Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  Barbara Streisand stops singing “Funny Girl,” and a few moments later Donna’s standing in my doorway.

  “So, Sadie, you gonna tell him?”

  “Tell who, what?”

  “Tell Dad you’re leaving.”

  “Maybe.”

  I have to. I need his written consent.

  The front door opens, and a minute later, we hear Daddy banging around in the kitchen, probably making himself a rum and aspartame.

  “Where you going?” Donna asks.

  “Don’t know.”

  A crash comes from the kitchen, followed by a string of curses.

  “How you gettin’ there?”

  “Driving.”

  “With Jason?”

  I meet Donna’s gaze.

  “He told you, didn’t he? What did he say?”

  “That you’re headed to Vegas. Leaving me to cope with Dad.”

  Donna leaves my room, returns a minute later with a suitcase.

  “I’m coming with you. Trinidad is on the way. You guys can drop me off.”

  “I don’t think so—”

  Footsteps clomp along the hall, and we both turn.

  In unison, we say, “Hi, Daddy.”

  He peers over his glasses (today they’re sparkly red to match his dress), looks from me to Donna, taking in the suitcases.

  “You two going somewhere?”

  Feeling protective of my little sister—okay, Donna’s taller and bigger than me, but I’m older—I speak up.

  “We’re heading west.”

  Even under pancake makeup, I see Daddy’s face flush. His mouth curls in a sneer.

  Donna stands frozen.

  In the past, I would have backed down from Daddy, would have given in to the sick feeling rising from my belly, crawling up my throat, and choking me. But now, even though my knees are trembling, I step toward him.

  “We’re leaving.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  His hand clenches. He might be dressed like a woman, but despite press-on nails, he can pack a punch. Daddy’s knuckles fly toward my face.

  I duck, and his fist smashes the wall.

  “Get Jason,” I yell at Donna. “Bring the car.”

  Daddy grips my arm, pulls me toward his chest, and I get a whiff of Shalimar.

  “That’s Mommy’s perfume.”

  “Mine now.”

  Thanks the kickboxing class I’ve been taking at the Y, I knee him in the groin.

  He moans and doubles over.

  Donna grabs our suitcases, runs down the hall.

  I try to follow her, but Daddy blocks me. He moves toward me, forcing me against the wall.

  “You’ve always been trouble. You’re just like your mother.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re stupid, and you’re crazy.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

  Ours eyes lock.

  I see a lonely man. A frightened child.

  Why would I be scared of him?

  “Before I leave, I need your written consent, so I can marry Jason.”

  A growl escapes Daddy’s mouth, and his eyes change from lost to crazed—one of his false eyelashes has fallen off and it’s stuck to the lens of his glasses, which doesn’t help.

  “You’re a bad girl, Sadie.”

  I try to get past him.

  He grabs a fistful of my hair, jerks my head back, shouts into my face, “What happens to bad girls, Sadie?”

  “Let go.”

  He tugs harder, dragging me into the hallway.

  “Heeeelp!”

  “Bad girls get punished.”

  “Jaaaason!”

  I want to punch him, try to kick, but my arms and legs are dead, the power has drained out of them.

  I feel the roots of my hair releasing.

  And then, we’re at the basement door.

  He hauls me down the stairway, and my feet bounce on the steps like a ragdoll’s.

  He’s got me in a stranglehold, and I can barely breathe, as he pulls me across the basement to the chair.

  “Nooooooo!”

  Breaking from him, I run through the obstacle course, attempting to get back to the stairway, and trip over a bag of groceries. My knees are bleeding.

  He’s got a hammer, rushes toward me raising it above his head.

  It comes down on the linoleum, narrowly missing my skull.

  Panting, I lie on the floor, stare up at him.

  He’s out of shape, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face and ruining his carefully applied foundation. Red chiffon clings to his chubby thighs.

  Even though he’s over fifty, he’s stronger than me, and a whole lot larger.

  When I try to stand, he knocks me down and throws his weight on top of me.

  “You—” I try to speak, but he’s sitting on my chest, his hands wrapped around my throat, choking off the air.

  His face is ugly and contorted—lipstick smeared, mascara running.

  “You k-k—” my throat contracts, and I’m gasping, “—k-killed Mommy.”

  He lets go of my throat, and air rushes to my lungs.

  “Y-you killed Mommy,” I say again.

  He runs his forearm over his sweat drenched face.

  When he smiles, his mouth looks lopsided, but that’s his makeup.

  “Stupid girl.”

  My strength is returning, and even though my legs feel weak, I manage to get out from under him.

  “You killed Mommy. I know you did.”

  I get up and face him squarely, jab my finger at the center of his padded bra, where his heart should be. “You’re a murderer.”

  I expect him to snigger (the villain always does), but his eyes are empty—the mark of a true psychopath, or someone whose mind is gone.

  He says, “If anybody killed your mother, it was you.”

  “Me?”

  “She asked you for her medicine, didn’t she?”

  I lick my lips, notice they’re trembling.

  “You gave her the wrong pills.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  I back away from him.

