

  Notes

  A Touch of Native Color

  Story

  Notes

  Song of The Gondolier

  Story

  Notes

  Thanks for reading.

  Next Book

  About The Author

  WHAT LEADS A MAN TO MURDER

  A Collection of Short Suspense

  ________

  JOSLYN CHASE

  ___________

  WHAT LEADS A MAN TO MURDER

  A Collection of Short Suspense

  Copyright © 2017 by Joslyn Chase

  All rights reserved.

  joslynchase.com

  Introduction copyright © 2017 by Joslyn Chase

  “A Simple Glass of Water” copyright © 2017 by Joslyn Chase. First published on Short Fiction Break, March 2017.

  “The Sodden Spectators” copyright © 2016 by Joslyn Chase. First published on The Write Destination, November 2016.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental.

  For inquiries regarding this book, please email: [email protected]

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations for the purpose of a book review.

  Thank you.

  This book is dedicated to my treasured readers.

  In particular, those who’ve joined my email list

  and followed me through my scrapes and adventures.

  I owe you a great debt of gratitude.

  What Leads A Man

  To Murder

  ___________

  One woman, dead by midnight.

  One man, wondering what makes a killer.

  News travels fast when a small-town girl goes

  missing and the neighbors start talking.

  Spend a day in the village and find out

  what leads a man to murder.

  By midnight, Mabel Kraft would be dead. She’d go out in a gush of blood and water, like the day she came in, naked in body and soul. A brief struggle for breath and life and then she’d settle to the bottom of her marble-trimmed tub, cradled in a womb of warm water, like birth in reverse.

  ~~~~

  Mabel had no premonition of this when she left for her morning walk. She was a common-sense creature, not given to hysterics or wild imaginings, yet when the man stepped out of the woods, her stomach gave a brief twitch and flop, like a landed fish. The experience was akin to opening a box of breakfast cereal and pouring out a bowlful of bullet casings—disturbing and not what you expected.

  The flash of movement caught her eye as she coaxed Voltaire to find his patch of grass, and she’d turned her gaze to the edge of the tree-lined road. The man wore a suit and tie and wouldn’t have drawn a second glance on a city street, but seeing him edge out of the forest with that furtive air, side-stepping down the slight embankment, she felt a bubble of curiosity rise within her.

  The Jack Russell’s whining reclaimed her attention. “Come on, Voltaire, lift your leg and let’s get on home.”

  The man’s head turned in her direction and his stride faltered. Mabel's eyesight allowed her only a vague notion of dark hair, a mustache, and a pasty complexion. He nodded to her and turned toward the village with a brisk step.

  Mabel raised a mental eyebrow as the dog finished his business. Her feet ached. The morning chill aggravated her arthritis and gone were the days when Arthur would tuck a hot water bottle under the blankets before taking charge of Voltaire.

  She and Arthur had designed and built their house on the wooded edge of the golf course, constructing it so that each window offered something beautiful to look at. Such fun they’d had selecting the cabinets, the paint, putting it all together. They’d had five and a half wonderful months in that house before the heart attack. Now, Arthur was gone and Mabel knew Voltaire would soon follow.

  She tugged at the leash, clamping off the rush of melancholy, and turned toward home. She’d recorded last night’s Masterpiece Theater, an Elizabeth George episode, and was looking forward to scrambled eggs and a cup of tea while she watched. Mabel liked mysteries.

  “What do you suppose that man was doing in the woods?” she asked Voltaire as they shuffled up the walk and entered the front porch. The sprawling fronds of the potted philodendrons covered the morning newspaper and in her haste to get inside, Mabel swept right past it.

  ~~~~

  Neil Anderson stamped his feet, dislodging a few clods of dirt. It was embarrassing being caught out like that. Well, let the old biddy mind her own business; he was entitled to a little breathing space just like everyone else. Glancing back, he saw the dog lead her toward a group of houses at the end of the lane.

  He adjusted his tie, brushed off his shoulders, and headed into the village, thinking enviously of his son. Luke was a young man unfettered by most of life’s responsibilities and endowed with many of its privileges. When Emily had set him the task of spying on their son, he had resented it. But now he rejoiced over that stroke of luck for it had given him a taste, a wistful nibble, of that luscious brand of freedom.

  Emily had grilled him, interrogated him as she would a hostile witness. Not far off the mark, really.

  “So,” she’d sneered, “you know nothing more now than when you started. Would you call that an accurate statement?”

  He conceded her point, careful to load the proper amount of bitterness into his words to mask the gleeful demon that danced inside him. Oh yes, he’d found out where their son spent his time when he wasn’t where he said he’d be. But he kept the discovery a secret. Neither Luke nor Emily knew he’d found that glorious Huckleberry Finn sort of place where a boy can kick off the shackles of convention, smoke a pipe, do a little pirating. Of course, translated across more than a century of eroding societal standards, that meant smoking dope and thumbing through centerfolds. Neil adored the place.

