Things That Go Jack In The Night: Mysteries to Die For, #3

By KM Rockwood, Chuck Brownman, Ed Teja and 6 more

In the English language, there are a few, very special words that can function as nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs. One word goes further, creating new words from old. That word is Jack. For your puzzle solving pleasure, Mysteries to Die For presents: Things that Go Jack in the Night. Twelve stories arranged for you to beat the detective to the solution. Twelve "jacks" that should definitely not be taken at face value. It's a race between you and the detective to find the killer amid the jack in the night. 288 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mysteries To Die For
• Release date: Sep 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986641645

Book preview

Introduction

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Welcome to Mysteries to Die For.

I am TG Wolff and this is the book that goes with the podcast where my piano player / producer Jack and I combine storytelling with original music to put you at the heart of a mystery.

Each Mysteries to Die For season has a mystery-based theme. Well, that might be stretching it for it for Season 6, Things that Go Jack in the Night. This season contained imaginative mysteries around one of the most common words in the English language. From the brandy distilled from hard cider known as applejack to that nefarious one-eyed jack, to the animals, vegetables, fruits, tools, weapons, and slang, the way the word jack is used in the English language is truly unique, inventive, and too numerous for us to count.

As a mystery lover myself, I take it as a personal challenge to solve each case along with the detective. These short stories are arranged to enable you to do the same. After the case is laid out, there is a break titled Deliberation. That is your cue to lock in on your suspect. Then comes the big reveal.

Each of the authors featured has a great catalog of stories for your reading pleasure. Mysteries, thrillers, noir. There’s something for every taste. Check out the author’s website. Buy their books. Write a review. Tell a friend. Be a part of their success stories.

To hear these stories along with background on the writers, and, of course, Jack’s incredible original music, look for Mysteries to Die For wherever you get your podcasts or check out our website:

tgwolff.com/podcast.

Happy hunting, Detectives.

A Package of Pepper Jack Cheese

KM Rockwood

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Young Love

The summer between my junior and senior years in high school, I spent my mornings unloading trucks and sorting newspapers for a distributor and my afternoons walking my dog Jack past Elizabeth Wellingham’s house.

I had a crush on Elizabeth, although I was quite aware that, as the saying goes, she didn’t even know I existed.

Her family’s house—a huge brick creation with an expansive front lawn—was situated a few blocks away from the tiny rundown house on a back street I shared with my mom. It was on the way to the dog park. That gave me a ready-made reason to be walking by often, although the six or eight times an afternoon might have been pushing it.

Girls liked dogs, right? If Elizabeth saw Jack, she would want to pet the cute dog. And then she’d have to talk to me.

We’d done this often enough that Jack knew we would be moving slowly on this stretch of the walk. He could stop anywhere he wanted to sniff around, and I wouldn’t insist he move along. He also knew, however, that he was not permitted to add his mark anywhere. I cringed at the thought of Elizabeth seeing him for the first time as he lifted a leg and anointed a tree.

This afternoon, a delivery truck was parked at the curb, its door open and engine running.

Jack, on his long retractable leash, went to sniff at the step that led up into the truck.

I stood idly on the sidewalk, trying to look at the house without appearing to do so.

A brick path wound out from behind some tall rhododendron bushes that hid the entire front of the house. I had contemplated letting Jack wander up there so I could go fetch him back. Then I could see if there was a front porch behind the shrubbery. Maybe with Elizabeth sitting on a swing with a glass of lemonade, reading. What a delightful thought.

But if she were, in fact, sitting there, how could I ever explain?

Reluctantly, I kept Jack away from the walk.

As I watched, a person appeared from behind the bushes.

The driver of the delivery truck. She wore a shirt with the company name emblazoned on it, shorts, and work boots. In her hands was a small, white, insulated foam box.

She was moving quickly, her face distorted in a grimace.

When she saw me, she stopped short.

Call 911! she shouted at me.

I shrugged. I owned a cell phone—most kids do—but I had loaned it to Mom for today. Her phone was missing. She figured she’d left it in the home of one of her clients and was confident that she’d find it, but meanwhile, she needed to be able to check in with her home office.

I couldn’t make any calls.

My phone’s in the truck, the driver said as she hurried past me to the truck.

Nine-one-one? Was somebody hurt?

Was Elizabeth hurt?

Pressing the button to reel in Jack’s leash, I ran up the path to where I could see the front of the house.

