A Woman's Touch

By Sniplits Publishing

This collection of 11 short stories places women at the heart of murder and misdemeanors--they may be committing the crime, solving it, or in some cases both. These shorts are by both established and new authors, including: Libby Fischer Hellmann, Miles Archer, M.M. De Voe, JoAnne Lucas, Tracie McBride, Denise Dietz,Courtney L. Mroch, Karen Burgess, and Marianne Crone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sniplits Publishing
• Release date: Sep 24, 2010
• ISBN: 9780983030218

Sniplits Publishing

Sniplits publishes audio and e- short stories by new and known authors (nearly 100 now) from around the world. We publish literary and genre stories from under 5 minutes to about an hour (100-9000 words) in length.

Book preview

A WOMAN’S TOUCH

11 Short Stories of Murder and Misdemeanors

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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A Woman’s Touch:11 Short Stories of Murder and Misdemeanors

Copyright © 2010 Stussi, Inc./Sniplits Publishing

The Murder of Katie Boyle and House Rules Copyright © 2010 Libby Fischer Hellmann;

Crazy Copyright © 2010 Laura Hartman ;

Never Kill a Cat Copyright © 2010 Miles Archer;

Aunt Charlotte Copyright © 2010 Courtney L. Mroch;

Victory Copyright © 2010 Marianne Crone;

A Feast for Fools Copyright © 2010 JoAnne Lucas;

Do the Right Thing Copyright © 2010 Karen Burgess;

Annie’s Blue Christmas Copyright © 2010 Denise Dietz;

Ants Copyright © 2010 M.M. De Voe;

Pyro Copyright © Tracie McBride

Cover art copyright © 2010 Miguel Ortuno, PR Chicago

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Sniplits Publishing.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. 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 you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. House Rules, by Libby Fischer Hellmann

2. Crazy, by Laura Hartman

3. Never Kill a Cat, by Miles Archer

4. Aunt Charlotte, by Courtney L. Mroch

5. Victory, by Marianne Crone

6. A Feast for Fools, by JoAnne Lucas

7. Do the Right Thing, by Karen Burgess

8. The Murder of Katie Boyle, by Libby Fischer Hellmann

9. Annie’s Blue Christmas, by Denise Dietz

10. Pyro, by Tracie McBride

11. Ants, by M.M. De Voe

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1. House Rules

Libby Fischer Hellmann

If Marge Farley had known what was in store during her vacation to Las Vegas, she might have gone to the Wisconsin Dells instead. At the very least, she might not have taken the side trip into the desert. But she’d been craving something new and different, which was why they’d come to Vegas in the first place. And she’d surprised her husband Larry with a trip to Red Rock Canyon to cheer him up.

But Larry ignored the petrified sand dunes, the waterfalls cascading into the canyons, and the red-tailed hawks soaring high above the Mojave. Polishing off both bottles of water, he stomped back to the car. This isn’t fun. It’s too hot. And dusty. Let’s go back. He swiped beads of sweat off his forehead. Wet bands ringed the back of his shirt.

Marge tried to focus on the craggy rock formations in the distance. The desk clerk at the hotel said this was the place to visit. And Dr. Phil said there were times you had to decide what was important in a relationship. Lord knows, she was trying. But Larry’d had what you might call a setback last night. A fifteen thousand dollar setback.

It’s not fair, he moaned when they’d stumbled out of the casino. Why couldn’t we have Benny Morrison’s luck?

She’d heard the story a thousand times. How their friend Benny took his wife to Vegas and won fifty grand at the tables before they even unpacked. How he flew up to their room, grabbed their bags, and told Frances they were going home—that very minute—to build a swimming pool in their back yard. Larry still did a slow burn every time the Morrisons invited them over.

But Larry had never had much luck. Marge pulled the visor of her cap down and contemplated a pink cactus flower not far away. So they’d skip the next vacation. Postpone the bathroom remodeling. Life wasn’t about money, anyway. It was a spiritual journey. Like they said on Oxygen. In fact, hadn’t some woman said something about mantras last week? How they made for peace and tranquility? She should share that with Larry. As she tried to remember exactly what the woman had said, something near the flowers glinted in the sun and broke her concentration. Look at that!

Larry grudgingly turned around. What is it now?

Marge took off her sunglasses. Something’s over there. By the flowers. It’s glittering.

It’s probably a frigging gum wrapper.

She headed over. Then we should definitely pick it up. How could someone even think of littering in a place like this?

Marge… Larry followed her over, bumping into her when she came to a sudden stop. What the—?

Look! Marge pointed. Behind the flowers a piece of metal was sticking out of the sand.

Lemme see. Larry squinted and crept closer. Looks like some kind of box. He peered at it, then felt around it with his shoe. They heard a metallic thump. Larry’s eyebrows shot up. He bent over the box.

Wait! Marge cut in. Don’t touch it. She hugged her arms and looked around. You have no idea what’s in there.

Larry looked up. For Christ’s sake, Marge, it’s just a box. He squatted down beside it.

Hold on. Stop. Isn’t—isn’t this where they dump all the radiation stuff?

Huh?

You know, spent fuel rods, the waste from reactors? Like they talk about on TV? They transport it into the desert and dump it in places where nobody lives.

Marge, that’s in Wyoming. And you’re talking about huge containers. The size of railroad cars. Not little boxes.

Still— she pleaded. You never know.

Larry shot her one of his looks, the kind where the lower part of his jaw pulsed, the way it did when he disagreed with her. An uneasy feeling fluttered her stomach. You were right, Larry. This isn’t fun. Let’s go back to the car. We’ll get a nice, cold drink at the hotel.

Instead, he knelt down and started scooping up chunks of dry, hard-packed sand.