  The old shack hunched in a remote section of woods that ran beside their rural golf course neighborhood, and since Neil walked to his real estate office in the village, he occasionally treated himself to a moment of stolen solitude. He’d been stealthy in his comings and goings until today, with that old bat and her dog.

  He passed a knot of children waiting for the school bus, and stopped at Jimmy’s newsstand.

  “Good morning, Mr. Anderson. I get you coffee?”

  “No thanks, Jimmy. Just the paper please.”

  “Gum, candy? I got Danish. Fresh.”

  Same routine, every day. Cigarettes, next, though he knows I don’t smoke.

  “I got cigarettes, half p
rice. How many packs you want?”

  Neil smiled. “You never give up, do you, Jimmy?” He held out his hand. “Paper, please.”

  Jimmy Kim grinned, accepting the compliment, and handed over the newspaper. As he drew his hand away, the grin slid from his face like butter off a stack of hotcakes and he pointed to the front page.

  “Girl missing. Local girl. You know her?”

  Neil scanned the headlined article, noting the girl’s name. “No, doesn’t sound familiar. Hell of a thing.”

  He flapped a hand in farewell and crossed the street to his office, reading more about the missing girl. He shook his head over the reporter’s suggestion of foul play. His mind skimmed over movie images of bruised flesh, blood, bits of bone and brain. Hard to believe what some human beings did to others. What could lead a person to murder?

  ~~~~

  Jimmy stared down into his open cash drawer, muttering over its meager spread. Gyro sandwiches? Frozen yogurt? Dancing baboons? He had to find a way to boost his profit margin. Just the paper, Jimmy. He sighed. He needed petty change to go with his petty income. Grabbing the lone twenty from the till, he scooted next door.

  Vic was on the phone. With his wife.

  "No, of course I don’t think she’s sexier than you! What makes you think I bought her that dress?"

  He winced and pulled the phone away from his ear. Jimmy heard the angry hum.

  "You’re crazy, you know that? You’re a crazy woman! Oh, don't—she hung up," he said to the ceiling, shaking his fist. "The crazy woman hung up on me.”

  “Maybe you should not buy dress for other woman,” Jimmy suggested.

  “Aargh, don’t start with me!” Vic dropped the phone on the counter and turned his back, arranging combs and scissors in a tub of solution. “You come for a haircut, Jimmy?”

  "No, I come for pay cut. Ha ha. No, not funny." He rubbed his chin. "I need small bills. You change a twenty?”

  As Vic counted out the last single, Jimmy remembered the headlines. “You want newspaper, Vic? Girl from around here disappear, maybe murder.”

  “Is that right?” Vic considered. “Sure, I’ll take a paper.” He threw a few coins on top of the pile of bills. “What’s her name, the missing girl?”

  Jimmy spread the paper on the counter and pointed.

  Vic squinted at the name. “Felicia Howard.” Breath leaked out of him in a long sigh. “I don’t know her. Pity her folks, though—must be torture, waiting and wondering.” They stood silent, steeped in dark reflection.

  “Sometime world not make any sense.” Jimmy scooped up the cash and left the shop.

  ~~~~

  Vic leaned against the counter, picking his teeth with a pointed comb handle. Theresa never let up with her constant suspicions, the endless accusations. Sure, he’d strayed a time or two in days past but now he couldn’t even let his eyes take a stroll or she’d be slapping him with divorce papers. And she made it clear that the process would be messy and costly. Oh, to be married to his first wife again!

  The bell on the door jangled him from the morass of self-pity. A good-looking young fellow entered, shaggy hair falling over his brow. Vic swung the chair around and whipped open a plastic cape. The rhythmic, soothing sound of the scissors calmed him and he fell into small talk, touching on the weather, last night’s baseball game, and found out the young guy’s name was Brad.

  “Say, Brad, did you hear about the missing girl? She’s a local, I understand.”

  “No, I haven’t read the paper yet. What’s it all about?”

  “Ah, you know how it is. The cops aren’t releasing a lot of info but it seems clear they fear the worst.”

  “That’s awful. What’s the girl’s name?”

  “The paper said her name’s Felicity… no, Felicia, I think. Yeah, Felicia Howard.”

  A few shades of color washed out of the young man’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I think I know the girl. She used to babysit my daughter.”

  “Nice girl?”

  The young man flushed. “Nice enough,” he said with a shrug.

  “It’s a terrible thing to think about. I hope she turns up okay.”

  The two walked over to the cash register, money changing hands. The phone rang.

  “Sorry, I gotta take that—it’s my wife.”

  “Sure. Thanks for the cut.” Brad started toward the door and stopped, half turned. “What could make someone kill a girl like that? I just don’t understand it.” He shook his head and walked out the door.

