The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos

By J. Alan Hartman

Just when you thought it was safe to head to the table for Thanksgiving feasting, the Killer Wore Cranberry series is back with a fifth course of pure chaos!

The Killer Wore Cranberry has been acclaimed worldwide for its wicked combination of humor and Thanksgiving-themed mysteries, and this year’s installment is sure to carry on everyone’s new, favorite holiday tradition.

This year’s contributions come from 14 of today’s best and brightest short mystery authors that could be seated at one dinner table: Barbara Metzger, Arthur Carey, Earl Staggs, KM Rockwood, Herschel Cozine, Kelley Lortz, Bobbi A. Chukran, Lesley A. Diehl, Albert Tucher, Maryann Miller, Liz Milliron, Terrance V. Mc Arthur, Betsy Bitner and DG Critchley. And, back by popular demand, Lisa Wagner provides delicious recipes, proving that murder and mystery work best on a full stomach.

So have a seat, pick up your fork and knife (on second thought, maybe not the knife) and get ready to have so many laughs it’s criminal!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Oct 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945447150

Book preview

2017

Chicken Little

Barbara Metzger

1. So the smooth private eye ambled into the sleazy bar and ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey. He ordered the same for the gorgeous blonde broad in the dark red sweater at the end of the bar.

Or, in my case, the scruffy insurance investigator limped into the Stanhope Hotel’s lounge. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pale ale from the local Stanhope brewery. The attractive young woman nearby raised her martini glass to me, a smile on her lips. They were nice, full lips that were the same dark red as her nicely filled turtleneck sweater.

Hi, she said. I’m Layla.

I finished my beer and left. I didn’t do hookers.

2. The hardened private dick went home to his bare-bones hired rooms, to a restless, watchful sleep with his gun nearby.

I got to the apartment over my downstairs office and slept like a baby, a sketch pad by my side, with sweet dreams of a green-eyed blonde in a red sweater. I woke up feeling I’d missed out on something, but with time for some shop work in the basement.

My managing bully of a brother called down, reminding me of an appointment I knew I didn’t have. Seems I did now. Important people are coming. You need to impress them. Coffee is on, and I sent out for pastries for the clients.

You’re fired.

You know you can’t fire me, Chick. I’m a lawyer and your partner. We need the money.

We didn’t, but Bill was an investment counselor as well as a patent attorney. He lived for money. I’d rather tinker with my inventions in the basement than see clients.

At precisely eleven, Bill tapped on my office door, opened it and started to usher in my unwanted guests, introducing them as they proceeded to shake my hand. Mrs. Ceci Barr came first, obviously the matriarch of the group. Or the queen mother, the regal way she held herself. Seventies, I guessed, with a trim figure showcased in a deep red wool pantsuit, black silk blouse, and black and white pearls worth more than my car. I had a flashback like the PTSD I hadn’t suffered in years, to a similar color on a cashmere sweater last night. Damn, I should start dating more.

I shook it off in time to shake the next woman’s hand as Bill left and Mrs. Barr took over the introductions. My daughter, Sally Fredrickson-Barr.

The younger version had streaked blonde hair instead of the mother’s silver, but she had the same erect posture and the same sharp nose. And the same damned red clothes, this time a dark red jacket with a black skirt and a thick gold necklace.

The elder Mrs. Barr proudly presented her granddaughter next, Layla. I proudly kept myself from jumping through the window. She wasn’t a hooker?

Thank goodness for Sally, the middle Barr. She became hostess, offering tea or coffee and passing the plate of pastries, because I could not get a word past my lips that didn’t start with an f.

Who the fuck gave their daughter a porn star name, and why were they dressed like a fucking set of Russian nesting dolls? Layla had on a skimpy, sexy dress—in the same fucking red—with a black belt and high black boots.

While they were all fussing with creamers and sugar tongs—where the fuck had they come from? I studied the three gold business cards Bill had placed on my desk. Raised red letters informed me that they all belonged to—or it belonged to them—a company named Cran-Barree Couture, kind of like crème brulee is pronounced, I supposed, which also kind of explained the dark red clothing they all wore and likely produced. Nothing explained what the fuck they were doing in my office. I handled insurance claims, not trust funds.

I cleared my throat. So what brings you ladies here?

If I thought I was in charge, Ceci Barr quickly set me straight. Before we start, Mr. Lydell, please be kind enough to satisfy my curiosity. She waved one of my own plain white business cards from the front desk. We carefully investigated your background before making this appointment, without discovering why in the world you would name your company Chicken Little. She gestured at the well-furnished room. They’d sent the hot-looking granddaughter as an advanced scout. I glared at Layla. She returned my glare with a grin.

The name came from my older brother, I told Mrs. Barr. He was a bully as a kid—and the bastard still tried to be—who always terrorized me. So he called me Chick instead of the Chuck our parents intended for me, Charles Lydell Junior. Chicken Little was inevitable.

