Short Stories by Indie Authors: Short Stories by Indie Authors, #1

By DEAR Indie

Indie authors have once again allowed their creative minds to open up and expand the Universe in which they live with short stories that capture one's emotions through the everlasting medium of storytelling.

This first volume of award-winning short stories by indie authors from across the country takes readers on a personal ride of growth and understanding, then a jaunt through history both factual and fictional, then a trip of magic, suspense, and much more. Those are just a few of the emotions one will experience as they read the 14 winning short stories from prolific indie authors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DEAR Indie
• Release date: Sep 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732367975

Book preview

Discover the locations within the stories.

We welcome readers to discover the locations of places that are in their stories. There are two ways to connect to the locations:

1  – Scan the QR code with your smartphone’s camera and open the website. Then select one of the many flagged areas to see more about the lo- cation.

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2  – You can enter this link (https://maps.squirl.co/ book/1181) in your PC browser, and it will open the map for you.

On both options, you can click on the person icon to actually see a pic of the place to get a better feel for the location.

We hope you enjoy this experience and the stories included in the book.

Realistic Fiction

Magic Jan Sikes 

Contemporary Fiction

The Proviso Joe Kilgore 

Literature Fiction

Baseball in the Attic Sherry Hall 

Realistic Fiction

All the Wrong Places Mary Ann Faremouth 

Fiction

Eyes wide Open Charlotte Canion 

Historical Fiction

Trading Paint Marlene M. Bell 

Realistic Fiction/Mystery

I Promise Renne’ Siewers 

Military Fiction

A Lady Without Means C. Forrest Lundin 

Western Adventure.

Nothing Left to Lose Sandra Fox Murphy 

Paranormal

Authors Revolution B Alan Bourgeois 

Mystery

Alone James Valentino 

True Story

Salsero Van G. Garrett 

Regional Romance

The Case of the Rose Petal Killer

Rich Allan

When the phone rang I knew it would be Captain Moran.

All three local network TV stations had been playing the same lead story since eleven last night. The news anchors in their matching white shirts and blue blazers punched up the same words...Gruesome Stabbing, Blood Everywhere, Rose Petal Killer Strikes Again.

All of San Francisco had remained on edge since the first murder occurred two months ago, a professional wom- an, brunette, 26 years of age, found in front of her apart- ment, still in her silver Acura, keys in hand, driver's seat laid back, fully dressed in a pants suit, stabbed multiple times in the heart, with red rose petals sprinkled liberally over her face and body.

When the second murder happened with the same basic m.o., the media jumped on it and branded the perp as the Rose Petal Killer. This time a young blonde woman was found in Golden Gate Park, several miles from the first crime scene, dressed in jogging bra and shorts, covered in yellow roses, and laid out on a public bench for all to see like a KO'd prizefighter.

Neither woman had been sexually assaulted or touched in any way, except, of course, for the multiple piercings of the heart with a four-inch blade. No evidence had been re- covered by the squint squad from either scene after a thor- ough examination of the bodies and immediate area for fin- gerprints, clothing fibers, skin fragments under the finger- nails, or any other DNA droppings from the killer. Assuming the same guy murdered both women, I suspected the vic- tims must have known him because we found no signs of a struggle.

I answered the phone. Captain.

Dirk, how did you know it was me? You're too cheap to pay for caller I.D.

I watch the news. Are you still at the scene?

Yeah. So drag your ass over here, detective, and solve this thing.

You want to tell me the address? 845 Mason Street.

Nob Hill...the high rent district.

Right across from the Mark Hopkins Hotel. On my way.

I walked down the three flights of steps from my modest apartment to the street and after stopping for my first cup of java at Trader Joe's, headed toward the bus stop on Dolores Ave. I don't own a car because they are expensive and I hate driving, especially on hills, which is the whole damn city. Inconvenient, sure, but I don't care and if I ever need to leave the metro area, I can always request an un- marked car at the station or catch a ride with a black & white. I thought about calling for a lift today but figured, hey, it's a body; Mrs. O'Connell wasn't going anywhere soon.

* * *

I checked out the light green townhome in front of me... three stories high, a six-by-five foot picture window at the top and bottom levels both with yellow frames; in the center, a large Pennsylvania Dutch Hex circle to ward off evil spir- its; the middle unit of a string of houses connected like col- orful paper dolls to the corner.

The structure sat in perpetual shadows, dwarfed by the 400 room, hundred-year-old Mark Hopkins Hotel, like living on the dark side of the moon, permanently stealing the owner’s view of the city and the bay. Hard to believe a place like this with no yard, no garage, and no parking could set you back three to four million bucks.

Cops had the place taped off, but I ducked under and asked a uniformed patrolman for Captain Moran. He told me to check the third-floor master bedroom. Great. More stairs to climb. No chance this old home has an elevator. I

make the ascent and reach the crime scene where the cor- oner and the squints were doing their thing, taking photos, swabbing for DNA and dusting for prints. There on the blood-stained sheet, naked, spread eagle and covered in white roses was victim number three, Mrs. Shirley O'Con- nell, early thirties, not bad looking and pardon the crude ex- pression, built like a brick shithouse.

The Captain spotted me. Where in the hell have you been, Dirk?

I took the scenic route.

When are you going to buy a car? When are you going to give me a raise?

I could assign you an unmarked vehicle permanently. No place to park. Is there a Mr. O'Connell?

He's sitting in the parlor across the hall being watched by one of our guys. He's the one who found her.

You talk to him yet?

Saved the husband for you. He seems pretty shook up.

Any kids around?

Nope, the second marriage for both.

