Crimeucopia - The Lady Thrillers

The Lipstick On His Collar Doesn’t Seem To Match Mine….

(An Editorial of Sorts)

As most authors will tell you, when you start out writing fiction there will come a time when someone will dust off and decant that old adage which goes:

‘Always write about what you know.’

Oh dear.

Another adage is that ‘Little girls are made of sugar and spice and all things nice.’

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. What does all that say about the women authors contained within these pages?

Originally Jack and I thought that material for this volume would be slow in arriving. That it would be one of those ‘forever back burner’ projects that wouldn’t see the light of print until x-many ‘whatevers’ down the publishing line.

How wrong we were. And how gratifying it was to be proven wrong, especially when we were told in a discussion forum, in no uncertain terms, that the day of the short story was long gone – a victim of flash fiction and the CV-19 novel writing boom.

There are still people who want something to read – be it paper or electronic – that is short, sharp and satisfying – before immersing themselves in their next novel. Flash Fiction has its rightful place, but sometimes it’s nice to have a little more flesh on those shallow grave bones.

So, contained in this collection are, in no particular order:-

Karen Skinner, who introduces her female Private Investigator, Liz Philips, in the first of a series of ten shorts.

Lena Ng brings a possible murder to the table, while Ginny Swart takes us to the Southern hemisphere with deceptively casual writing style, even though the setting is very modern.

Kate Miller and Sandrine Bergès both give us period pieces set in France, but in completely different centuries, while Linda Kerr steps away from her Nellie Fearon persona and enters the Crime side.

Hilary Davidson, when not writing bestselling novels, tells of a club that sounds all too real for our liking, and Kelly Lewis presents a pet shop with a difference.

Michelle Ann King presents a humorous, albeit modern-NOIR style, and keeping on the darker side of humour, Paulene Turner tells the tale of a more than slightly tarnished bodyguard.

Tiffany Lindfield’s offering has a foundation that although we may believe we have free will and choice, Astrology feels that we can only play the cards we’re dealt, and the outcome is always predestined.

Claire Leng takes us headlong into the 21st Century, and adds that the acronym WIFU is a slang for a fictional female character that people obsess too much over.

Madeleine McDonald gives us a curious spin on traditions and moral values, as does Pauline Gostling, who provides another kind of dilemma that is perhaps more relevant today than in the past. And Amanda Steel deftly opens the box marked ‘When is a crime not a crime?’

And to close out this first anthology, Joan Hall Hovey presents a powerful tale, salted here and there with just a touch of dark humour.

Hopefully you will find something that you immediately like – or, in the spirit of the Murderous Ink Press motto – You never know what you like until you read it.

Pretty Wicked

Karen Skinner

In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it. In fact, it’s really an admission of guilt. They’re saying, ‘Yes, I did it, but I didn’t want to get caught. How do I get out of this?’

The answer is up to you. I personally found this shift in power hugely satisfying. You now have the option to choose. Do you let them go, or do you give them what you know they deserve?

I’d never held a ceremonial sword before. It was a lot heavier than I expected, but I managed to balance it by letting it rest against the hollow at the base of his throat. As he lay there on his back with anxious eyes pleading, I couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a desperate starfish; caught out of water with his arms and legs askew. I chuckled at the image in my mind and he started to beg again.

*****

My original office was in Templeton Street in a leafy Hertfordshire town. The building had an accountant above, a solicitor below and me, Elizabeth Philips Investigations, in the middle. Now, the brass plate that I’d polished every week is a coaster for my new desk – my dining table at home. In reality I found I couldn’t afford the business rates on my own.

I’ve been running EPI for about 10 years, so when my apprentice PI, Danny Johnson, came into my old office that morning and dropped the buff coloured file onto my desk, like he had hundreds of others, I only glanced at it and pretended not to be excited.

It’s another missing girl, Liz, he said with all the pent up adrenaline of a small boy looking forward to a promised treat.

Uh huh. I carried on typing.

That makes four.

Hmmm.

Danny sat on the edge of my desk and creased the edges of my unfiled reports. I gave him a stern but typical-of-you look and he obligingly lifted a buttock to let me retrieve them.

Aww, c’mon Liz, he cajoled. Don’t tell me this isn’t getting you going. I know you too well. You always get stoked over a new case. I know I do.

I squinted at the computer screen and deleted a line of text.

Well, go shake hands with yourself in the loo, then. I’m busy.

Danny sighed and slid off the desk. I couldn’t help but watch him go as he made his way to the outer office. God, he was hot. Too bad he had a philanderer’s reputation. He’d flirt with the office pot plant if he thought he’d get anywhere.

I knew that within ten minutes he’d be on the internet, looking up the other cases and seeing if he could make a connection. That was what I liked about Danny, apart from the dark hair and grey green eyes, of course. Under that flirtatious, ego protective shell was a determined and intelligent personality, capable of making quick deductions. And if he ever met with any resistance, he’d just flirt you into submission. I’d also noticed that his charm worked just as well with men as it did with women. Too bad he couldn’t charm the BTEC qualification he needed for his own licence.

