by S. L. Menear
“Sorry about your aunt, sweetheart. I’ll drive you to the airport. What time should I pick you up?”
“We’ll need to leave by three o’clock to avoid rush hour traffic on I-95. Thank you for taking me.” I hung up and drove home.
The next morning, I awoke to the scent of warm croissants and coffee in the first-class section. My flight landed in Heathrow on time, and Uncle Clive’s chauffeur was waiting for me in the arrivals area outside of Customs. He ushered me into the back seat of the Bentley and deposited my luggage in the trunk. I fell asleep on the way to the castle.
My uncle awakened me with a kiss on my cheek. “Thanks for coming, Gwen. I fear I’m losing my dear Elizabeth. The doctor said her heart is failing, and there’s nothing he can do.” He looked sad and exhausted. “She’s been asking for you.”
“I’d better see her right away.” I hugged him and followed him into the centuries-old castle perched on a hill overlooking Colchester.
In a large bedroom on the second floor, a massive antique four-poster bed seemed to swallow my frail aunt. An oxygen mask was strapped to her face.
I sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand. “Aunt Liz, how are you?”
She pulled the mask off and spoke in a weak voice. “My dear Gwen, we need to talk.” She turned to her husband. “Leave us, darling. We won’t be long.” She gave him a reassuring smile.
Uncle Clive squeezed my shoulder. “Look after her. I’ll wait outside.” He walked to the heavy oak door and gently closed it.
Aunt Liz pointed at her nightstand. “Open that drawer and hand me the red leather-covered box with King Arthur’s royal seal.”
When I handed her the box, she opened the oval-shaped locket she wore on a chain around her neck and took out a small key. She unlocked the box and removed her ring and brooch.
“Gwen, I haven’t much time, so listen carefully. You’re next in line for the secret weapon passed down from Queen Guinevere.” She pulled a leather pouch filled with white powder from the box. “This is a powerful sedative.” She pressed the center ruby on her ring and the jeweled top popped open. “Fill the ring with this powder and snap it shut. The sedative is tasteless and dissolves instantly in a beverage. Use it to immobilize your target.”
“Aunt Liz, what are you talking about?”
“Patience, my dear.” She held the large antique brooch, pressed the ruby center, and withdrew a broad crystal tube that ran horizontally through it. A gold needle was connected to one end of the crystal syringe, and a ruby was embedded in the handle. “This is Guinevere’s lance. Use it to inject air into your target’s carotid artery. Death is almost instantaneous. Choose only criminals of great evil who have escaped justice.”
I was shocked. “Aunt Liz, did you murder the three Palm Beach men?”
“No, dear, I fulfilled my sacred duty and executed them. Now it’s time to pass the honor to you. Will you accept your inheritance?” She slid the crystal syringe into the brooch where it blended into the design, placed it in the box with the ring and pouch, locked the box, and offered it to me.
My mind reeled. “Did my mother know about this?”
“The woman who wields Guinevere’s lance must bear the burden alone. I couldn’t share the secret with my younger sister or with my dear husband. I told you because you’re the heir. I realize this must come as a shock, but surely you know this is your destiny. You’ve always been keen for justice. You’re the perfect woman to wield the ancient weapon designed by Merlin himself.”
“Aunt Liz, I swore an oath to uphold the law. I can’t go around executing criminals.”
She sighed. “There’s something else. I know who murdered your parents. My private detectives have been following his trail of crimes. They’re sure it’s him, but they don’t have enough hard evidence for the police. If you accept Guinevere’s lance and agree to continue the noble commission, I’ll give you his name and address.”
“And if I don’t accept? You’ll allow the man who killed my parents to remain free?”
“No. If you refuse, I’ll pass the box to your cousin, Juliet, and send her after him. The authorities will never prosecute him. He tossed the gun and shipped your parents’ car to a foreign country years ago. You told the police he wore a ski mask, so you can’t pick him out of a lineup.”
“I’d recognize his evil eyes. They’re burned into my brain.”
She coughed. “You’re a cop. You know that’s not enough for a conviction. Meanwhile, he continues to destroy families. Guinevere’s lance must put an end to him. Shall I give the sacred weapon to your cousin?”