No porch. But a few steps led to the front door, which was open.

Lying face down on the path was a man. The side of his skull was crushed. Blood was pooling around his head.

Off to the side was a heavy cane.

He wasn’t moving.

I recognized him. With my continuing surveillance, I knew a lot about who inhabited the house.

This was Elizabeth’s dad. He usually came home in the late afternoon in his Lexus, pulling up the driveway and directly into the garage.

But every once in a while, I’d seen him entering or leaving the house on foot, leaning heavily on the very cane that now lay next to him. Coated with a dark, glutinous mass.

I stood frozen for a moment, unable to move.

Jack bounced up and sniffed at him, getting his paws bloody.

Should I be doing CPR? Or something? That was for things like heart attacks or drowning, though. Not for bashed-in heads. How could anyone be alive with their head smashed in like that?

But suppose he wasn’t dead?

I leaned forward, snatching up Jack with one hand.

The man’s body jerked.

I jumped back, but then leaned forward again and held my free hand in front of the bloody nostrils to see if I could detect any breathing.

A siren shrieked. The fire station was only a few blocks away. The first responders would know what to do. Staring at the body, I backed up a step.

~

Crime Scene

An ambulance pulled up and no one made an effort to load the injured man on a gurney. My gut feeling that he was dead must have been right.

I choked down bile that rose in my throat.

Two uniformed police officers herded me and the delivery driver off to the side of the yard.

One, whose nametag read Simington, pulled out a notebook. He peered at us from beneath his bushy eyebrows and asked for our names.

The driver’s voice trembled. Cyndra Heston. She spelled it.

The cop looked at me. And you?

Logan Wesley. I had to spell my name, too.

Okay. He glanced at his partner, a woman with tiny gold earrings and her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Miss Heston, you go with Officer Halman. Mr. Wesley, you stay here and talk to me. We need to ask some questions.

When Cyndra and Officer Halman were across the yard, Officer Simington turned back to me. Tell me what happened here.

Well, I was walking my dog—I lifted Jack, who was still in my arms, away from my chest a bit— when I saw the delivery lady come out from behind the bushes and start down the walk.

He nodded. Did she seem to be upset?

Yeah. I snuggled Jack back against me again. She had this funny look on her face. She shouted for me to call 911.

And did you? he asked.

No. I didn’t have my cell phone, so I couldn’t, I replied.

He glanced toward Cyndra. Who called?

I looked in that direction, too. I guess the delivery lady.

He made a quick note. What did you do?

I shrugged. Went up to see what the emergency was.

He raised his eyebrows. Morbid curiosity?

No! I hadn’t been thinking like that. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.

And could you? he asked.

No. I felt my stomach churn as I thought about the gruesome sight. The guy was just lying there. Then he jerked.

He jerked. Officer Simington wrote something down. He was alive?

Well, he looked dead, I said. Until he jerked. I put my hand in front of his nose to see if he was breathing. But I didn’t feel anything.

Did you try to help the man? he asked.

No. I shifted Jack’s weight to my other arm. By then I could hear the sirens coming. I figured they would have a better idea of what to do than me.

Uh huh. Officer Simington pointed the end of his pen at me. But I see you got some blood on your clothes.

I looked down. A dark stain was smeared across the front of my shirt. I think the dog walked in it. I grabbed one of Jack’s front paws. It was stained with the same dark red.

Right. He glanced over his shoulder.

Several more vehicles pulled up, including a van labeled Crime Scene. A young woman hopped out and started unrolling yellow tape around the yard.

You wait over there, he said, pointing toward Cyndra’s truck. I’ll see if they want to talk to you more right now, or if it can wait.

He peered at my shirt. Don’t go anywhere. I’m sure they will want that.

My chest tightened. Surely it wasn’t possible that they thought I had anything to do with smashing a cane into Elizabeth’s father’s head?

The next thing that popped into my head was, where was Elizabeth? This was her father. She would need comforting. I could cradle her sympathetically in my arms while she cried. What a satisfying image!

But how callous and manipulative that would be.

As I watched the organized chaos in front of the house, I realized that, even if she were inside and let me near her, no way was I going to be allowed to go in there.

Cyndra came over to her truck and climbed in. She sat in the driver’s seat, crossing her arms on the steering wheel and resting her head on them.

I sat on the bottom step.

I put Jack down. He scrambled past me into the truck, squeezing between the packages and snuffling around.