Honey, didn’t you hear what I said?

But he kept scrabbling through the sand. Then he stopped digging and sat back on his haunches. Jiggling it to pry it loose, he lifted up a gray tackle box about a foot square and five inches deep. Its surface, at least the part not covered with sand, was dingy and battered.

Marge was just about ready to go back to the hotel without him. Let him get poisoned by some weird biological toxin. Larry, you just leave that thing right there.

His response was to shake the box from side to side. A swishing noise could be heard.

Larry— Marge started to feel anxious. It doesn’t belong to you.

He looked around, a strange light in his eyes. The sun was casting long shadows across the desert, suffusing everything with a rosy, warm light. No one else was in sight. It does now. Cradling the box under his arm, he started back toward the car. Let’s go. And for the love of God, don’t say a word to anyone.

Marge pursed her lips. She knew better than to argue. She’d spent her whole life following the rules. School rules. Secretary rules. Wife in the suburb rules. She pasted Hints from Heloise into a scrapbook. She knew ten ways to get out stains, how to keep potatoes from budding, how to keep her husband happy. And anything she didn’t know, she learned on Oprah. Rules were there for a reason. You play by the rules, you find what you’re looking for. So what if she’d been a little restless recently? That didn’t mean she was looking for trouble. She stole a worried look at her husband. She never understood rebels.

As they hurried back to the parking lot, a man in a car at the edge of the lot flicked a half-smoked cigarette out his window. He seemed to be watching them, Marge thought. She shook her head. She must be imagining things.

* * *

Mirrored bronze panels reflected a series of chandeliers that drenched the hotel lobby in a giddy display of light. The casino was off to one side. Larry gave it a wide berth and headed for the elevators, but Marge peeked in as she passed.

A room as big as a football field, the perimeter was rimmed with slot machines for the little old ladies and pigeons. Circular pits for poker, roulette, and blackjack took up the center, with rectangular crap tables around them. It was barely six o’clock, but coins were already clinking, cards were being dealt, roulette wheels clacked. Loud electronic music made it impossible to think. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? Hundreds of greedy souls flocked to the place every night, each thinking they were the exception to the rule. They would beat the house. Larry had been one of them, Marge thought.

As she crossed to the elevator, she wondered how long it would before someone noticed the bald, pudgy man with a dingy box under his arm. He did look suspicious. She slipped in front to shield him. She knew this wasn’t a good idea.

But I had it when I checked in. A brassy redhead in tiger-striped pants complained loudly at the front desk.

Ma’am, I’m doing everything I can. The desk clerk’s tuxedo was wrinkled, and stringy hair grazed his shoulders. He fingered one of several earrings in his ear. Marge wasn’t partial to men with earrings, but she knew she was supposed to be tolerant.

I talked to housekeeping, he was saying. Put up a notice in the employee lounge. I even put a reward out for the bracelet.

Sure you did. The woman glared. You got some nerve, you know? Our money’s not good enough for you. You gotta steal everything that’s not nailed down.

The desk clerk broke eye contact with the woman and—impolitely, Marge thought—looked around. His eyes swept past them but then came back and focused, Marge realized with a start, on Larry and his package. She stepped closer to her husband, but it was too late. The lady in tiger pants was still carping, but the desk clerk couldn’t take his eyes off Larry. As the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside, he picked up the phone.

* * *

Back in their room, Larry took the box into the bathroom. He wiped it down with a damp towel, then felt around the seam.

Marge stood at the door. Please, Larry. It’s not too late. Don’t open it. What if it’s anthrax?

Marge. He growled. If you aren’t gonna help, at least get out of the way.

Her mouth tightened. Then, At least let me try to find you some gloves.

Huh?

Rubber gloves. I saw a drugstore around the corner off the Strip.

Larry shook his head. He didn’t care about germs. Something was inside that box. It was a sign. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. What with the lousy economy, he hadn’t made his quota last quarter. Then there was last night. He needed a break. And God was finally sending him one.

At least, let me wipe it with a little bottle of bleach. Marge persisted. It destroys viruses.

He caught his wife’s reflection in the mirror. She’d always been a little loony, but now it had become big time. Quoting all those bimbos on TV. Yakking away about the environment. Refusing to let him eat fries or Cap’n Crunch. Too many carcinogens. He didn’t know what she wanted any more. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been trying. He’d agreed to come here, even though he liked the Dells just fine. But Marge wanted something new. Exotic. Well, he scowled, she sure got that in spades. He picked up the box and looked underneath.

At least let me put some alcohol on it. Marge pulled out a bottle of alcohol from her travel kit. Saturating a cotton ball, she dabbed it on the box. A sharp, antiseptic smell filled the room.

For cryin’ out loud, Marge.

He snatched the box out of her hands. She was acting like Donna Reed on steroids. He wanted to pry open the box, but the lock seemed to be warped, bent at an odd angle. Even with the right tools, it would be tough to open. But he didn’t even have a screwdriver. He wondered if he should call a repairman. An engineer, they probably called them here. A fancy place like this probably had a slew of them, all expecting to pocket a huge tip just for changing a frigging light bulb.

He grabbed the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror he saw Marge paw through her bag again. Frigging thing was big enough to hold an entire drug store. She pulled out a small, chunky red plastic object. With a white cross on it.

A Swiss Army Knife! He spun around. How the—

She smiled as if she was reading his mind. "I was reading this survey of female travel writers—you know, in New Woman magazine? It said if you don’t have a travel alarm or a Swiss Army Knife, you’re not properly packed. She handed it over. Most women like the scissors and the small blade, but I kind of like the bottle opener."

Larry swallowed his astonishment—every once in a while, his wife still