I couldn’t imagine meek little Juliet becoming an executioner, especially using a weapon as up close and personal as the crystal syringe. I flashed on the horrific carjacking scene and felt the searing pain of the bullet ripping through my midsection. I looked once again into his evil eyes and heard his sick laughter. How many people had he killed? How many more families would he destroy if I refused my inheritance? Justice demanded action.
I knew what I had to do. I accepted the box and the locket with the key.
It had been three months since Aunt Liz’s funeral. I decided it was time to leave the Welton Police Department and take a different path. I wanted to help people the criminal justice system had failed. In accordance with my aunt’s directive, I agreed to only use Guinevere’s lance in extreme cases where criminals of great evil had escaped justice.
I traded my fancy roadster for an SUV and a pile of cash to start my own private detective agency.
But first I had to fulfill my sacred duty.
The address Aunt Liz gave me was in North Miami. I spent most of my free time tracking the killer’s movements and planning my mission. He frequented a sleazy bar in Hialeah. I decided to meet him there.
On a warm foggy night, I sat next to him at the bar and pretended I’d had too many glasses of Chianti as I smiled at his acne-scarred face. I whispered naughty suggestions in his ear to distract him while I dropped the sedative into his bourbon. With a saucy swagger, I strolled to the restroom in the dimly lit dive.
Alone, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My long black wig looked so real I barely recognized myself. The fancy brooch, pinned to a red sash tied around my waist, added a touch of class to my low-cut top and tight mini-skirt. I took one last look at the stranger in the mirror.
The middle-aged murderer with straggly brown hair and tanned leathery skin waited for me at the bar.
I nibbled his ear. “Finish your drink and take me to your place.”
He downed his bourbon and led me to his car. I sat inside and took a deep breath as he slid behind the wheel, fastened his seatbelt, and passed out.
I studied his face. The evil eyes that had haunted my dreams were closed in deep slumber. Twelve years of repressed anger and hate boiled to the surface. My right hand rested on the ancient brooch. A fierce passion for justice, inherited from noble women across the centuries, burned inside me. I drew Guinevere’s lance and sent the monster to Hell.
There were no security cameras, but I kept my head down as I wiped the door handle and walked two blocks to my SUV.
During my drive home, I pulled off the road, opened the door, and vomited.
Not because I had slain the dragon—because my lips had touched his ear.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Look for my new mystery series based on Guinevere’s Lance in late 2019 or early in 2020.
Clem’s General Store
D.M. Littlefield
George was the first to arrive after I unlocked the door to my general store this mornin’. He’s a widower college professor who caused quite a stir with the single ladies when he moved here after retirin’ last June. I ain’t heard him profess nothin’ yet, so I cain’t rightly tell if he’s good at it.
My store stocks everything from groceries, hardware, clothing and sundries, to farm supplies and more. My wife, Tillie, runs the little post office inside. Our slogan is: If We Don’t Have It, You Don’t Nee
d It. It’s also the joint where all the hill-country folks gather ’round to socialize.
Gus’s two-pump gas station is across the street next to his repair shop. His sign says: I Can Fix It. Gus fixes everything, from all kinds of machinery to household stuff. He’s our folks’ last hope when duct tape won’t do the job.
You cain’t rightly call three buildin’s a town, but we needed to have a sign for the lost souls who wander off the main highway and end up here on Futility Lane. Long ago, someone named this dip in the road Uncertain, West Virginia.
So, anyhow, a bunch of our good ole boys ambled in this mornin’ to catch up on all the local news.
Bubba and Otis were playin’ checkers when Tillie yelled, “Hey, Bubba! Come and get this big parcel someone sent ya.”
He pushed his chair back, ran his hand across his ruddy face, snapped his suspenders, spat in the spittoon, and strutted over.
“It’s from my ma,” he said, beaming.
Everyone crowded around while he opened it. He lifted out a boy’s coat with a note pinned on it and read it out loud.