Can you get him out of there? Cyndra asked. I’ll get in trouble if he ruins anything.

Sure. I saw his wriggling butt a foot back and reached in to remove him.

When I pulled him out, he had managed to grab a box in his mouth. It was an insulated foam box, like the one Cyndra had been carrying when she was hurrying down the walk.

Hey. Cyndra reached over and wrested the box away from Jack. That’s got cheese in it. I hope he didn’t bite through the box.

Cheese would explain his interest.

I put the dog on the ground and sat down on the step of the truck so he couldn’t get back in.

He turned his attention to all the people bustling around on the front lawn.

Without getting out of her seat, Cyndra stashed the box on the floorboard right next to me where she could keep an eye on it.

Gonna be late for the rest of the deliveries, she grumbled, picking up her phone. I’d better call in and tell them.

A lot of the activity was out of sight behind the rhododendrons, and we couldn’t make out any of the conversation, but it was like watching a TV show with the mute button on. Mesmerized, Jack sat still momentarily.

I did too.

~

A Birthday Surprise

Jack’s quiet fascination was short lived. Unless he was physically involved, Jack had the attention span of a goldfish. About nine seconds.

I loosened his leash to let him move around. He danced at the very end of it, craving an opportunity to go over and join the action.

My dad had given me Jack as a puppy for my thirteenth birthday.

He and Mom had been divorced ever since I could remember, and I was pretty sure his motivation was not to get me something he thought I’d like, but something to annoy Mom.

On the afternoon of my thirteenth birthday, he was supposed to take me out for a birthday celebration, so I watched out the window.

He had a history of not showing up when he said he would.

The car pulled up in front with his girlfriend Kristine driving.

They sat in the car for a little while, gesturing toward the house, laughing and smirking.

Drunk or high. Again. I was getting old enough to stop expecting him to show sober, if he showed up at all. But it still hurt.

Smoking that evil weed again, I mused.

As I watched, their manner changed abruptly. Dad climbed out of the car, holding the puppy away from himself.

Mom got to the door before I did and stood there, glaring at him.

To my enormous but silent delight, I realized Dad had been holding the pup on his lap when the little fellow peed all over his pants.

Kristine stayed in the car, trying to stifle her amusement. Her shoulders shook with glee. She kept looking in our direction and wiping her eyes. Then she’d burst out in laughter again.

Mom would never acknowledge that Dad might be less than sober. I didn’t know whether she didn’t realize it, or if she just chose to ignore it. Probably ignored it.

Assuming his most pious expression, Dad said, Every boy should have a dog. I got this for Logan for his birthday. It’s a Jack Russell terrier, only a tiny little thing, and it won’t get big. It shouldn’t be much trouble.

Jack Russell terriers may be small, but there’s a reason some people refer to them as Jack Russell terrorists. They are among the most active, mischievous, and stubborn dogs on the planet. Things that I’m sure appealed to Dad a lot more than the small size.

Fine, Mom said. Why don’t you keep it over at your place, since we have fifty/fifty custody, and Logan’s supposed to spend half his time over there anyhow.

Maybe custody was supposed to be split in half, but Dad usually had some reason why I couldn’t go stay with him.

And usually I wasn’t sorry. Dad existed in a state of near-constant intoxication of one kind or another. He didn’t seem to go to work, and I couldn’t figure out how he managed to live. Since I was supposed to be with him for half the time, he didn’t have to pay child support. Not that he probably would have anyhow.

I knew there was something wrong with that setup. Financially, Mom had to cover almost all expenses, and things were tough for her.

Kristine didn’t live with Dad, but when she was over at his place, the situation got even worse. Clouds of marijuana smoke filled the air. Empty beer cans rolled around on the floor amid greasy pizza boxes. Remnants of white powder lines covered the tabletop. Bent spoons and miniature plastic bags and bits of steel wool littered the kitchen counters.

I hated going to his place. Mom didn’t usually make me, but every once in a while, she would tell me I’d have to go stay with him for a few days. When that happened, I’d stuff my backpack with a blanket, changes of clothes and whatever food I could dredge up and camp out in the woods behind his apartment building instead.

No way would he take care of a puppy.

Dad frowned at Mom. You got the house. It has a fenced yard. I live in a ninth-floor apartment. With a no-pet clause.

I could see Mom clenching her jaw. I was used to running interference. I took the puppy from Dad and thanked him.

