Fair Play: A Lupa Schwartz Trilogy

By J. David Core

Fair Play features three full length novellas, Overlord, Counterfeit, and Confessions of the Cuckold, each a stand-alone story in the Lupa Schwartz universe.
Cattleya Hoskin has settled into the Schwartz residence and into her new gig chronicling Schwartz’s exploits for Gamut Magazine. With cases running dry, she takes matters into her own hands and pushes Schwartz to investigate a case that has the entire country buzzing, the on-air poisoning of a reality game show contestant on Cattleya’s favorite TV program, Overlord.
Schwartz next takes Cattleya undercover to investigate the death of a small-time store manager in their old stomping grounds of Paine County, Ohio. With a renewed passion for logic puzzles as fuel, can Cattleya solve the homicide before Schwartz, or are all of her attempts going to prove to be Counterfeit?
Finally, is a bounty hunter ever supposed to share as much information on a former client as the unnamed protagonist in this peripherally related yarn? Was there ever even a murder plot to begin with, or was it all just the fanciful Confessions of the Cuckold?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. David Core
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311135087

J. David Core

With a profound interest in religion, liberal politics and humor, Dave began writing in High School and has not given up on it since. His first professional writing jobs came while attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh when he was hired to create political cartoons for The Pitt News and to write humor pieces for Smile Magazine. Dave has worked in the newspaper industry as a photographer, in the online publishing industry as a weekly contributor to Streetmail.com, and was a contributing writer to the Buzz On series of informational books and his story, The Bet in Red Dust, was published at the Western online anthology, Elbow Creek.Dave’s science fiction novel, Synthetic Blood and Mixed Emotions, is available from its publisher, writewordsinc.com.Dave currently resides in his childhood home in Toronto, OH with his beautiful girlfriend and his teenage daughter. He enjoys participating in local community events and visiting with his two adult children and his grandson.

Book preview

Fair Play

By J. David Core

Published by J. David Core at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 J. David Core

This omnibus containing three novellas is dedicated to my friends and family for all of their patience understanding and help. Special thanks to my beta readers, Karen Shell, Lauren Briese, Damien Buty, Willow Humphrey, Camille LaGuire, and Deirdre Gould.

Cover illustration by the author

Other titles in this series:

Extreme Unction

Common Sense

Fair Play

Shared Disbelief

Download the series NOW!

Info on all of these titles available at my website!

Coming Soon:

Five Secrets

&

Hard Boiled

Author’s Note

This book consists of three novellas, each occurring in the same fictional universe established in the first two full-length Lupa Schwartz novels, Extreme Unction and Common Sense. It is not necessary to have read the first two novels in order to enjoy these stories. Each Lupa Schwartz mystery is a standalone narrative with a beginning and conclusion which can be enjoyed all by its self. However, it is my hope that you, the reader, will be interested enough after having met the characters of Lupa’s household that you will seek out the other tales in the canon. With no further ado, I present, Fair Play: A Lupa Schwartz Trilogy.

Table of Contents

ToC

Copyright Info

Author’s Note

Overlord

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Counterfeit

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Confessions of the Cuckold

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Sample Chapter

Notice

Author Bio

Overlord

Chapter One

They’re not going to let you in with that, Cat, Mia said pointing to the near-full foam cup of hot chocolate I’d bought at the carry-out to drink while standing in line for the movie. There were four of us in our group: Mia, a sultry, dark-haired female mechanic; Beverly, a pretty, mature, blonde housekeeper; Lupa Schwartz, a – well – he’s hard to describe; and me, a magazine reporter who had just recently become a member of this mishmash of a household after the death of my ex-husband with whom I had recently been trying to reconcile.

They might, I said, but I didn’t really want to discuss my beverage since I had intentionally brought it to make a point, so I changed the subject. "Hey, wasn’t that something about Myron from Overlord?" Overlord was a reality style TV game show.

What about him? Mia asked.

Didn’t you hear? Beverly asked tossing her head and flipping her blond pony-tail excited at the chance to tell the story. He died this afternoon; poison. Somebody fed him pokeweed.

Excuse me, Schwartz said to the young heavily-pierced couple standing in line in front of us. Excuse me, would you mind putting that out? As Schwartz made his request, Beverly buried her face in her jacket. These kinds of confrontations embarrassed her to the point of physical discomfort.

We’re outside, man, the Young Turk noted, his lip-ring bobbing as he spoke calling attention to the healing infection of his newest piercing. There’s no law against smoking outside.

Just put it out, Billy, the Young Turk’s anemic girlfriend said with an eye-roll. It isn’t worth the hassle.