I went to look for Mr. Randy O'Connell and found him sitting on a French-style sofa, the kind with the curved arms; all bent over, elbows on his knees, holding his head with both hands, staring at the Turkish carpet at his feet. The victim's husband looked up when I entered the room. He had been crying and appeared pale.

"I’m Detective Dirk Randolph. How are you doing, Mr.

O'Connell?"

My wife is dead.

Sorry for your loss. Mind if I ask you a few questions? Who would do something like this? Did you see her? I nodded. How long have you been married, Randy?

The middle-aged man with dark curly hair wiped his eyes with the back of his shirt, a custom job that matched the Armani suit coat lying beside him on the sofa. About two years now. She worked with me at my company, Wright Brothers Air Freight.

The one by the airport? That's right.

Was this a happy marriage?

I loved Shirley, he protested. We dated almost two years before I proposed.

Were you still married to your first wife at the time? What does that have to do with it?

Women get jealous.

Ann? Do this? Not a chance. She was getting hers on the side too...with some hippy musician she met at Pier 39. They were both happy to take half my money and go live on a beach somewhere. Besides, look at all those roses. This had to be that serial killer.

Coroner estimates the death at three A.M.; where were you at that time of night?

I was at the airport. We had an important overnight shipment and I wanted to supervise the loading personally. My manager, David Burns, can verify it.

Anyone in your wife's life she didn't get along with...a co-worker, neighbor, or friend?

Shirley retired after we got married, so I didn't see her much during the day, except for a few lunches when I could get away. I'm not sure what she did, although she did men- tion taking some type of exercise class...yoga, Zumba, no wait, I remember, it was kickboxing. She said she could work out her frustrations, build up her confidence, and lose weight at the same time. Shirley always worried about her looks, no matter how many times I told her she was beauti- ful.

By any chance did your wife have an office in the house?

He nodded. Down on the second floor. When he start- ed to weep again, I made my escape. Something about an overly emotional man makes me feel uncomfortable.

I found an Apple laptop sitting on Mrs. O'Connell’s office desk and flipped up the lid...password-protected, of course...so I called the lab guys to take the unit, crack the code, and get me a copy of the victim's schedule for the last six months. Rifling through the desk drawer, a Just for Kicks business card caught my attention; possibly the workout place the husband had mentioned. After bringing the Cap- tain up to date, I left to check out the possible new lead.

* * *

The owner turned out to be Rosa Rodriguez, an ex- Marine who ran Just for Kicks with her wife Joyce, the re- ceptionist and bookkeeper. Rosa taught all the classes and invited me to observe as she led a group of six women of all shapes and sizes through their paces, taking turns kicking the crap out of a punching bag that looked a little like Cap- tain America.

Feeling a little intimidated, I still managed to question each student about Shirley and got the same profile from each...nice lady, friendly, they all liked to hang out together, do lunch, exchange gifts for birthdays and so forth. I asked Joyce for a list of all their members and while waiting, no- ticed sitting on the counter a stack of postcards with a big red heart on the front promising to find prospective clients true love. The Internet address read pinkcupid.com. I stuck one in my jacket pocket.

* * *

Back at the station, I pulled up the website and read the pitch, a dating app exclusively for women. Brandy, another detective, caught me checking out the sample photos and profiles. Hey, Dirk, forget it, you're barking up the wrong tree. These ladies prefer mates on my side of the road.

Good, then you can help me out. They won't give out any real names or contact information unless you join. I want you to sign up and see if you can find a listing for our victim, Shirley O'Connell.

After reimbursing Brandy the $25 to join, I went down- stairs to check with the tech guy to find out how he was do- ing. He had gained access to the victim's computer and handed me a printout of her appointment calendar. One set of entries stood out; a series of three lunches with the same woman, Jane Hanson, including a rendezvous the day be- fore the murder at Top of the Mark, a restaurant near the crime scene.

I returned to the squad room and found Brandy talking

on her cell phone. Yes, I'd love to...your apartment...this afternoon...sure.

I said to Brandy, Who was that?

"Jane Hanson. She pinged almost immediately after I set up my profile and wants to meet. Here's the interesting part, she shows up as a match on Shirley's profile, as well as a love link to Debbie Barton and Sally Lindsey."

Our other two victims; you have an address? Brandy nodded.

I said, Let's roll.

* * *

We knocked on the door of apartment 17D in the Mis- sion District.

Who is it? A smoky woman's voice rang out. It's me, Brandy.

Jane, a wiry, model-tall, comely lady, mid-thirties, bare- foot, and dressed in a see-through white blouse and dark slacks, cautiously opened the door. A girl can't be too care- ful these days.

Seeing me she tried to slam the door shut, but I stuck my shoe in the opening and held tight to the edge with both hands. Not easy. This was a strong, motivated lady. When she stopped struggling, I flashed my badge. Detectives Randolph and Peron. We'd like to ask you a few questions.

We were reluctantly invited into the living room, nicely furnished, with a painting of a formal English garden hang- ing over the mantle, a potted plant in the corner, matched set of easy chairs, and an antique mahogany table. As we sat down on the couch together, Jane's disappointed, hurt eyes flicked back and forth between Brandy and me.

Jane spoke coolly to Brandy, You lied to me. I get very disappointed when someone lies to me.

Brandy replied, Did Mrs. O'Connell lie to you; make promises she couldn’t keep?

I’ve no idea who that is.

Funny, I joined the mix. You had dinner with her the day before she was murdered.

Jane tossed it off. "Oh, you mean Shirley. She never

gave me her last name; a casual hook up. She looked right at me. We had sex...a lot of sex. She drew out the s" sound like a