He stood there swaying gently on his feet and grinning until Kristine called him back to the car.

Dad was right about one thing. Like most kids, I was thrilled at having a dog of my own.

I decided to do whatever it took to make sure the pup was well behaved and as little of a pain to Mom as possible. Maybe she’d let me keep it.

Basically, it was a full-time chore to turn him into a reasonably calm, well-behaved dog. That meant I needed to keep him with me every second I could. And crate him when I had to go to school or work. But I worked with him and gradually he settled down and became a reasonable, if overactive, pet.

I couldn’t imagine giving him up.

~

Victims or Suspects?

After I’d sat on the step of the truck for what seemed like hours, I saw people coming around from the back of the house.

They were swinging wide around the taped-off area.

First was a sullen young man I had often seen going in or out of the house. Elizabeth’s older brother, Roger. Several uniformed officers surrounded him, including Officer Simington. They stopped halfway across the lawn, with Roger gesturing and shaking his head.

Roger had wispy hair that floated around his head, a scruffy beard, and pale, vacant eyes. He wore ripped blue jeans and a worn T-shirt with the name of some little-known hard metal band on the front.

Ever since I had been walking by the house, I’d seen him come and go repeatedly, time after time, never carrying anything. He didn’t seem to notice me.

Why wasn’t it Elizabeth who did that? Then I could have let Jack rush up to her.

As it was, I had caught a glimpse of her going around the rhododendrons toward the front door twice, but both times I was too far away to approach her and had to chalk them up to near misses.

I’d seen service people, too. Twice a week, a Happy Housemaids van would pull into the driveway and a small cadre of ladies dressed in pink uniforms would hurry into the house, only to depart after about two hours. Presumably leaving a cleaner house behind them.

The landscaping crew showed up once a week. They swarmed over the yard, cutting grass, trimming bushes, tweaking flowers, and raking up debris.

Jack was sure they were having some kind of wonderful adventure and always wanted to go play with them. But I kept his leash short, and we would hurry by more quickly than usual.

Of course, I had seen Mr. Wellingham, Elizabeth’s father, leaning on his cane, a few times. That was how I could recognize the figure lying on the front walk.

And I’d made a major, discomforting discovery.

Also entering and leaving the house on a regular basis was Kristine, Dad’s girlfriend.

Kristine had a brittle blond beauty, with long flowing hair down her back, a trim figure that, to me, looked more than a trifle emaciated, and long, slender legs.

The first time I saw her striding down the walk in a tailored pantsuit and carrying an oversized purse, I grabbed a surprised Jack and ducked behind a parked car.

After that, I kept an eye out for her and, if I saw her, scrambled to get behind some bushes or a tree.

I certainly didn’t want her to see me.

But what was her relation to the family? To Elizabeth?

She seemed too young to be Elizabeth’s mother. A bit old to be a sister.

I racked my brain for everything I knew about Elizabeth or had ever heard her say. I was only slightly embarrassed to admit that I would try to sit behind the table with her and the gaggle of her girlfriends in the school cafeteria and listen closely to their conversation.

Stepmother. Elizabeth had a stepmother. She’d once said her father had a trophy wife. Then she’d laughed and said, But she’s no prize.

Surprised at the bitterness in her voice, I’d glanced over at her.

I couldn’t read the expression on her face. Not really a smile, not really a smirk, not really a snarl.

But, Elizabeth continued, she’ll never be the favorite. I’ll always be Daddy’s best little girl.

If Kristine really was Elizabeth’s stepmother, and she was also Dad’s girlfriend, she certainly was no prize.

As the cops tried to escort Roger through the yard, he was becoming more and more agitated. He stopped, looked back at the house, and threw his hands up in the air.

Finally Officer Simington took him by the elbow and guided him firmly to a patrol car. He installed Roger in the back seat, leaned in to fasten the seat belt, and slammed the door.

Another cop climbed in the driver’s seat and the car pulled away.

The next person escorted from the back of the house was Elizabeth!

I could tell she was crying, and I longed to go say something to her, but she, too, was surrounded by cops.

She went directly to another patrol car. Once again, Officer Simington held the door while she sat down, but he didn’t lean in. Apparently she was capable of buckling up her own seat belt.

I watched sadly as that car headed away. Was there anything I could do to help her? I didn’t see how I could get anywhere near her.

Another person, again surrounded by a small contingent of cops, emerged from around the house. I half expected it to be Kristine. I hadn’t seen her at all today.