  “You slit her wrists, Daddy. I watched you. You made Mommy bleed to death.”

  “I made it look like suicide to protect you.”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  He shoves me backward.

  “No, Daddy.”

  “Yes. You gave her the wrong pills on purpose, didn’t you?”

  My legs touch the torture chair, and the spikes prick my skin.

  We stare at each other, trying to psyche each other out.

  I hear Daddy breathing.

  Feel my heart beating.

  There’s no other sound.

  But my mind is far from quiet.

  I no longer know the truth, no longer know what to believe. Could I have killed Mommy? A tear leaks from the corner of my eye, runs down my face, and plops onto the floor. It tastes like salt. For the first time in my life, I’m crying for Mommy. There’s a big hole in the middle of my chest, and it hurts more than the torture chair. If this is what feeling is, it really, really sucks.

  A loud crack breaks the silence. Someone’s pounding on the basement door.

  “Sadie, are you down there?”

  “Open up!”

  “We’ll break this down!”

  Jason and Donna.

  I scream, “Help!”

  Fear flickers in Daddy’s eyes, or is that glitter eye shadow? He knows he’s no match for three of us.

  A crash echoes through the basement as the lock gives way, and the door splinters.

  I run toward the stairway.

  Daddy locks his arms around my waist and drags me to the chair.

  Footsteps pound down the stairs.

  Releasing me, Daddy makes a beeline for the back room.

  Hoping to escape? How? Crawl out of the br
oken window he never fixed?

  Good luck.

  But Daddy’s dumb luck has run out. His silver pumps throw him off balance, and he collides into bags of groceries, scattering a collection of cans and jars. His glasses fly across the basement. Without them, he can barely see.

  Blindly, he fumbles with the sliding door, attempting to open it.

  Jason rushes toward him. Dodging broken jars of jelly, peanut butter, spaghetti sauce, he reaches the sliding door and thwarts Daddy’s getaway.

  Meanwhile, I find the scratchy sisal rope, and Donna positions the chair.

  “You look tired,” she says. “Sit down, Dad. Take a load off.”

  I force Daddy into the seat.

  He howls when the spikes rip through his dress, tearing the chiffon to shreds. His butt oozes blood, but that’s not why he’s crying.

  “Imbeciles! This is a one of a kind. Diane Von Furstenberg.”

  I’m surprised he sprung for a designer.

  He’s going on about how much the dress cost him, when I stuff a rag into his mouth to shut him up.

  “Liar!” Donna shrieks. “That dress is two years old. A knock-off. Where’d you get it? Filene’s Basement?”

  I consider stuffing a rag into Donna’s mouth, but I’m in a hurry.

  “Help me, Jason.”

  Together, we wrap rope around the chair, securing Daddy to the spikes.

  He makes a lovely package, don’t you think?

  Advice from L’il Sadie

  10 Signs Your Friend is a Serial Killer

  The shopping list for Home Depot includes ten rolls of duct tape, a case of Drano, and a shovel designed to dig through anything.

  The house always smells like dead chicken.

  Dexter is his idol.

  The family doctor’s name is Hannibal.

  Even at age twenty-six, bedwetting is a problem.

  On Halloween your pal always dresses like Norman Bates, or his mother.

  Pets keep disappearing … so do people.

  Your friend’s idea of a party is spying on the neighbor.

  You stumble over a body in the basement.

  Favorite book: Sadie the Sadist.

  Into the Sunset

  We left Daddy to die, but he didn’t.

  What can I say; the guy is stubborn.

  After a few days of being stuck in the basement, the mailman found him. He’d been attempting to deliver a package from Victoria’s Secret, and it required a signature.

  Daddy never said a thing to the police. If he had, chances are, due to his track record, they would have assumed he’s into S&M and likes it rough. A lot of people do these days, and Daddy’s always been a pioneer when it comes to torture.

  Shortly after our departure, he lost his mind. Not too difficult, since there wasn’t much to lose. Apparently, he never found it. So, he sold the house and moved to Phoenix where he fits right in.

  Jason, Donna, and I headed to Vegas.

  It’s not where we ended up, but that’s where we were going. And, yes, Jason and I eventually got married, even without Daddy’s consent. Donna was the maid of honor and the best man. At the time, she was taking hormones, but hadn’t had the surgery.

  If you want to know more, please read my memoir: Sadie the Sadist.

  BTW, Daddy is a BIG FAT LIAR.

  No way did I kill Mommy.

  (You know me; I always, always tell the truth.)