Thank you, Schwartz said as Billy stamped out his smoke. Both the young smoker and his snippy little girlfriend curled their lips and made tsk noises and sighs laden with ennui, then went about their business.

What are you doing? I said to Schwartz concerned that if he made an issue of this it might interfere with a political statement I had been planning to make.

What’s pokeweed? Mia asked returning to the conversation we had previously initiated.

Beverly answered her, shifting the focus of our conversation. It’s a plant that grows wild and gets little clusters of dark purple berries. Beverly was also Schwartz’s private gardener, so she knew a lot about weeds. Remember that wild-berry centerpiece I put together last Thanksgiving? It had pokeweed berries hanging over the edge.

Oh, yeah, Mia said. So somebody poisoned Myron with berries?

They don’t know that somebody else did it, I pointed out. It could have been an accident. Maybe he ate it himself by mistake.

He didn’t die from eating the berries, Beverly said. Nobody would eat more than a few, and the berries aren’t that poisonous. I think he probably ate the leaves; but even then, he must have eaten a lot.

Well, how could he have eaten any and not been seen? Mia asked. Aren’t the cameras on them all day long?

That’s what they were saying on television today, Beverly said. It doesn’t make any sense.

Excuse me, Schwartz was saying again to Billy the pin-head and his pin-cushion girlfriend. What do you think you’re doing?

Just before his interruption, Schwartz had watched in dismay as Billy had spotted another couple with too many holes in their faces, and had invited them to join them in line. They’re friends of ours, Billy explained. We’re letting them cut line. Is that a problem?

As a matter of fact, Schwartz boomed, it is. Our position on line is anterior to theirs. You can’t allow just anybody to supplant my position in the queue.

What? Billy said as a small dry scab of saliva stretched in the corner of his mouth.

Schwartz sighed a lament for the loss of the American lexicon and clarified. No cutting.

Forget you, man, Billy said — only he didn’t really say forget.

Schwartz pulled an expression of supreme disbelief. Is it your position that what you are doing here is acceptable social behavior? Schwartz asked imploring a debate with a punk whose idea of winning an argument probably involved throwing the last punch. I shook my head in denial of the mounting likelihood that Schwartz was going to undermine my planned demonstration.

They’re my friends, Billy said inflating his not-so-imposing chest. I was saving them a place in line.

Folderol! Schwartz said. You didn’t even know they’d be here until you saw them arrive.

Lupa, Beverly said taking Schwartz by the sleeve.

You can’t prove that, Billy said.

Schwartz pulled on his lips, the sure sign that he had gotten an idea. Sir, he said addressing the father of three who was standing with his wife and children in line just ahead of Billy and his coterie. Sir, Schwartz repeated pulling his wallet from his pocket as the man turned to see who was speaking to him. Here is the twenty dollars I had promised you for saving my place on line. As he spoke he pressed a bill into the stunned man’s hand and stepped into line behind him. Much obliged, Schwartz said winking.

Hey! Billy said as his girlfriend took his sleeve.

He was saving my place, Schwartz insisted as the puzzled patron shrugged and pocketed the double-sawbuck. Prove that he wasn’t.

Let it go, Billy the waif said as Billy and the other young line-cutter stood brooding.

You don’t mind if I let my friends in front of me, do you? Schwartz asked taunting poor Billy.

Go ahead, Billy said with a sneer. It don’t matter.

Thank you, Schwartz said. I have a lot of friends. At that he waved Mia, Beverly and I in front of him to our new positions on line. Mia took her place first with a sort of prideful joy. I followed thinking that things might simmer down now, and Beverly bashfully brought up the rear. Then Schwartz stepped out of line and addressed the crowd. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for joining us here tonight. I’ve reserved you all a place in line directly behind me. If you would all come up and step into line between myself and these four young people here...

Now wait a minute, Billy said stepping from the line himself. That ain’t right.

You’re absolutely correct, Schwartz said smiling the broad satisfied smile that caused his eyes to disappear in a splash of branching crinkles as the crowd began to shuffle nervously. It would be much simpler for you and your friends just to take your rightful places at the end of the line.

It’s all right, someone said from the crowd. We’re fine.

It is not all right, Schwartz said. Line cutting is a crime of arrogance. Now that — I thought — is a familiar line. He actually carried cards that commented about a crime of arrogance to place on the windshields of cars whose tires he’d routinely flattened in a form of citizen’s arrest. But if you are all uncomfortable demanding justice, I understand. I’ll just have to make do with what justice I can mete out. He stepped back into line, and calm gradually returned as the ticket window opened for business.

