WhoDunit

By Dina Leacock

An anthology of 34 short mysteries involving a menagerie of animals, some broken machines and a load of red herrings. Let these authors take you on one mysterious adventure after another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jersey Pines Ink
• Release date: Aug 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781948899147

Book preview

Dedication

To my love of mysteries of all kind

Who Dunit, Howduit, etc . . .

Introduction

WHODUNIT?

Time to find out, so open this book and read these 34 short mysteries involving a menagerie of animals, some broken machines and a load of red herrings. Let these authors take you on one mysterious adventure after another.

Grab a ticket and enjoy this thrill ride of ‘who dun its’ and ‘how dun its’.

Table of Contents

The Case of the Lady Bath Blogger

by Philip K Booker

The Reindeer Games

by Teel James Glenn

The Case of the Diamond Rabbit

by Steve Carr

Clean Sweep

by Michael Allan Mallory

Ali’s Cat

by Diane Arrelle

The Mysterious Meatball Murder

by Peter Dichellis

The Millionaire Murder

by Guy Belleranti

Author Author

by Gordon Linzner

Two Smart Turkeys

by Willow Croft

Diamonds and Memories Last Forever

by Anne-Marie Sutton

Iced

by John Higgins

Gilbert the Gecko God of Gimmler County

by Michael D. Davis

The Con

by Ahmed A Khan

Pawprints in the Sand

by Anna Schoenbach

The Kettle Was Right

by Willow Croft

Jasper to the Rescue

by Louise Taylor

The Case of the Broken Watch

by Steve Lockley

To Protect and Spin

by Matt J. Mcgee

Mars Eye

by Michael H. Hanson

Neighbors

by Marie Anderson

Death at Sea

by Frank Kozusko

Murder in Apartment B

by James Blakey

Treasure Cave

by Peter Dichellis

Dark Night of the Iguana

by Tim V. Decker

Baby Talk

by Dawn Debraal

The Tele-Med Murder Case

by Keith P. Graham

Trial and Error

by John M. Floyd

When Nature Calls

by Kevin Hopson

Signed Sealed Dead

by Robert Petyo

Where’s Hugo?

by Hillary Lyon

Murder in the Mcdowells

by Denise Johnson

Cat Patrol

by Dawn Debraal

At 2:54:48

by Jack Bates

Smoking Dog

by Albert Tucher

Nothing like a nice hot bath,

unless it’s hot enough to sizzle.

––––––––

The Case of the Lady Bath Blogger

Philip K. Booker

––––––––

Wow, folks. It’s your guy Byron, the Lady-bath Blogger, here with you. Thank you so much for diving in with me again. It’s been one heck of a week, he said, before giving the camera one of his famously charming smiles. But the water’s nice, and the bubbles are floating. Let’s get started, shall we? Alexa, set the mood, please.

The lighting dimmed in the immaculately staged bathroom, followed by an audible POP! The sound of sloshing water crept through the speakers of the hefty old tablet, and the handsome man in the video slipped out of frame.

* * *

Inspector Elaine Ellie Cartwright had watched this clip of Byron Sanders a dozen times already, studying it for any clues she could glean from it. She plucked her earbuds out of the device and looked over the very same immaculately staged bathroom from the video. Robert Lane, the pudgy Sheriff’s Deputy, had reluctantly agreed to escort her to the death scene.

So, you can see why the coroner called this an accidental drowning. Right? I mean, who the hell says to themselves, I think it’s a brilliant idea to load videos of myself in the tub, surrounded by electronics? A moron, that’s who. Kids these days. Deputy Lane desperately wanted to prove that his initial theory was sound and that he had missed nothing relevant when he’d worked the scene earlier. Sanders died in a simple home accident. Nothing more.

Her clients believed he was wrong. Which was why they’d hired and flown her out here. Now she just had to prove it. The fact that Sociable Media Entertainment had hired her to look into Byron’s death — which local authorities had declared accidental — had obviously perturbed Deputy Lane. It’s not like she relished proving their findings wrong. However, if the suspicions of her client were true, it meant someone had killed Byron Sanders, someone who thought they’d get away with it.

