65 Proof (34 page)

Mrs. Richardson’s weakness was hundred dollar slots. She could go through ten thousand dollars an hour. For Mr. Richardson, the allure of blackjack proved irresistible. He was what casino folks called a ‘whale,’ betting more money on a single hand than Marty earned in the last three years—and Marty held down two jobs and couldn’t even afford a car. By day, Marty drove a school bus. At night, he cleaned casino ashtrays and emptied trash cans.

But if Marty’s plan worked out, he’d never work another shift at either job.

Marty had seen the Richardsons gamble many times, reckless in the way the very rich tended to be. Mostly, they lost. But sometimes they won, and won big. When they did, they took their spoils in cash. On those big win days, the casino sent an armed escort with the Richardsons, to make sure they arrived home safely.

Marty watched, and waited, polishing slot machines and vacuuming gaudy plush carpeting. He was biding his time until the Richardsons hit it big, because the next time they did, he would relieve them of their winnings.

Marty had followed them all around town, many times. He’d made frequent, secret visits to their house. In the past four weeks, Marty had learned a great deal about the Richardsons.

He knew they had an electric fence, but he had a plan to deal with the electric fence. He knew they had a dog, but he had a plan to deal with the dog. He knew they had a burglar alarm, but he had a plan to deal with the burglar alarm. He knew they had a safe, but he had a plan to deal with the safe. He even had a way to deal with the Richardsons themselves, if they woke up during the robbery. Marty had a gun, and would use it if he had to.

Marty had planned every tiny detail.

All Marty needed was for the Richardsons to win big, and that night, it happened. Mrs. Richardson hit the Double Diamond Jackpot—a cool half a million dollars.

The Richardsons celebrated, cheering and laughing. The casino manager came by to congratulate them both. The couple left with two satchels full of cash, accompanied by two armed guards.

Marty followed.

The Richardsons lived exactly 6.3 miles away from the riverboat. They always took the same route, but just to be sure they didn’t deviate from their routine, Marty kept them in sight. He tailed them up to their estate and parked across the street. Once the Richardsons were through their electric fence, the armed guards waved farewell and drove away.

Which left Marty alone to do his work.

He kept his tools in a large satchel under his seat. After setting the parking brake, he grabbed the bag and exited his vehicle through the rear door.

The electrified gate crackled in the night air. From the bag, Marty removed some heavy rubber gloves and galoshes. Rubber didn’t conduct electricity, and Marty climbed over the fence safely.

The mansion stood three stories high, boasting dozens of rooms. Marty located the five bullhorns attached to the outside of the building. Any unauthorized person trying to get in through a door or window would trigger these sirens. He filled each bullhorn with a can of aerosol insulating foam—the kind homeowners use in their attics to reduce drafts. The foam filled every crack and crevice, quickly hardening into a solid material. The sirens would still go off, but they wouldn’t be any louder than a whisper.

With the alarm system beaten, Marty located the living room window and pushed a plumber’s plunger onto the surface. Using a diamond edged tool, he cut around the plunger until he could remove the glass.

When he had a hole in the window, he took a thermos from his bag and shook out a ball of raw hamburger.

Scruffy, the Richardson’s harmless but noisy pug, came running into the room. Before the dog could begin barking, Marty stuck his hand through the hole in the window, holding the hamburger. Mixed in with the meat were sleeping pills.

The dog gobbled up the treat, then stared at Marty, waiting for more. Marty gave the dog a rawhide bone. Scruffy chewed for five full minutes, then closed his eyes and began to snore harmlessly.

Marty felt for the latch and opened the window. He listened closely for the Richardsons, hearing a TV in another part of the house.

The safe, Marty knew from his many reconnaissance visits, was behind a large painted portrait of Mrs. Richardson. Marty crept up to it in the darkness, removing a cordless drill and a feather pillow from his bag. Unzipping the pillow, he placed the drill inside until just the large bit protruded, and then began drilling the safe, the sound muffled by the feathers.

He’d barely begun when the lights suddenly switched on. Marty spun around, reaching for his pistol, but decided against it when he saw the room was filled with cops.

Marty dropped the drill and raised his hands.

“How did you get here so fast?” Marty asked. “My plan was perfect!”

The lead detective answered. “The casino helped the Richardsons set up the phoney slot machine payoff tonight, to lure you here. We’ve been waiting for you for over an hour. You made one very big mistake.”

What was Marty’s mistake?

SOLUTION:
Marty didn’t own a car, so every time he followed the Richardsons and parked near their house, it was using his work vehicle…a school bus. The Richardsons spotted it easily, and knew something was going on because there are no school buses that run at night.

This is the Mini Mystery that Woman’s World finally bought. I still have no idea why they preferred this one over the other three. It’s actually my least favorite.

Some folks will do anything to win…

T
he Bitsy Farmer Rocky Mountain Cake Bake-Off had played host to many wonderful desserts over the past ten years, but this was the first time it played host to a criminal.

Bitsy stared at the five finalists and frowned. When she began the contest a decade ago, it was to help new chefs. But things had gotten ugly. Really ugly.

Bitsy’s skills in the kitchen had given rise to a multi-million dollar cake-mix company. Always the innovator, Bitsy used the Rocky Mountain Cake Bake-Off to encourage amateur cooks. The winner received ten thousand dollars, plus her recipe would be sold through Bitsy’s company. But never before had Bitsy been faced with this dilemma.