  THE END

  Appendix

  (A reference list of bodies and body parts)

  Murder One: Mommy’s body floating in a pool of blood; Dead turkey; Tiny cat balls; Donnie’s severed thumb; Worm in Daddy’s belly button

  Happy Birthday, Sadie: Daddy’s cracked head; Ryan’s dead body in Another World; Donnie’s pierced tongue; Gloria’s fake boobs; Squished Kitty Muffin; Ground goldfish; Kitty Muffin’s eyeball; Dead pig (ham); Chicken fetuses (eggs); Dead Doggie Muffy

  Crime and Punishment: Catnip mouse; Sadie’s va-jay-jay; Gloria’s purple toenails; Rat’s ass; Cat Bull; Bearded Dragon Lizards; Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches; Prairie Dogs; Frucks

  Gloria in Excelsis: Cow eyeballs; Tuna eyeballs; Gloria’s eyes; Sadie’s boob; Sadie’s nipple; Jason’s tongue; Thighs; Bacteria; Gloria’s shin; Gloria’s pink pudgy body; Gloria’s mouth

  Murder Three: Big boner

  Apocalypse Now: Jason’s six-pack; Sadie’s gut; Sadie’s pubes; Donnie’s flounder; Jason’s chest; Sadie’s va-jay-jay (again); Sadie’s fat ass; Kitty Muffin’s balls; Donnie’s balls; Unwanted appendages

  Murder Four: Sadie’s muscles; Daddy’s brain (or lack of one); Daddy’s fist; Daddy’s knuckles; Daddy’s press-on nails; Sadie’s bloody knees; Sadie’s skull; Sadie’s throat; Daddy’s face; Daddy’s eyes; Sadie’s legs; Daddy’s butt; Daddy’s mouth; Donna’s mouth

  Into the Sunset: Daddy’s mind

  Acknowledgements

  For just over a year, I worked at a supermarket owned by a major corporation. To give you an idea of how wonderful that job was, it inspired my novel Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror. The experience propelled me into thoughts almost as dark as Sadie’s … wait a minute, I wrote those thoughts, didn’t I? I’m thankful for having had the job; without it Sadie may not have been born. The day after I gave notice at that job, I received an e-mail from author, Barbara Silkstone, inviting me to participate in a boxed set of novels, Six Pack of Sleuths, with five terrific writers. For me (and Sadie), that proved leaving the job (with no other job lined up) was the right decision. Thank you Barbara!

  A book has little purpose without readers, and I have deep appreciation to those who have read my stories. Profound thanks to the horror community. Their support and enthusiasm is amazing. I love you guys. (Never realized how well I would fit in with such a twisted group.)

  Many thanks to my beta readers: Barbara Silkstone, Haz Saïd, Clare Tull, Susan Urban, Terry Junttonen, Tory Hartmann, and Terry McClaren. Their willingness to take time out of their busy schedules to read my story and offer feedback is invaluable and greatly appreciated.

  Thanks also to Diana Cox, my proofreader, for her meticulous work. Thanks to Jason Anderson of Polgarus Studio for formatting the book so beautifully. And, of course, to Jeroen ten Berge, master of creativity, for designing another excellent cover.

  About the Author

  Zané Sachs is my evil twin. She allows me to write stories I would never conceive as Suzanne Tyrpak.

  Thank you for reading my books.

  Sadie and I can’t wait to hear from you! Drop me a line to register for my mailing list: New Releases, Contests, Insanity.

  Email: ZaneSachs@gmail.com

  Twitter: @ZaneSachs

  Facebook: Zané’s Author Page

  Web: Zané Sachs-Going Down

  BEING LIGHT

  HELEN SMITH

  This book is for my parents

  TYGER BOOKS

  Copyright © Helen Smith 2000

  First published in Great Britain by Orion in 2000

  This ebook edition published in 2010 by Tyger Books

  The right of Helen Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-9565170-2-9

  Chapter One ~ The Castle

  Roy Travers and his friend Brian Donald begin setting up the bouncy castle in Brockwell Park early in the morning, while the light is still weak and they are only half awake. It’s a very windy day in late April, with a light drizzle forecast for this afternoon, but they and the other volunteers are expecting a large crowd to turn out from midday to raise money for St Thomas’s Hospital Scanner Ap
peal.

  The bouncy castle, lent to them for the occasion by a local business, is the star attraction for the younger children, together with the pony rides. It is very shiny, made from an expensive prototype material of the kind that is primarily used in modern metallic stay-fresh crisp packets.

  ‘Funny weather for a Fun Day,’ says Brian, who has no gift for observational humor. Roy ignores him, crouched inside the bouncy castle at the back, patting and smoothing the walls to make sure it is inflated correctly. The inflation is just right. They have made the walls and the turrets of the castle fat and sausagey without putting a strain on the material.

  Brian hunches over a Silk Cut Ultra Mild with his disposable lighter, his back turned against the wind, hoping to reward himself with a quick smoke before checking that the guy ropes are secure. His wife doesn’t like him smoking. She was the one who told the Hospital Fundraising Committee he would be prepared to spend his day off buggering about with the bouncy castle, so he doesn’t feel too bad.

  The wind nudges the castle. The ground is soft because it has been raining. The metal pegs slide from the earth like hungry fingers through custard. The castle bumps an inch or two along the ground, trailing the guy ropes. Unheeding, Brian flicks at his lighter and makes a windshield for the cigarette with the lapel of his jacket, turning his back one way and then another against the intensifying wind, whipping around him from all directions.

  With the persistence and strength of an elephant moving tree trunks in the jungle, the wind produces a fierce, blowing burst that transforms the anchorless castle into a flying craft, Roy Travers its only passenger.