A Dreadful Lemon Pie

By Timothy P. Banse

Nine Stories, Nine People's Lives In Conflict. See how it ends.

 

A Dreadful Lemon Pie

A Hollywood reporter investigating the brutal murders of LA fashion models gets in over her head after consulting a psychic crime fighter.

Tragic. Murder. Seven women so far. All young and gorgeous. That's what the papers said at the newsstand as two fashion models stood shoulder to shoulder reading the front-page headline. The anorexic blonde whose crystalline blue eyes sold millions of dollars worth of cosmetics shuddered. "This story in the Tribune gives me the creeps."

Her companion in the five-thousand-dollar salmon-colored dress added, "It's not enough we have to fight off amorous photographers. Now we have a psycho too."

 

Harold's Hobby

His neighbors thought of him as a quiet, dull fellow. But then, none of them knew about Harold's Saturday night hobby.

Harold cruised Chicago's near Northside, scanning the sidewalk for possibilities. Zoo Town, as Harold preferred to call the neighborhood, had only a couple of years before been a skid row slum. But these days it was on the rise. The Windy City's trendy, chic-chic neighborhood had transformed itself. It was populated with dozens of chrome-plated and neon bedazzling sports bars and restaurants and Gay haunts as well as some seedy remnants of the old town: Things like sour-smelling winos passed out on the sidewalk in a puddle of their own vomit, cluttering the sidewalk in front of greasy pizza palaces.

 

Kill Joy

A cheating wife lures a complete stranger onto her sailboat over drinks. Things do not end well.

The night shift bartender dutifully wiped whiskey glass after whiskey glass squeaky clean with a pristine white cloth. A quiet Monday evening, so far, his only customer was a young blonde, a regular, sipping gin on ice. Tall, good-looking. Married. The bartender wondered if her middle-aged husband knew how many times she had left the yacht club bar with other guys.

 

Blind Charley's Corner

Rock and Roll, a deadly plane crash, rumors of murder, cannibalism, and a dead chicken.

Snow blanketed the New England white birch and pine trees. So there is no doubt Dangerous Dave knew better than to do what he was about to. The wicked Nor'easter had already dumped a foot of wet snow on the slopes near Burlington, Vermont. New England ski lodge owners were rubbing their hands together in glee in anticipation of all the pending business. But while the blanket of heavy snow was welcome news for Stowe's downhill skiers, the winter storm was not good news for the veteran pilot, Dangerous Dave.

At the airport, visibility was severely limited. On the other hand, the instrument-rated pilot had logged many thousands of hours in the seat of his single-engine Beaver, a lot of that time as a bush pilot out of Fairbanks, Alaska, flying in inclement Arctic weather.

 

To The Moon, Alice

In life, and especially on a commuter flight, you never know whom you're going to end up sitting next to.

Late getting into the Panama City, Florida, airport for my flight to Atlanta, I had been sharing a cab from the beach with a Navy hard hat diver on his way to Pearl Harbor to survey the USS Iowa battleship at her moorings. Its bottom is thin from many decade's worth of corrosion. His job would be to survey exactly how bad the damage was.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Middle Coast Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215654330

Book preview

A Dreadful Lemon Pie

Tragic . . .

Seven women so far.

All young and gorgeous.

That's what the papers said at the newsstand as the two fashion models stood shoulder to shoulder reading the front page headline.

The anorexic blonde whose crystalline blue eyes sold millions of dollars’ worth of cosmetics shuddered. This story in the Tribune gives me the creeps.

Her companion wearing the five-thousand dollar salmon-colored dress added, It's not enough we have to fight off amorous photographers, now we have a psycho too.

Bizarre, said the blonde, Why's he only go after models?

Dunno. Must be some religious cult. Damn paparazzi, she muttered.

They walked in silence to the doorway of a parking garage. Their six-inch stiletto heels resonated, click-clack, click-clack.

The blonde smiled. Listen, Tony's coming over and I haven't been to the grocery for a week. Need avocados for salad. Better dash.

Her friend gave a commiserative nod. See ya tomorrow. I'll bring that emerald blush eye-shadow we talked about.

The blonde waved, then stepped off into the darkness of a thousand parking stalls scattered amidst the oil stained concrete floor. Hers was the shiny, red Mercedes convertible with the personalized plate proclaiming her as: LUSCIOUS.

She flopped her copy of the Tribune onto the black leather passenger seat and slide behind the wheel. Seat belt buckled and about to poke the key in the ignition, she heard footsteps. She turned. Oh, my God, no. No, She screamed and then covered her eyes with both her hands.

THE TRIBUNE NEWSROOM echoed with the rattling of a hundred computer keyboards. Under the neon-green glare of his terminal's screen, Donovan hunched over his desk, gabbing on the phone. His boss, Red Manning, stood next to him, arms folded tightly, across his chest. He looked angry.

Donovan spoke slowly and firmly into the receiver, Listen Phyllis, lot of time's passed.

Red groaned unfolded his arms and threw his yellow, Number 2 pencil down hard on Donovan's desk for effect. It made a resounding clunk. Personal call, Donovan?

Donovan cupped his hand over the receiver, Be right with you, Red. He went back to the phone. Okay, I'll meet you for lunch, but no, not there. Too many memories.

When he finally hung up, Red pounced. Your mother? he asked, sarcastically.

Donovan slumped over his chair rolled his eyes and groaned. ''Worse. My ex-wife."

Red mocked concern. And you didn't think she still cared.

Donovan held his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. I feel as grim as death.

Red giggled, sarcastically, Let me guess. She wants to try again. You and her.

I'll say. He went on to say, She wants to cheat on her new husband. With me.