I glared at the screen and deleted another line. I was always very particular about writing my reports correctly. If the police ever did want to cut us some slack, they might discover that we could be useful, and proper reports go a long way in presenting a professional image.

I rubbed my hands over my face and tried to remember when I last took a break. The new file winked at me just at the peripheral edge of my vision, beckoning me like a forbidden chocolate bar.

It has always been one of my golden rules to finish one job before moving onto the next. But that was now tarnished to more of a bronze hue. I’d broken that rule more times than even I could remember. Still, a brief flick through couldn’t hurt.

The police looked on private investigators like us as if we were a joke. I don’t mean that all of them treated us with contempt, just that some did. I knew they thought we were funny; silly kids playing at being grownups. But when they had exhausted all the leads, and frantic relatives were one phone call away from a psychic hotline, that was usually when our phone would ring.

From the cover sheet it looked like the older sister, Rebecca Pierce, had made the call this time. Danny had printed out the photograph she’d kindly emailed over and I identified the missing girl, Jenny, almost immediately. She stood in the middle, between two friends, with her arms around their shoulders, at what looked like a nightclub bar. She had been missing for three weeks.

She was a pretty, dark haired girl. 19 years old, and around 5ft 9 with a charming smile. Just like the other three, she’d failed to return home after a night out. We hadn’t had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with the files of the other girls, so similarities could only be guessed at. But Danny, forever Mr Efficiency, had helpfully included relevant newspaper clippings.

I skimmed through Danny’s procedural form and as it turned out, all previous boyfriends had been contacted and excluded from enquires. All her friends had been questioned too, but this was where we usually dug a little deeper. We didn’t just question friends; we talked to anyone, including enemies and toxic friends; those who were too scared to say too much for fear of suspicion.

There was a toxic friend in the photograph. Older, sexier and worldlier than Jenny, and way too cool to smile for the phone camera. Toxic friends usually hung out with their mates because the good friend had something that the bad friend wanted; a lover, peer status, intelligence, sometimes money.

I studied the photograph again. This toxic friendship was about love. Jenny was loved. She and her good friend smiled openly at the camera, excited to be there. Her toxic friend had obviously been to that venue too many times before to be excited. She leaned in towards Jenny slightly but didn’t show any particular emotion.

A quick call to Rebecca had confirmed that she had taken the photograph herself at a local nightclub where Jenny had celebrated her nineteenth birthday. Tickets had been a surprise present from her friend, Emma, who worked there.

I glanced at the clock and sighed. So maybe I could combine a break with a long lunch. I grabbed my coat and shoulder bag from the hook on the back of the door, told Danny I was off out, and jogged down the stairs and on to the street.

*****

My ancient Astra was all I could afford after my divorce. It had upholstery that smelt like fish and chips and a cassette player where a DAB radio ought to be. It reluctantly got me to Birchwood Terrace at a quarter to twelve. As I rang Emma’s doorbell, I wondered if I’d be waking her. If she worked at the local nightclub, then I assumed she’d be sleeping.

An unshaven young man in his twenties opened the door. He was wearing a tee shirt and boxers.

Yeah?

Hi, I’m Liz Phillips; I’ve come to see Emma.

He looked confused for a moment, and then opened the door. He said nothing as I followed him in to a cramped and untidy front room.

’ad friends over, he said, by way of explanation. He beckoned to a settee and walked out into the hallway to yell up the stairs.

I pushed yesterday’s clothes out of the way and sat as close to the edge as I could without falling off.

He took a breath and shouted, Em!

An angry, Wot? came down from above.

Bird down ‘ere for ya.

It had been a few years since I’d been referred to as a bird. I tried not to smile as I heard him break wind several times then head off into the kitchen.

Emma walked into the living room the way most beautiful women walk into an office. She was wearing a neat blouse and tailored trousers, and her makeup was immaculately applied. She dropped herself elegantly into a nearby chair.

This’ll have to be quick, she said, removing an invisible hair. Got stock taking to do this afternoon. Cuppa tea? she offered.

I smiled politely, Thanks, but no. If this was her living room, I didn’t want to know what her kitchen looked like. Clearly her looks were her first priority.

You want to talk about Jenny, she stated, getting straight to the point.

Um, yes, I said unable to hide my surprise.

Your shoes, she said pointing to my sensible flats. Dead giveaway.

I may only be 5ft 4 and a half, but heels don’t go with my jeans-and-shirt uniform.

So, how long…?

Since senior school, she cut in, pre-empting again. Best mates forever. No, I don’t know where she might be, or what other mates she has. We didn’t have a row the last time I saw her and no, I don’t know of anyone who hated her enough to bump her off.

Her boyfriend came in just then, sat on top of the abandoned clothes next to me and released the ring pull on a can of beer. Emma gave him a look that could have frozen molten lava.

Hair of the dog, innit? he said indignantly.

You could at least have put some clothes on, scolded Emma.

My ‘ouse.