“This coat is for little Billy for when he starts school. I cut the big buttons off it on account of they’d make the box heavier and cost more to send. Tell Earlene not to worry. I put them buttons in the left pocket. She can sew ’em on later.” Bubba grinned. “That’s Ma, always thrifty.”
I smiled and nodded.
Rufus rushed in, out of breath. “Somethin’ awful happened! Y’all know my brother Zeke’s beat-up pickup with no glass in the side windows and wire coat hangers holdin’ the doors shut? Well, he took my four cousins fishin’. My oldest cousin sat in front with him while the other three sat in the truck bed.
“When they was in the middle of the wooden bridge agoin’ over the lake, the left front tire blew out. The truck swerved and crashed through the railin’ and inta the water. Zeke and my cousin in the front seat swum out through the windows. The other cousins darned near drowned afore they got the rusty tailgate down.”
“I’m glad they’re all okay,” I said.
Hank stomped in, his blue eyes a blazin’. He pushed his straw hat back and shouted, “You won’t believe what our stupid gov’ment is fixin’ ta do!”
“What?” I asked.
“I jus’ came from a meetin’ of ranchers and those stupid gov’ment guys. After years of us ranchers usin’ the tried and true methods of trappin’ or shootin’ the damn coyotes, they want to capture ’em, castrate the males, and let ’em loose again. Well, ever’body got into an uproar and started hollerin’ until big John from over by Guthrie’s Gulch stood up.
“You coulda heard a pin drop. He scowled and strode over to the gov’ment guy. Big John stood toe to toe with him, tilted his Stetson back, and glared down at him. In his deep drawl, he said, ‘Son, I don’t think you understand the problem. Those critters ain’t screwin’ our animals, they’re eating ’em.’ He shook his head in disgust and strode out the door. We followed him and cheered.”
Everbody nodded in agreement.
Young Jamey moseyed on in. “Howdy, Clem. I’ll be here fer a spell. Gus won’t have my pickup done ’til later, so I wanna buy that book of good ol’ country stories I was readin’ yesterday. That there woman writes them stories like she’s from ’round here, but she must be married to a foreigner ’cause her name’s Ann Onymous. It sounds Greek to me.”
“Sure, Jamey. What’s Gus fixin’ on your truck?”
“Oh, he ain’t fixin’ nothin’. He’s makin’ an improvement.”
“Whadaya mean?”
“Gus is puttin’ a new gas tank in my truck.”
“Was the old one leakin’?”
“Naw, but it cost too much to fill that big ol’ tank, so I’m havin’ him take it out and put in a smaller one.” Jamey grinned and tapped his head with his finger. “Smart, huh?”
“Silas is smart too,” I said. “Tell ’em how you solved your wife’s problem.”
Proud as a peacock, Silas leaned back, flicked the toothpick out of his mouth, and hooked his thumbs under the straps of his overalls.
“Well, sir, whenever we go away for a day or two, Purdy hides her precious stuff in the house. Bless her little ol’ pea-pickin’ heart, she cain’t find it when we come home on account of she fergits where she hid it.
“Purdy drives me nuts, always worryin’ about someone breakin’ in the house and stealin’ her precious stuff. Well, sir, I told her to write a note sayin’ where she hid her stuff afore we leave and put it on the refrigerator. Problem solved.” Silas grinned.
“I wish I coulda solved gettin’ a speedin’ ticket that easy,” I said. “A state trooper pulled me over and gave me a lecture on speedin’. He riled me the way he was throwin’ his weight around. Well, he finally gits to writin’ the ticket while he keeps swattin’ at the flies buzzin’ ’round his head. Friendly like, I say, ‘Y’all havin’ a problem with them circle flies?’
“He stopped writin’ the ticket and says, ‘Well, yeah, if that’s what they’re called, but I never heard of circle flies.’
“I said, ‘Well, sir, circle flies hang around ranches, circlin’ the back ends of horses.’
“‘Oh,’ he says and goes back to writin’ the ticket. A few seconds later, he says, ‘Are you callin’ me a horse’s ass?’
“I said, ‘No, sir, I have too much respect for the law to do that.’
“He says, ‘Good,’ as he gives me the ticket.