But as they approached a third patrol car, I realized it was another young man. I squinted, trying to see if I knew him.

Emery Renland. I recognized him from school. He was a year or two ahead of Elizabeth and me, so he’d already graduated.

He was dressed neatly in a kind of old-time preppy fashion. I bet the shirt had one of those alligators on it.

I’d never seen him at the house before. I knew Roger was a bit of a loner, but he had to have some friends, didn’t he? Emery was probably there to see Roger.

He couldn’t have been there to see Elizabeth. Or that’s what I told myself.

After the third car carrying Emery took off, Officer Simington turned toward where Cyndra and I waited.

Jack was anxious to sniff, and possibly lick, his boots. I pulled him over and picked him up. Things were uncomfortable enough without having my dog annoy a police officer.

Okay, he said. You can go now. I have your contact information. Expect someone to come and go over your statements again and have you sign them.

Both of us? Cyndra asked.

Officer Simington nodded.

She started the engine, slammed the truck into gear, and took off, almost clipping me with the bottom step. The door still hung open. The truck lurched down the street and made a quick turn into the alley.

I watched her go.

But I’ll need your shirt, Officer Simington said to me. Reluctantly, I put Jack on the ground. I unbuttoned the shirt and handed it over.

My T-shirt was old and had holes in it. Walking home with just that felt chilly. Although I’m not usually self-conscious about my clothes, I did feel pretty underdressed.

The shirt they took was one of my good ones, and I didn’t have that many of them. If they kept it, I’d have to dredge up a new one before school started.

I wore old shirts and jeans to work. My summer job, starting at four a.m., involved a lot of lifting and sorting of newspapers off the delivery truck, and the black ink tended to rub off.

Since I didn’t want to run into Elizabeth wearing my work clothes, and since running into Elizabeth was the entire point of walking by her house, I took a shower and changed when I got home.

Hoping to avoid seeing anyone who knew me, I turned down the alley where the delivery truck had gone. I figured I could go home the back way.

Jack loved it! Dumpsters and garbage cans, dark stains on the pavement, bits of litter scuttling along in the wind. He seized a wrapper from a hamburger and shook it, growling fiercely. I had to take it away from him.

When I got to the cross alley, the one that extended behind Elizabeth’s house, I stopped dead.

There was Dad’s car, parked a few yards into the alley.

Two people sat in the front seat.

Dad and Kristine.

Did they know what had happened to Mr. Wellingham? Who, after all, was probably Kristine’s husband. Should I go say something to them?

While I stood there undecided, Jack yipped at a squirrel running across the pavement.

Kristine turned and saw me.

She nudged Dad. He leaned forward, started the car, and they left.

Which at least meant I didn’t have to worry about whether I should tell them about Kristine’s husband.

I wondered uneasily if they had anything to do with the murder. Kristine was now a widow. A widow who stood to inherit a fair amount of money.

In the few seconds I stood pondering, Jack had pulled out the leash to its full length and burrowed between a fence and a dumpster.

Now he was dragging something along the pavement.

It was a white foam box like the one he’d gotten hold of in the truck. It looked like the one with cheese he’d had before.

I reached down and took it away from him.

It was the same one he’d gotten hold of in the truck.

A smallish white box thoroughly taped up, with World Famous Specialty Cheeses on the sides and Premium Pepper Jack on the top.

It was addressed to Kristine Wellingham.

Cyndra had left that package on the truck’s floorboard by the steps. The door had been open as she drove off. It must have tumbled out as she careened through the alley.

I could wipe the dog slobber off it, maybe, and not say anything about that. But it had distinct dog tooth marks on it.

I carried the package home with me.

Jack kept staring at me reproachfully, trying to jump up and sniff at the package. After all, he’d found it, and he thought I should let him have it.

What should I do with it?

For now, I put it in the refrigerator. Even if the insulating container had holes in it from Jack’s teeth, the cold should keep the cheese from spoiling.

I supposed I could call Dad and tell him I had a package addressed to Kristine, but it would be hard to explain how I’d come by it. And I really didn’t feel like talking to him much.

Cyndra drove for a delivery service that was based in the same industrial park where I worked for the newspaper distributors. I had to be there early tomorrow morning. Maybe on my break I could go ask the dispatcher at her company where I could find her.

But then I’d have to admit that I’d allowed Jack to maul the package after she had already