Perfect — I thought — that resolved itself just in time.

So how do they think he got the poison, Mia asked as we began to move forward.

Who? I asked.

Myron, she said.

Oh, right. Sorry, I said. They have no idea. They don’t think it was in his dinner that night. They all ate the same thing. It was part of the production for the Internet audience.

What do you mean? Mia asked.

Every Friday the producers throw a theme dinner for the contestants and people watch it on the net, I explained. Yesterday, it was a Mexican meal served one course at a time while a band and some dancers from Mexico performed. The first course I think was tacos brought in on a community tray, and they all ate as the performers danced and sang. Then they brought out a hot plate of fajitas and then chilies rellenos. I think they had Mexican beers and Sangria too. Then they had churros.

Maybe one of the servings was poisoned after it was brought in, or maybe before it was brought in, Mia suggested.

No, Beverly said. That doesn’t make sense. I saw the video on the news. Everything was brought out on a community tray one course at a time, and everybody just took what he or she wanted. Nobody could have known who would eat what. I looked back over my shoulder and noticed that Schwartz was still tugging at his lip.

Maybe it was in the beer or the sangria, Mia suggested.

It could have been in the wine, I said, Except that only Myron was poisoned. Nobody else even got sick.

Well, Beverly said, if it was in the wine, they’ll find out. It’s being tested along with all of the rest of the food and the dishes left over from their dinner.

They’re doing an autopsy too, I said. They’ll find out what was poisoned from his stomach contents.

How many please? the ticket girl asked as we reached the front of the line.

One for theater two, Beverly said since we had agreed to all go Dutch-treat.

One for me too, Mia said as she passed her money through the slot. Same show.

Me too, I said stepping up and brandishing my cup. One for theater two.

You can’t take that inside, Miss, the ticket pusher said with a scowl aimed directly at my cup.

Why not? I asked innocently.

I told her that, Mia said in no way helping my cause.

We have a policy, the clerk said. No outside food to be taken into the theater. If you want something to drink, we have a concession stand.

Does your concession stand have hot chocolate? I asked.

No, ma’am, the clerk admitted. It doesn’t.

Then I can’t get what I want from your concession stand at all, I said, as the clerk made a face that said, I’ve-fought-this-fight-with-better-than-you. I tell you what, I parried. If you’ll let me take my drink inside, I’ll buy some popcorn; a small one. On the other hand, if you make me leave it outside, I won’t buy anything. It’s your choice. Break the rule designed to sell concessions and actually sell some concessions, or keep the rule and sell nothing. What do you say?

I’m sorry, ma’am, the clerk said. I can’t break the rule for one person, and enforce it for everybody else.

May I say something? Schwartz asked.

I’m handling this, I said. Fine, I said turning to the woman behind the glass. I’ll toss out my drink, but I meant what I said about not buying any of your concessions. I gave her my money and placed the almost-empty-cup on the ground next to the trash feeling that I had made my point.

How many, the clerk said turning to Schwartz and forgetting all about the moral victory I had just won over her.

All of them, Schwartz said.

I’m sorry, sir? the woman said.

I want to buy all of the remaining tickets for both theaters, Schwartz said.

I can’t let you do that, sir, the woman said. There are too many people who have waited too long on line.

Actually, I’m buying the tickets for the people waiting on line behind me, Schwartz said turning and staring hard at the four punks with whom he’d had his run-in over line-cutting. An evil smile took over his face. Well, for most of the people on line behind me that is.

Chapter Two

It was the night before that Beverly and I had unknowingly watched Myron die live on television. It had been almost two months since I’d moved into Lupa Schwartz’s large Victorian on Hazelwood Ave. in the Squirrel Hill section of Pittsburgh. I’d been provided one of the five quaint bedrooms on the second floor near Schwartz’s live-in cook and housekeeper, Beverly Seanesy, and his assistant mechanic, Mia Giovani. Bev fed and cleaned up after every member of the household, so it was almost like having a new mother, which was nice, but it left me with precious little to do with my time. This new living situation had come about after Schwartz and I had twice teamed up to publicize his tactics in solving murders, one of which had involved my now-deceased ex-husband. The move was – for me, a fresh start, and – for Schwartz – a PR dream.

The idea had been that the move would make it all the easier to cover the increasingly famous detective’s exploits for the news department of Gamut Magazine. Unfortunately, in that time he hadn’t had one single case worth writing about. We had come close a couple of times as a few cases showed promise; like the disappearance of the Goth musician, but that had proven to be a suicide, and the huge gun theft that Schwartz had refused to investigate because he said the victim had deserved to have his munitions stolen. So I’d been left with nothing to cover, and I’d been forced to edit other people’s work just to earn my salary.