“As I drove away, I said, ‘It’s hard to fool them flies though.’”
Everyone snickered and agreed with me.
At closin’ time, me and Tillie were lockin’ up the store when my agent in New York phoned and said my book, Country Stories, had made the best-sellers list. I told ’im I was writin’ a second book and wanted to keep usin’ my lucky pen name, Anonymous.
Side Effects
D.M. Littlefield
James gasped at Ron’s abrasions, bruises, black eyes, and bandaged nose. “Wow! What does the other guy look like?”
“There was no other guy.” Ron frowned and limped toward James’s lawn chair.
“You mean your little wife did all this damage?”
“No, but she caused it. It’s a long story.” Ron stood in front of him.
James patted the chair beside him. “I’m retired. I’ve got time.”
Ron gently lowered his battered body into the cushioned chair and heaved a sigh. “Mary constantly nagged me to stop smoking and kept showing me photos of smokers dying of lung cancer. She waved a tally of my cigarette purchases in my face and said we could afford to take cruises if I stopped smoking. To shut her up, I agreed to quit.”
“How did that go?” James leaned forward.
“The first week I was so irritable and short-tempered, even I didn’t like me. Mary dragged me to the doctor. He gave me pills to ease my withdrawal symptoms.”
“Did the pills work?”
“No, and a rash broke out all over my body. The itch drove me nuts. I tossed and turned in bed so much Mary moved to the guest room. The constant headaches from lack of sleep caused me to become argumentative and hostile. So back to the doctor we went. He gave me sleeping pills and lotion for the itch.”
“Did they help?”
“A little, but the pills gave me vivid dreams. Last night, I dreamed I could feel the wind in my hair while driving my convertible 100 mph on the Florida Turnpike. I heard a police siren and pulled over. A state trooper approached my car and asked for my driver license. I reached for the wallet in my pants pocket and discovered I was wearing nothing but boxer shorts. The officer ordered me out of the car.”
“Sounds like quite a dream,” James said.
“When my bare feet hit the rough pavement, I realized I wasn’t dreaming. My confusion and bizarre attire made the officer think I was drunk. He ordered me to walk a straight line. I fell face-first on the asphalt and was knocked out. I awoke in a hospital bed and called Mary to tell her our car was impounded. I asked her to
call a cab and bring some clothes and our checkbook to the hospital as soon as possible.”
“I bet that upset her,” James said, shaking his head.
“After she paid my medical expenses, I told her we needed to hire a lawyer to defend me against charges of speeding, indecent exposure, driving without a license, driving under the influence, and not wearing a seat belt. The look in her eyes told me she was mentally adding up all the expenses.
“Mary sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, ‘I surrender.’ She opened her gigantic purse and handed me my confiscated pack of cigarettes and my old Zippo lighter.”
Sink Or Swim
S.L. Menear
My love affair with aviation started when I was fifteen. My brother often took me flying in a two-seat Piper Cub before he shipped out on a US aircraft carrier three years later. I was hooked but couldn’t afford lessons.
After college, I began a career as a Pan Am flight attendant because that was the only way for a woman to fly with a major airline back then. I was based at JFK International Airport my first year. Then I transferred to Miami and joined the Pan Am Flying Club. Three months later, I earned my private pilot license. I harbored an impossible dream: to fly jet airliners.
When I began my quest, there were no female pilots with major airlines. I spent the next few years earning an instrument rating, commercial pilot license, multi-engine rating, and flight and ground instructor certificates, and logging flight time instructing and flying charter flights. After enough flight experience and a perfect score on the Airline Transport Pilot written test, I was the first woman pilot hired by Suburban Airlines, a small regional carrier that was part of the Allegheny Commuter network. I was their only new hire that year.
Commuter airlines were far less regulated back then. With no budget for flight simulators or flight training, the chief pilot employed the sink-or-swim method. He taught a half-day ground school for the two airplane types, Twin Otter and Shorts 330 prop jets, and then gave me one hour of flight training followed immediately by the flight tests with a nasty, chauvinistic FAA examiner sitting behind me in the jumpseat. The fed wasn’t his choice.