Safety precautions aside, I wouldn’t use moron as an apt description of Byron Sanders. He was clearing a truckload of endorsements and other perks with that show of his, she said.

Whatever you say. Any mook with a phone thinks they can become the next big thing these days. They all want to be rich and famous, but nobody wants to work for a living.

Ellie hadn’t liked the plump little Deputy when she’d first met him. And the more time that she spent in his company, the less it seemed she’d likely change her mind. Older cops typically fell into one of two categories: those that dismissed her out of hand for being a woman, or those that tried to turn on the charm and flirt with her. He was definitely the former. He’d not bothered to conceal the sneer on his little rat-face when she’d given him her P.I. card.

How many people live here at the Hargrove Lodge?

It varies, based on the season, but there’s four units in use now— not counting Sanders — and their former on-site electrician moved out a few days before Byron died.

Samuel Hargrove had constructed the original building of Hargrove Lodge in the early 1900s, hoping the mountain air would help cure his wife’s consumption. The altitude slowed the progression of her tuberculosis, but not enough to save her, and Samuel sold the property after her death. Abandoned for years, the Lodge eventually became a retreat for those who enjoyed getting away from the big cities or hubbub of the larger resort villas. Given the history of the place, Ellie felt bad when her first thoughts of the amazing view were that it was breath-taking.

The insistence that the largest bathroom on the property, along with Sanders’ old room, go undisturbed had not been well-received by the management of the Lodge. Sociable’s compensation had proved to win over their cooperation though, for now. Between that bit of coercion, Ellie’s fees, her travel expenses, and who-knew what else, Sociable was dropping a lot of money on this endeavor. All over a yet unproven hunch. It all seemed a bit much.

Do you have an accounting for where everyone was at the time of death?

The insinuation that he hadn’t done the legwork on everyone’s whereabouts garnered a sour look from Deputy Lane. He pulled the little notepad from his shirt pocket and flipped through it irritably. The manager and the cook were in the kitchen, prepping for dinner service. Marcus Simpson, from Unit 1, was leading a tour group through the Gap until after we’d cleared out. Greta Ellison has been renting Unit 2 since the ice melted, some kind of spelunking hobbyist, and we have GPS confirmation of her being in the caves on the other side of the ridge. Carl Porter was on shift at the gas station in the valley; he’s the manager’s nephew, and lives in Unit 3. Unit 4 was Sander’s place. And Unit 5’s resident is Joe Morgan, who’s laid up in bed with a kidney stone and on enough painkillers to drop an elephant.

And you’re sure the lock to the bathroom was secure when responders arrived on the scene?

Had to kick it in myself, when we got on the scene.

She glanced back at the heavy iron latch that hung in ruined pieces from the door, and slightly adjusted her appraisal of the Deputy. That lock wouldn’t have given way easily. It also would have made enough noise that it should have been audible on the recording. That fact didn’t help her case at all. None of this did, she thought, frowning.

I told you when you got here that this was just an accident, Lane said, reading her disappointment.

The video recording didn’t show any kind of struggle. You’re telling me that a grown man who has built his entire career chatting with people from his bathtub suddenly forgot how to stay upright? That he wouldn’t fight to keep from drowning?

Well, we found his phone in the tub when we broke in, he said with a shrug. Maybe it knocked him out when it fell in?

You’ve never gotten your phone wet, have you?

I dropped one in the crapper once, he said with a bit of embarrassment.

Her nose crinkled in disgust. That was the nightmare of every cellphone owner. Well, engineers have proven a submerged phone doesn’t cause any kind of discharge. It would have taken a serious shock to knock him out long enough to drown.

The doc ran blood alcohol testing and didn’t find levels that suggested that he’d had enough to cause impairment. Eventually, you’re left with the fact that this is what it is, an accident.

Elaine sighed.

Listen, Deputy Lane said, sympathetically. Let me go talk to the manager, get her to have the guests meet with you tomorrow. Then I’ll drive you back to your hotel. You look tired. I know I am. He waited long enough for her to nod and then left.