Red furrowed his brow. Heard you say you're going to meet her for lunch. Are you?

Told her I would. Don't know what to do.

Red gave him a fatherly pat on the back, You'll do the right thing.

Red stalked over to Sidwell's desk in the next cubicle, he too was occupied on the phone.

Red glared as he came close enough to overhear Sidwell's conversation.

Listen, Mr. Krebs, it's my apartment, and I don't care if you are the landlord, you have no right to . . .

Interrupted by his landlord on the other end, Sidwell patiently waited for a chance to get a few more words in.

The new kid, Sidwell, was just out of Journalism school. His uniform of the day never varied: Rumpled tweed jacket replete with leather elbow patches, khaki pants and a pristine, long-sleeved white shirt open at the collar. He liked to think of himself as the hottest investigative reporter on the west coast.

He probably would be.

Someday . . .

Sidwell's Bambi-like eyes focused on a Red's furrowed brow and the protruding vein on his forehead. Look, I know the law, stay out of my place when I'm not . . . Suddenly, his eyes registered pain. He yanked the phone far away from his ear.

Both Sidwell and Red could hear the landlord yelling at the other end of the phone. Then came the resonating sound of the phone slamming down somewhere across town.

He hung up on you, said Red, matter-of-factly.

Sidwell didn't seem to hear. The nerve of that guy, he muttered, Poking around my things.

Never mind that, said Red, sharply, He pointed an accusing finger at the glowing green screen. Your copy stinks, you're stale. Worse than a loaf of week old bread.

Thanks, Red. I never have to fish for compliments when you're around.

Slowly, Red's scowl turned to a grin. And since you're stale, I'm giving you an assignment to blow out the cobwebs.

The color drained from Sidwell's face, Great. What is it this time, a feature story on Jumbo, the Circus Elephant?

Red chuckled. No, no, Sidwell. You'll like this one. It's Captain Guido French and his Space Volunteers.

After a brief silence, Sidwell asked, What?

Red spelled it out word by word, Captain Guido French. What with smog, overpopulation and world hunger, he's decided to colonize one of the outer planets. They're building a space ship. Red nudged Sidwell. They need recruits. Maybe, if they like you, you can tag along to chronicle the voyage.

Sidwell wheeled around in his chair to face his keyboard and began pecking away furiously. Sorry, Red. Have to let that one slip by. Already have a great lead. Pulitzer Prize material. Fabulous story. Graft. A Senator. Illicit love. A twelve-year old girl.

No, said Red, flatly.

Sidwell implored, But, but . . .

Red spelled it out again, Captain-Guido-French.

Sidwell grumbled and slammed a desk drawer. That was when Red saw Milly out of the corner of his eye, giggling at Sidwell's plight.

Milly at 32 was a rather attractive woman with long brown hair and a cover girl complexion. Pretty enough to be an anchor woman. Red wondered why she hid behind a newspaper byline.

Milly was also the kind of woman who read the labels on bean cans and ate whole wheat, never white bread. And anyone who knew anything about her personal life also knew she always ended up with lovers who were entirely wrong for her. Her last boyfriend, Dave, had been the sensitive type who listened to her woes for hours on end and gave her back rubs. He had also taken her for ten thousand dollars before skipping town.

A bleeding heart romantic, Milly devoured romance novels by the pound. In fact, she was writing her own between assignments. She stopped giggling at Sidwell's plight when Red descended upon her desk.

Red growled. How's the Tribune's novel coming?

Without a word she hit a key, blanking the screen. Finished it last week.

Oh, said Red, hunkered down alongside her, hitting yet another key, retrieving the copy. He read aloud as it scrolled down the screen:

As his lean frame pressed against her lithe body, her lips trembled in anticipation. And then Sarah learned Jonathan's horrible secret.

So what's this, then? said Red, Feature story on lover's lane?

She squirmed, uncomfortably. My second novel. She had put special emphasis on the word second.

You finished a book! he said, incredulously.

She nodded.

I've seen a lot of guys come and go in the newsrooms, a lot of them were writing books, but nobody ever actually finished one.

I even have an agent, she added, proudly.

Really?

Yeah. I'm mailing him the check. She held up a stamped, addressed envelope.

Red's eyebrows went up. Say again.

He charges all his new writers $500. It's more than worth it.

Let me get this straight, he charged you money up front to sell your novel?

He says I'm a young writer who'll be heard from, he says . . .

He sell your book yet?

She shook her head, No, but . . .

Red interrupted, What's his name? He held his notebook and pen ready in hand Based in Missouri, right? he said, grumpily.

She nodded and recited the address.

Red slipped the notebook into his shirt pocket. Yeah, well, we'll talk about your literary career later. Until your bestseller catches on, I'll just assume you still work for the Tribune. You do have an assignment, don't you?

She nodded. The model murders.

Funny. I don't see your little fingers tippy-tip-typing. He mimicked typing.

One desk over, Sidwell slammed a file drawer, and then muttered in disgust, Guido French and the Space Volunteers.

Angrily Red shouted over his shoulder, Sidwell, hit the bricks. Without missing a beat he pointed an accusing finger at Milly.

She rather wisely parried the imminent tongue lashing she knew was coming, Red, if it's okay with you, I've decided not to work on my novels at work anymore.

He lowered his hand and spoke in a quiet tone. Smart move, Milly.

LATER THAT DAY MILLY and Detective Joe Kidwell chatted over coffee at the pie shop. Kidwell, a smartly groomed and handsome bachelor leaned across the table and spoke in hushed tones, his voice resonating with the timbre of dead seriousness. So understand what I'm about to tell you is strictly off the record.

Milly nodded, Sure it is.

Joe pushed