  Vic listened to the shrilling of the phone. “I think I might have an idea about it,” he muttered.

  ~~~~

  Brad hurried home. He’d taken a day of sick leave for an early morning dentist appointment and intended to have the rest of the day to himself. Shawna had a lunch date with the girls and would have Haylee down for a nap by now. He planned to spend the afternoon with Borderlands and a box of donuts. Pulling into the driveway, he switched off the ignition and was just slipping the keys into his pocket when Shawna appeared on the front porch, gesturing wildly. He remembered the missing babysitter and felt his heart lurch. He dashed up the steps and clutched Shawna by the shoulders.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Shhh! You’ll wake the baby. Ouch! Stop grabbing at me. I just need you to zip me up. I’m late. Come on, come on.” Shawna pulled him into the front hall and turned her silky back on him. Obediently, he pulled up the zip, and she spun around, blowing a wisp of hair back into place. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful. How do I look?”

  “A bit green, actually. Are you okay?”

  “Shawna, do you remember Felicia Howard?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not likely to forget her. We came home to find her sprawled on the living room couch with her boyfriend while Haylee’s screaming in her crib, up to her shoulder blades in poop. Why are we talking about Felicia?”

  “She’s gone missing.”

  “Oh? Well, I imagine she’s run off with an older man or joined the circus or something.”

  “Shawna, this is serious. She may have been murdered.”

  She stared at him. He watched her eyes process the news, saw the pupils widen, then contract as if attempting to block out unpleasant thoughts. Too late. The living room clock chimed once, and they both jumped. “I’ve got to go,” Shawna said.

  Brad pulled her close. “Be careful,” he murmured.

  Upstairs, the baby started to cry.

  ~~~~

  Shawna’s lunch companions were already seated and talking in hushed tones about the missing girl. Squeezing into the end of the large horseshoe-shaped booth, Shawna accepted a menu while the waitress, whose shiny purple name tag identified her as Liz, filled her glass with ice water. Attention shifted as the ladies exchanged greetings and opinions on each other’s hairstyles and apparel.

  Shawna took a deep breath and cut across the chatter. “We fired her.”

  A semi-circle of mystified eyes blinked in the silence. “What?”

  “I'm referring to the missing girl. We had to fire her, of course. Haylee had diaper rash for a week after that.”

  “After what? Shawna, what are you talking about?”

  “She used to babysit for us, but she was more involved with her boyfriend than she was with our baby. We came home early one night and… we fired her.”

  “Was she, you know, in flagrante?”

  A wash of pink spread over Shawna’s cheeks. “Not yet, but things were heading that direction.”

  “Oh dear. We had a sitter once who spent all evening on the family computer, chatting online and ignoring the kids. Called herself HotPotatoes. We had one of those filters installed and found a new babysitter.”

  “Maybe the missing girl just ran off with the boyfriend. Wouldn’t be surprising, would it?”

  “Sure, she’ll probably come slinking back into town, toting a baby of her own.”

  “What’s her name? I’m in the market for a good bab
ysitter and I want to make sure I cross her off my list.”

  Shawna supplied the information. “Her name’s Felicia Howard.”

  There was a loud crash.

  ~~~~

  Splashes of ketchup and Coca-Cola decorated Liz’s closed-toed, rubber-soled shoes and extended partially up her nylon-clad legs. She sank down and began gathering broken crockery. Tears blurred her vision, and she cut her thumb on a piece of jagged glass. Danielle appeared from the kitchen and knelt to help.

  “I’m so sorry. It just slipped…”

  “It happens, Liz. Take a deep breath. Why don’t you let me take care of this mess while you go take care of that thumb.”

  “Thank you, Dani.” Liz stood up. A wad of paper lunch tabs crackled as she smoothed her apron and offered her apology. “Ladies, I’m so sorry. Enjoy your lunch.”

  In the staff bathroom, Liz washed and disinfected the cut on her hand. She’d been hearing about the missing girl since she came on shift but no one ever mentioned it was Felicia. Until last year, when an epic argument put an end to their friendship, they’d been inseparable. Since the age of six, best friends, sharing secrets and bubblegum. And now she’s run away, missing, murdered? A sudden wave of nausea sent her into the nearest stall where she deposited her own lunch and watched it spiral down the porcelain hole.

  They say in the southern hemisphere, toilet water spins down counter-clockwise. I’d like to see that, for a change of pace. I’m so sick of hanging over the commode and asking myself what I’m going to do. If Rodney has the nerve to even hint at an abortion, I’ll incapacitate him so that he’ll never have to worry about getting anyone pregnant ever again. We’ve got to hash it out tonight, get some things straight.

  Danielle brought her a clean, wet dishtowel.

  “Here, put this on your forehead. Don said your shift’s almost over so you might as well head home. Do you feel up to it?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Danielle draped an arm around Liz, giving her shoulder a squeeze, and their eyes met in the mirror.