She didn’t argue. Between the hassle of the flights in, plural, and the lengthy ride here from the Sheriff’s station, she was exhausted. All she wanted to do was lay in a big soaking tub with a glass of wine and relax. Even if, given her current case, that seemed to be a little tasteless. Not that it was an option. The airport hotel that they’d put her up in wasn’t near as nice as the Hargrove, and the tub there was a joke. Checking into a lodge where your client suspects foul play would be ill-advised, though.

That was a damn shame. This really was an amazing tub. There’s just something luxurious about these old clawfoot soakers, she thought as she ran her hand over it in admiration.

She bit her lip, then glanced over her shoulder to ensure she wasn’t being watched. She slid her traveling-flats off her feet and then climbed into the tub, smoothing her skirt out before having a seat.

Heavenly. She really needed to find herself one of these for her place.

She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the back of the surface. Quiet. Other than lying there in her clothes in a dry tub, the only thing that kept her from blissing out was the harsh brightness of the bathroom lighting.

Ugh.

To her left, she saw the black AI box sitting on the windowsill. Without much thought, she muttered, Alexa, set the mood, please.

The blue circlet on the box lit up in acknowledgement, and the bathroom lights dimmed.

Then all of her muscles seized, and the room went black.

* * *

Hot breath pushed into her lungs.

Her chest was killing her.

Why do I hear counting?

Her eyes flew open before he leaned over to give her mouth-to-mouth again.

N-no, she sputtered between weak coughs.

Oh, thank God. I thought we’d lost you, Deputy Lane answered in relief, as he knelt beside her.

A wide-eyed woman, draped in a dark knit cardigan, stood over the Deputy’s shoulder. She was the manager of the lodge, Terry Porter. A swoosh of thick icy-blonde hair fell beneath her jawline in a bob. Elaine guessed that the woman was maybe only a few years older than she was, mid-40s tops.

The pair offered to pull Ellie up, but she waved off the help as her head spun enough to make her lie down again.

That’s when she saw it.

Didn’t you say the electrician on-staff moved out a few days before Byron died?

Uh, yeah.

Her name was Misty Sharps, Mrs. Porter added. Real sweet girl, hard worker too.

Did Sharps tell you why she was leaving, Mrs. Porter?

She nodded, Said she needed to reevaluate her life. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I think Byron dumped her last Monday, saying some nonsense about needing to focus on his work. He wouldn’t have even had his little video-thingy if it weren’t for her.

Why would you say that?

Byron was always a real charmer; he could have made it big some other way too, I guess. But the technical know-how was all Misty. She updated the wiring of the Lodge, got the place set up with wireless internet, and created his website. Heck, even the name for his show was her doing; she used to tease him about taking lady-baths all the time, since he liked to take long soaks.

Deputy Lane, you’re going to want to have someone bring Misty in for questioning.

Why is that?

Because someone has run a lot of wiring directly into the bottom of this tub and attached it to the metal drain, said Elaine, as she pushed herself up. And it looks like it’s rigged to go off when someone tells the voice-box to dim the lights. Seeing as that’s how Byron started off all his blogs, I’d say that paints a clear picture for a jury.

* * *

Misty Sharps agreed to a plea deal for a lesser sentence, with the local D.A. not long after her arrest. In her confession, she swore that she hadn’t intended to kill Byron when she electrified the bathtub. She said that she’d hoped the charge would have been enough to make him jump out of the water and ruin his equipment, and possibly make him flash his own equipment over a live feed.

If it hadn’t ended so tragically—not to mention that it had nearly killed her too—Elaine might have found Misty’s story of prank-gone-bad entertaining. The compensation from Sociable had been enough that she easily could have done a full remodel on her home’s bathroom, complete with clawfoot bathtub. But having to be resuscitated by Deputy Lane soured her on the idea. For now, at least.

When delivering packages, as well

as an eyewitness account,

it’s best to know the facts.

––––––––

The Reindeer Games

Teel James Glenn

––––––––

Murder is an ugly crime in any climate but when it happens in the picture postcard beauty of the snowy north it seems particularly grotesque.