An anonymous phone caller had informed Bitsy that one of the remaining contestants was planning to sabotage her competitors. Not only was that unfair, but the scandal could hurt the integrity of the event—an integrity Bitsy had spent years building.

Bitsy knew she had to figure out who the villain was, before the competition was ruined.

She walked over to Contestant #1, Suzi Snow. The elderly Ms. Snow reminded Bitsy of her grandmother; hair up in a gray bun and always smiling.

“Hello, Ms. Snow. What are you baking for us today?”

Ms. Snow grinned, showing off super-white dentures.

“My famous angel food cake, with a fresh raspberry glaze. I have a secret ingredient, passed down through six generations.”

“What is it?” Bitsy asked, curious.

Ms. Snow winked. “I’ll only share it if I win.”

Bitsy wished her luck, and walked through the kitchen studio over to Contestant #2, Maureen Hamilton. Maureen was Bitsy’s age, but shorter and perpetually scowling. She looked to be in a mood when Bitsy approached.

“The altitude is murderous,” Maureen moaned. “It will be a miracle if this chocolate cake turns out. Plus I don’t think this oven is calibrated correctly. I don’t want to lose because of faulty equipment.”

“I’ll send a technician over to check it out,” Bitsy said. She spoke into her walkie-talkie and asked someone to come by.

Maureen frowned and kept mixing.

Contestant #3 was Maria Espinoza. She’d brought her teenaged daughter with to assist, which the rules allowed. Both wore white latex gloves, which was definitely sanitary, but somewhat unusual.

“This will be the best angel food cake you’ve ever eaten,” Maria beamed.

Bitsy noticed that Maria’s daughter was opening a package of raspberries.

“Are you making a raspberry glaze?” she asked.

“Yes. I know that other lady is making a similar cake, but mine will be better. You’ll see.”

Bitsy bid her good baking and moved on the Contestant #4, Holly Doolittle. Holly was opening up packages of cream cheese, and Bitsy noted that her counter top was covered with graham cracker crumbs.

“Bitsy! I’m so excited to meet you! You’re my idol!”

“Thank you,” Bitsy said, a little embarrassed.

“I only hope my cake is half as good as one yours. You’ve got the be the best baker in all of Colorado. Boy, I just love you!”

Bitsy endured a hug, then moved along to the final contestant, Georgia Peters.

“Ms. Peters, I…”

“Shhh!” Georgia put a finger in front of her lips. “The first layer of my quadruple golden layer cake is in the oven. With this elevation, I can’t take any chances.”

“Sorry,” Bitsy whispered, somewhat mollified. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Georgia whispered back. “This cake will win for sure.”

Bitsy’s walkie-talkie squawked. Georgia shot Bitsy an evil look at the intrusive sound, and Bitsy hurried away.

“What is it?” she asked into the radio.

“We found something.” It was Niki James, Bitsy’s assistant. “You’d better come and look.”

“Where are you?”

“In the hospitality suite.

Bitsy flew through the kitchen, down the hallway, and to the suite. When she arrived, Niki was as pale as cake flour.

“It was under the sofa, in a plain paper bag.”

She pointed to the table, and Bitsy gasped when she saw a gun laying next to a bowl of chips.

“When I became your assistant, I never knew I’d have to deal with anything more dangerous than a spatula,” Niki said. “Who would bring a gun to a bake-off?”

“Did you touch it?” Bitsy asked.

Niki nodded. “I didn’t know what was inside, so I reached in.”

“No name on the bag?”

“It’s just a regular paper lunch sack,” Niki said.

“How about on the gun?”

“I didn’t look close enough.”

Bitsy thought out loud. “How long has the hospitality suite been open?”

“It’s been open all night. I know for a fact that every contestant has been in here, some several times.”

Bitsy rubbed her temples. She couldn’t believe that one of the women she’d just met would commit murder just to win.

“Should we call the police?” Niki asked.

“Yes. We’ll have to cancel the bake-off.”

“The negative publicity will be devastating.”

“I know. But there’s nothing—”

Bitsy’s voice trailed off when her eyes locked on the gun. There was something unusual about it. She crept closer to get a better look.

“This isn’t a regular gun,” she said. “Look at the writing on the side.”

Niki came over and read the word engraved into the stock.

“Starter pistol? What’s that?”

“It’s used for races. It doesn’t fire real bullets. Only makes a loud noise.”

As the words left Bitsy’s mouth, she smiled.

“Call security. I know who the saboteur is.”

Who is the saboteur, and how did Bitsy know?

SOLUTION:
Bitsy believed Holly Doolittle had brought the starter gun. A loud noise, especially at the high altitude in the Colorado Rockies, would cause flour-based cakes to collapse. Holly was making a cheesecake, which would be unharmed by the loud bang, ensuring a win. Holly had bragged about her plan to her next door neighbor, who placed the anonymous call to Bitsy.

After I sold Piece of Cake, I figured I had a new market that would take everything I wrote. I was wrong. After buying my previous story, Woman’s World gonged this one. My hat’s off to Encyclopedia Brown, because this isn’t as easy as it looks.

Only obscure knowledge will lead to a killer…

T
he First Annual Spokane Zoologist Convention ended on a very sour note…a murder.

To make matters even worse, no one knew who the dead man was.

“I’m sure he’s a registered zoologist,” said the convention organizer, Dr. Myrna Simmons, who claimed she recognized the deceased from the day before. “I checked him in at the reception table. I remember searching for his name tag. But for the life of me. I can’t recall his name. The poor man.”