It was especially frustrating since I knew that in the six months leading up to my move from Cleveland to Pittsburgh, Schwartz had been involved in no less than seven story-worthy cases, including the two I had covered personally while living in Cleveland, though I’d had to travel to do it. A harsher irony was that the writer I was currently editing was the new entertainment writer, Clement Foyer, who had gotten the job with my help and had only just immigrated to Cleveland from Pittsburgh at the same time I had emigrated the other way. He had found success by moving to Cleveland, while I had found only boredom by moving away.

So I found myself developing cabin fever, and actually wishing that somebody would hurry up and kill someone so I would have something else to do. It was with that secret desire needling at the back of my mind that the night before our visit to the movies I had settled into the den with Beverly to watch that Friday’s installment of the third season of Overlord, the hit reality game show that was all the rage during that February’s sweeps period.

I had tried to convince Schwartz to join us, but he had refused saying that reality television was, the entertainment equivalent of rubbernecking an accident. I told him that this show was different. It was about problem solving, and the psychology of group dynamics. But the truth was that as game shows go, there was nothing particularly original about Overlord. In fact, the premise borrowed heavily from several pre-existing shows. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell him that.

He begrudgingly permitted me to explain to him the premise. I tried doing it with gusto and urgency. Sixteen strangers are selected to live together for just over three months in a walled complex, I began. With their every movement under constant surveillance, they’re divided into two teams of eight, and the teams compete against each other for rewards and the right not to take ‘the test’ while also working together to solve puzzles and (starting with a million dollar kitty) to build a pot that could be the grand prize for one finalist. I leaned in to make this next part all the more titillating. The twist is that one of the contestants is actually playing a completely different game. He or she is the overlord, and therefore knows the solutions to the puzzles in advance.

That seems a rather unfair advantage, Schwartz said condescendingly stating the obvious.

Well, I defended, the object for the overlord is to sabotage the group effort to build the pot without being discovered. You see, any money he or she keeps from the team pot goes into the overlord’s pot. Each week, all of the contestants on that week’s losing team are tested on who they think the overlord is. They rank each of their fellow contestants from both teams on a five point scale as to how likely they think it is that he or she is overlord, and the contestant who ranks the actual overlord lowest overall is eliminated.

What if two or more contestants wind up with the same low score? Schwartz asked, and I could not tell whether his interest was feigned or real.

In the event of a tie, I explained, the contestant whose mean score for all other contestants skews furthest from accurate is eliminated. And what makes the game fun, and adds to the confusion, is that several contestants are strategically behaving suspiciously so that their fellow contestants might score them with a higher probability as being the overlord.

I can see where that might be interesting to some people, Schwartz demurred. You said there are two pots, but only one winner. How is that decided?

In the final episode each season, I told him, when all but one contestant and the overlord have been eliminated, the two remaining gamers play one final round for the pots that they had built. The fourteen eliminated contestants are brought back into the compound to form a jury, and the two remaining players are given the opportunity to offer evidence to the jury that their opponent was the overlord. The former players (now judges) then use the same voting system as before to rank the two remaining contestants and the one who scores the highest is eliminated, because it means the majority feels that he or she is overlord. At that point, the host appears with two envelopes, each containing a check for one share of the pot. If the winner was the overlord, he or she receives the overlord’s share, and it means the jury was fooled. If not, then the other share is presented. It is not until the moment that the check is presented that the audience learns if the overlord won. He nodded agreeably, and this is where I screwed things up as far as getting him to watch an episode.

I continued talking about the show like an excited fan. This season premiered just after new year, so by this time seven contestants have been eliminated. None of the early losers had been particular favorites of either Beverly or myself, so we’re still glued to the set each Friday night rooting for our personal favorites. Beverly decided that she was championing Seth, this muscular lothario type with a receding hairline. My personal favorite is Gwen, the thoughtful mother of three who’s secretly playing all sides against the others. We also each have our picks for who we think the overlord is. I’m convinced that it’s Brad, the slim class-clown type who couldn’t even solve puzzles well enough to qualify as a contestant on Wheel of Fortune. Beverly thinks it’s Peter, the under-the-radar studious one. However, one that we both agree on is our pick for please-God-let-him-be-eliminated-next guy. We both want Myron off. He’s abrasive, he’s dirty, and (worst of all) he’s unattractive.

Enjoy your program, Schwartz said walking away