Layla smiled again and said, But you’re no cringing coward. You’re a decorated veteran, a retired police officer, even a hero at your college.

Anyone could find that on the Internet, along with the other bullshit. I joined the Army to avoid an arrest for beating the crap out of brother Bill, over a woman who happened to be my wife at the time. I got blown up in the god-forsaken desert. Rehabbed and sent back in time to get shot. In the back, in the head, in the leg. I got an honorable discharge, a handful of service medals, my back pay and a disability allowance. Then I went to college on the Army’s dime. And got shot there by a rogue security guard with a rifle. Brave, no. I tripped him with my cane when I was down. Bill, finally an attorney, threatened to sue the school, the state, the gun-seller, the local police and anyone else responsible for letting the psycho on campus. Hence the house, my workshop and Bill’s student loans all paid off. I got unlimited years of free tuition and nine months more of agonizing rehab until I managed to pass the local police force’s physical by sheer will power. And got shot again, this time by friendly fire. Hence more surgery, more rehab, more disability payments, an early retirement, a pension from the union, and a quick granting of my P.I. license and carry permits. I also had a permanent limp and a body that could never pass an airport security screening. No hero, just a survivor. Now I work for insurance agencies and private employers, checking liability claims, I said, hoping to bring this entire conversation to an end. Nice, safe work. So is that what this is about? A workman’s comp issue?

Mrs. Barr placed a check on my desk and announced it was a retainer fee. A quick glance showed a lot of zeros.

So talk to me.

My husband Auggie died recently in an automobile accident, the matriarch said, a tremor in her voice at having to say the words. I expressed my condolences and waited.

And the insurance company will not pay.

Ah, finally where I came in. So the insurance company denied death benefits. On what grounds?

Layla spoke up, maybe to save her grandmother from having to tell the story over again. They are calling it a suicide.

Not quite my field, but I told her to go on, from the beginning.

Layla continued, with help from her mother and grandmother. Mr. Augustus Barr, CEO and cofounder of the family’s highly successful clothing company, was driving home from work by himself one evening a few weeks ago. No one witnessed the accident.

Mrs. Barr was at home, waiting. Layla had an apartment of her own in the city. Her mother was cooking, and Rudy Fredrickson, Sally’s second husband, not Layla’s father, was in his garage working on his model airplanes at their own house nearby.

Weird hobby for the CFO of Cran-baree, but not pertinent. Okay, so what did the police say happened?

The back road was well-lighted, with no animal remains left, and no skid marks. They said he aimed straight for the bridge, hit the concrete head-on and died instantly.

Ah, the abutment did it. So why not call it a freak accident? A heart attack? An animal that leaped away? A mechanical malfunction?

The autopsy, it seemed, found no disease or drugs, just the tiniest trace of liquor that Mrs. Barr insisted was from Auggie’s usual cocktail at lunch. They searched the scene, had the car inspected. All they found was a text message on his phone that he sent Ceci saying before the accident: I’m sorry.

Ceci was quietly weeping. Layla patted her hand. I’m sure he was sorry to keep you waiting for dinner.

The police were undecided, Layla told me, what to label the crash until they got an anonymous caller claiming Barr was having an affair, that he had offshore accounts, that he was embezzling funds from the family trust and the IRS.

Mrs. Barr sat up straighter. None if it is true.

It all could have been true, though. That was enough for the insurance company, but not for Ceci. They’d held a memorial, but no proper funeral yet, because they had so many questions.

So did I, like why they thought I could convince the insurance company to pay up.

You can look into things the police haven’t had time or inclination for once they made up their minds.

I could, but I would not. There is a problem. If your husband’s death was neither accident nor suicide, then it was murder. Now I turned around the nameplate on my desk so they could read the reverse side. Instead of Ch. Lydell, PI, this side spelled out: I DO NOT GET SHOT. In capital letters. Murderers are dangerous. They’re willing to do anything to keep from being caught, including eliminating the investigator who gets close to finding proof of the crime. They fight back. Often with guns. I tapped the wooden block on the desk for emphasis. I do not get shot. And that is why the company is called Chicken Little. I slid Mrs. Barr’s check back to her side of the desk.

She sighed. Other than wishing to repair the damage to my husband’s reputation, did I mention that the accidental or wrongful death insurance policy Auggie carried was for four million dollars? I am prepared to pay you a quarter of that if you can prove he did not die by his own hand. Aside from your retainer fee, of course.

Ah.

And, yes, I am the sole recipient, so the police look at me sideways for fighting so hard to find another cause of the accident. She started to weep again. As if I want to live without him.

They all had tears in their eyes now too. Not me, not the ex-soldier, not the former cop or the tough as nails private eye. Spenser would be proud of me. My mother wouldn’t.

You don’t need me, Mrs. Barr, you need forensic experts for the accounts, the accident scene and the autopsy reports. You need computer wizards and phone hackers to track down that anonymous tip. Then you might have something to show to the police. Let them go after the bad guys. It’s their job. Not mine.