Cities near the Arctic Circle are usually quiet places even as the holidays approach. They are full of folks who’ve elected to leave the hustle and bustle of ‘down south’ cities or who work for the Old Nick himself in one of the satellite shops that make toys for the ‘big day’ which was only a week away. Most people and elves and even the wild life go about their business peacefully living the cycle of the seasons with nothing amiss. When they don’t, I get called in to set things right; I’m a cop.

My name’s Khristmas, Joe Khristmas.

My boss is Captain Kringle, my partner is Kenny Krampus. Yup, one of the big hairy Christmas demons works with the big guy now, sort of a yeti with attitude. But Kenny’s okay, a good partner even if he is almost twice my size.

We were working the Serious Crimes Division out of the Moosejaw precinct when we got the call: a Ten Oh Two—grandma deceased, possible crime.

I and my furry compatriot piled into the police auto-sled and headed off to the northernmost suburb of the town, past the unsuspecting revelers making their last minute holiday purchases. We headed to a little trailer park near the river.

Dead, alright. Trampled, Kenny hissed. His uniform cap slid off his head, where he had jammed it between his horns as he leaned over to look at the moo-moo and mukluk wearing corpse. He just picked up the hat and repositioned it between the curling horns as he spoke. Looks like reindeer tracks, Joe.

It was true; hoof prints marked the mud in front of the trailer of old Mother Gyzander. They paraded onto and over her body, then left bloody, muddy marks up the side of the trailer. All the way. Straight up.

Yup, I said. Flying reindeer, looks like.

I interviewed the only witness: a deliveryman, a guy named Jones from Jiavaro.com, that big online company that had taken so much of the commerce from local stores.

I swear it just jumped up and down on her, snorting and squawking, Jones said. He was a thin guy in a crisp, new, brown uniform, with a little nervous tick in his left eye that made it seem like he was winking all the time.

You say you saw the whole attack? I asked. Kenny was sniffing around the body, literally, his Krampus senses on high as he searched for clues. Having Kenny with me was like having a walking, hairy crime lab.

Well, no, not really, not the whole thing, Jones said. I was in my truck getting a package ready... we organize our routes, you know, to make it easier to get all our deliveries in our area done on time, efficiently, you know?

Uh, huh, I said, taking notes as he spoke. The facts, sir, did you or did you not see the actual attack?

Uh, yes, well, he continued, I had pulled over there to sort my route and was in the middle of it when I heard... I heard this swishing noise, and a scream, and then this thumping. And when I came out, that horrible, antlered thing with the red nose was just finishing stomping on her. Then it ran up the side of the trailer with its bloody hooves and flew away... His voice trailed off.

I waited while the deliveryman dealt with emotions. Civilians are like that, they don’t see what we see. Not that we’re not human (well, except for Kenny) or have no emotions, but we in law enforcement have to remain professional about it. It is not an easy job, but it has to be done.

Kenny caught my eye and I watched as he ambled over to the delivery truck, doing his best to seem casual about it, though there is not much chance of a furred and horned creature like Kenny ever looking casual.

At the truck he paused and sniffed, peering into the open back, then waved me over.

Excuse me, sir, I said to the sobbing man and stepped over to my partner.

Okay, Kenny, I said. Do we put a call in to the workshop to have Rudolph brought in? Gonna put a kink in the Big Guy’s schedule this late in December if he loses his lead sleigh-puller to this.

Kenny waggled his shaggy head at me and pointed into the back of the truck. Among the chaos of boxes I saw what he was looking at, one of those grabber things used to get things down from high shelves. Maybe we wouldn’t have to make that call. We exchanged a look and I knew it was time to play good cop/Krampus cop with Mister Jones.

You say you saw the killer, Mr. Jones? I asked.

Yes, he said.

A reindeer? Kenny growled. To be fair, every time Kenny spoke it sounded like a growl, so he was sort of perfect as the ‘bad cop’ in these things.

Yes.

With antlers? I asked.

Yeah, sure, Jones said. Big muscled thing with a red nose and hooves. It was awful and so—so bloody.

And you actually saw it trample Granny? Kenny drew himself up to his full height and let his fangs show in a half smile, half grimace.

Well, no, Jones said. "I said I heard most of it and then I saw just the end of it as the damn thing skipped