I raised an eyebrow at the boyfriend and he obligingly filled in the details. I’ve found that if you give people enough space, the need to explain will overpower the need to conceal.

My dad owns the nightclub and I help out. Met her there. He nodded toward Emma. Dad owns this place and we get cheap rent.

Did Jenny ever come here? I asked.

Suddenly the boyfriend was lost for words. He looked surprised, perhaps not so much by the question, but that it was directed at him.

Don’t ‘fink so, he replied, a little too quickly. He stared back at me with wide eyes, but didn’t look at Emma. I returned his gaze.

You slept with her, didn’t you? But I kept the thought to myself.

No, said Emma, answering my initial question. I only moved in with Ben just a week before she disappeared. We hadn’t had time to send out house warming invites.

Daft idea, sniffed Ben, taking a gulp of beer. Been ‘ere ages.

I looked at Emma as she spoke. Her voice remained calm, but her eyes were cold. She knew he’d been unfaithful, but perhaps not with whom.

Is there a security camera covering the outside gate of the nightclub? I asked, getting an idea.

Ben took another swig of beer from the can, then asked, You mean where the car park joins the road? No need. Cameras are all over the inside and over every door, plus a few in the car park. Once they’re on the road, they’re polices’ problem. Why?

Well, if we can review the security images we might be able to find out who Jenny partied with, but now might not get to see who she left with.

Ben shrugged. Police took ‘em all away a couple of weeks ago.

I pulled the group photograph from my bag. Who’s the other girl here with you? I asked Emma.

That’s Maria, a friend of Jen’s sister. Emma sniffed disapprovingly. She must have suspected her of being the girl Ben slept with.

I showed the picture to Ben. He looked a little sad when he saw it, but shrugged and shook his head when I pointed to Maria. He didn’t know her.

Emma, trying to remember, said, Her dad is the local mayor, isn’t he? She dated a bloke a little while back, but they split up soon after Jen went missing.

I could hear an alarm bell ring quietly in the back of my head.

Do you know where I can find her? I asked as casually as I could.

There’s a do on at the town hall tonight. She’ll be there. The tone of Emma’s voice suggested that she wouldn’t be going.

*****

Danny wasn’t in the office when I returned but had left me a message saying he was going to talk to Rebecca again. He suspected that she had been having an affair with an ex-boyfriend of Jenny’s.

That was an avenue to explore, but my senses were leading me in another direction and so I left him a message on his mobile to dress to impress this evening. We had an event to attend.

*****

I arrived late as usual and a glance at my watch told me that it was far too late to be fashionable.

I wasn’t used to wearing high heeled shoes and a proper dress, and judging by the looks I got from the well-to-do ladies already present, it showed.

The local great and good were gathered together in elegant surroundings. Most were there to be congratulated for giving away what they wouldn’t miss, to the more popular national charities. At one end, the mayor was already centre stage, thanking everyone for being as wonderful as him, and I immediately tuned him out so I could scan the crowd.

Maria was to the front of the crowd, gazing at her father as if he was a hero. She was wearing a pretty pale blue dress and looked as if she’d had her hair done for the occasion. I took a closer look at the people around her and it appeared that she was unescorted.

I made my way over to her and waited for her father to finish his speech and absorb the applause before I introduced myself to her. Her polite smile faded a little as she shook my hand and I noticed her lips tremble slightly when I mentioned Jenny’s name.

Quietly, I asked, Is there anywhere we can talk more privately?

She nodded and led me to a side room, closing the door behind us.

We were surrounded by the ornaments of official office. The table pushed against the far wall was stacked with all the regalia removed to make room in the main hall.

Plaster coats of arms fought for space with banners and what seemed like spears adorned with red ropes.

Look, she began, sounding agitated, It’s only going to be a few minutes before people notice I’m not there.

This will be really brief, I promise. I only have few questions and I know that they’re going to sound strange, but I’d really appreciate it if you could be honest with me, ok?

She nodded. Ok.

First of all, can you tell me how old you are?

Maria looked a little surprised, but I’d already rumbled her. There was no need to pretend.

I’m fifteen, she admitted.

I nodded, now understanding. An excellent education and an intelligent mind made peers her own age seem immature, but partying at the places her friends went to made a little subversion necessary. The right clothes and makeup, and a mature attitude would make her appear older than her years. At a nightclub she’d be more likely to meet an older, more appealing man, one she’d be reluctant to invite to an evening like this where her father would meet him.

What was it that Jenny didn’t like about your ex-boyfriend?

Again Maria raised her eyebrows, but answered the question. She said he was a user. He only wanted to get me into bed and wouldn’t be able to stay faithful.

Did she say why she thought so?

No.

It’s not Ben, is it? I asked, needing confirmation.

Maria wrinkled her nose. God, no; I don’t know what Emma sees in him.

With his own place and a rich daddy, it wasn’t too hard for me to see what Emma saw in him.

Maria looked at me. Do you know what’s happened to Jenny?

I nodded slowly. "Yes, I think I do. I think that the guy you dated, dated her first and she thought that she should warn you. Did you ever stop to think about how alike the two of