Behind the apartment door, Eartha Kitt was singing “Santa Baby” about twenty-five decibels louder than was sexy. No wonder a neighbor had called in a complaint.
KRL readers might perhaps know me as the editor of a recent series of “inspired by” anthologies: The Beat of Black Wings: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Joni Mitchell (Untreed Reads, 2020), Only the Good Die Young: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Billy Joel (Untreed Reads, 2021), and The Great Filling Station Holdup: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Jimmy Buffett (Down and Out Books, 2021).
The anthology kicks off with Why Judy Why written by Robert Lopresti. Judith finds herself sitting in a police interrogation room, being grilled by two detectives. She seems cooperative enough about what she’s done, but the detectives aren’t clear about one thing: motive. They keep asking, “Why, Judy, why?”, but even if she tells them, they’ll never understand.
The 22 tales in this anthology, although inspired by the songs of the ’60s, don’t all take place in that decade. Some will step you back in time, others contemporary, all evoking the sense of the song or its meaning in tales of theft, robbery, kidnapping, dating, family, and other relationships. From the UK to Canada and the US, these authors crafted stories that range from nostalgic to humorous, but all deadly and inspired by songs whose opening riffs are mostly familiar. If not, pull out your old LPs or CDs or log onto YouTube and have a listen as you read Peace, Love, and Crime: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of the ’60s.
The block lettering on the pebbled glass door read “Daniel Lord, Psy.D.” The white-haired janitor fitted his master key into the lock and turned it until he heard the heavy metal bolt slide free. He pulled the key loose and slipped it into the hip pocket of his baggy coveralls, then twisted the doorknob, swung the door open and trundled his wheeled trash barrel ahead of him into the doctor’s waiting room.
Although he may only be 40 years old, 16 years as a police detective in Ostend, Belgium, have taken a toll on both Rafael Styx's body and his life. Arthritis cripples his bones and fills every movement with pain, and on the Job he is known for accepting bribes and being unnecessarily brutal. Styx's wife simmers unnoticed with anger due to his affairs and neglect, while his teenaged son rarely utters a few words that aren't filled with hostility. Styx barely manages to tolerate his rookie partner, whose fashion sense and adherence to rules represents everything Styx loathes in the new generation of detectives.
“Biqam?” asked Mahboob Chaudri, holding the ceremonial Berber belt in his hands and gazing admiringly at its bold colors and long tassels and glittering bits of mirror. “How much?” The belt would be an extravagance at any price, but Chaudri had promised himself an extravagance this day, and, after hours of searching through the souks of Marrakesh, he wondered if this might not at last be it.
Heather took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Nerves! Her colleagues at work admired the way she kept her head in emergencies, but here she was, as jittery as a teenager.
She twisted the rear-view mirror so she could see herself — tousled blond hair cropped short, hardly any make up, hazel eyes that were steady enough, if a little wary.