She took another check from Sally, the details person. This one also had a goodly amount of zeros.

The retainer is yours to keep, no matter the outcome. Use this money to hire all those people, ones you trust, experts who won’t fit the evidence to some preconceived notion. I do not expect you to confront a cold-blooded killer, just find him for me. I will have no peace until you do.

I excused myself while I conferred with my brother.

What, are you crazy? He was already making out contracts for them to sign, document release papers to have notarized, search warrants and deposit slips for the checks. If you don’t get them in here to make this official, I’ll shoot you myself.

Layla stayed behind when the others moved across the hall to the big-shot lawyer’s office. I wasn’t stalking you, you know. We’re staying at the Stanhope and they said you might stop by. I just wanted to meet you, to be sure you were the right investigator for us. I’d like to take you to dinner, to make up for my presumption.

Which was nothing compared to my asinine assumption.

The steely-eyed P.I. knew it was important to hear her take on the accident. The jackass accepted her invite because he might dream about her forever otherwise.

3. She didn’t wear red. I wore a clean shirt. Layla didn’t try to hide her sorrow. I didn’t try to hide my limp. She swore her grandfather would never kill himself.

Make me believe it.

So she told me of his devotion to his family, his employees, his charitable foundations. Auggie and Ceci were going to host a benefit in the spring to raise money for a new wing at the local hospital. For Thanksgiving, he sent turkeys to every food pantry. At Christmas, he handed out truckloads of teddy bears with cranberry-colored ribbons at the hospital and homeless shelters.

Does that sound like someone who would take his own life?

No. It sounded like some kind of saint, not a suicide. So what do you think happened?

After that lying phone call about an affair and embezzlement, I knew someone wanted to hurt him, hurt us. You’ll tell us who and why."

I wish I were as confident. I liked her grandmother, liked what I knew about Mr. Barr, and liked this woman. More and more. Too much more, which was why I took her back to the hotel right after dinner and left her at her room, my brother’s words echoing in my head: Hands off the client or the case is in the toilet. And just so you know, we get a million if you get the insurance company to pay up; two million if you get shot.

I was a good detective. I stayed objective. I stayed out of the investigation, too, hiring true professionals to do the work for me, and quickly. Everyone wanted to wrap this up before Christmas, and it was almost Thanksgiving. This year the Barrs were gathering at Sally and Rudy’s home, with everyone making a dish that had cranberries in it, as a weird testament. They invited me.

I’ll think about it. And see how I stood with a certain member of the family by then. So far I stood tall.

I read reports and made lists.

My expert mechanic called to say he’d found nothing wrong with the car—or its pieces. He did collect dusty residue from the shattered windshield, likely from fire suppressant after the crash, but he sent samples away anyway. He also took pictures of some strange tracks in the same stuff on the roof; maybe from the heavy equipment used to cut it off to get the body out. He seconded the accident inspector’s conclusion that all the damage to the car was from the bridge, not from a rock or a brick being tossed from above.

My files already had a letter from the Mercedes dealer assuring me that no one could hack into the electronic systems to disable the vehicle.

I did drive Mr. Barr’s path to the bridge to see the scene for myself. Not many cars traveled the narrow road; a lone housepainter in his van had called in the accident.

I walked along the edge of the road looking for anything the police might have missed. All I found was some windblown trash, a couple of new-looking cigarette butts, and a piece of white plastic under a pile of leaves I kicked up. I stuck it in my pocket.

My copy of the police evidence list had photos of endless trays and plastic bags. I checked that my own tech guy had signed the damaged laptop and cell phone out to his own lab already.

The elder Barrs’ family physician had no hidden diagnoses or referrals, only sorrow. Lillian Carpentier, Barr’s secretary for the last twenty years, had nothing for me but tears. Everyone loved him. And no, there has never been a hint of scandal. I chatted up some other employees. They all had black armbands and nothing bad to say about the boss. Sally had started going back into work, but she had nothing new to tell me. Her husband, Rudy, was out of the office, frantically trying to coordinate suppliers and buyers and everything else his in-laws had handled.

My forensic crews better have answers, because I had nothing. Despite that, I reported to Layla—that is, to my employer, Ceci Barr—at the Stanhope every day, often having dinner with them. Just doing my job. Layla stayed on at the hotel to keep her grandmother company. She kept me company sometimes too. We took in a movie, a jazz combo and a stand-up comic, coffee, ice cream, a beer tasting. We accompanied well.

Ceci wanted more of her clothes and such but she could not bear to go home to her empty house yet, not to begin clearing out Auggie’s closets and his study. I decided to look around the house myself. Ceci gave us keys and combinations.

Layla and I set out in her Escalade on a perfect fall day. I’d have enjoyed the ride better if she didn’t drive so fast.

She laughed. No wonder they call you Chicken Little.

Somehow we reached the gated entrance to the place she called the Bog. The Barr mansion had the typical long winding