As a prominent attorney, I have made a name for myself. Whatever name that is depends on whom you ask. At any rate, names don’t concern me. I am only interested in helping those unfortunates who would otherwise be victims of circumstances beyond their control by big corporations and an uncaring public. The money isn’t bad, either.
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Not much happens here in Sheepsvale. It’s a small town, mostly farms and open space that holds little attraction for city folks. This is fine with me. Too many visitors means crime and big city trouble. As sheriff, I am perfectly satisfied to put my feet up on my desk, have a leisurely cup of coffee, and let the rest of the world go by. So when I got the call that there was trouble at the north edge of town I was a little surprised. There are only two farms in that neck of the woods: McGregor’s and Old MacDonald’s.
Margo Power, publisher of Murderous Intent Mystery Magazine founded a Short Story Mystery Fiction Society in 1996. The magazine, Mysterical-e was a spin-off from this and resulted in the Derringer Awards for stories up to twenty thousand words. The society has now grown to around one thousand six hundred members.
Hi. Nathaniel P. Osgood III here. I live and work in Nurseryland as a private detective. It’s an interesting job to say the least, and brings me in contact with some of the strangest people one could ever hope to meet. People say and do crazy things here. For one thing, they are always losing things. Bo Peep lost her sheep. Cinderella lost her slipper. The kittens lost their mittens. Humpty Dumpty lost his balance. And I have it on good authority that Snow White lost her virginity.
Maude Barker loved fortunetellers. She was intrigued by the aura of mystery that surrounded them; the mystical and enchanting rituals that these prophets employed in their trade. Tea leaves, tarot cards, palms and signs of the zodiac all had their charm and enchantment. But she preferred the crystal ball to all of the rest. The exotic beauty of it, as it rested like a sparkling gem on its black velvet pedestal, thrilled her as nothing else could do. And she believed in it wholeheartedly.
They were all out to get him, but Mitch knew it was nothing personal. They were only doing their jobs. They were pros, just as he was, working for one man, but he wasn’t a member of their organization. He worked for somebody else.
The disappearance of Jeff Lisbon is still a topic of conversation wherever people gather. It seemed incredible at the time that someone as famous as he could simply vanish without a trace. Sure, it happens now and then–take Jimmy Hoffa, for example, but this case was different. There wasn’t any rational explanation for Lisbon to “take a ride.”He wasn’t in that line of work. Ask any baseball fan and he will tell you about Jeff Lisbon. He was one of the greats. He broke into the Major Leagues in 1954, when ballplayers were still playing for the love of the game and not because they could make millions just for hitting 200.
I was eleven years old. Living as I did in a small town with houses separated by acres of farmland, I had no birthday party. But my family was there. And cake and ice cream. And presents.
I was ten years old. That was a long time ago, before television and all of the electronic gimmickry that permeate today’s world. We, my younger brother, Timmy and I, got our entertainment by listening to the radio, usually with the lights out as Inner Sanctum and some of the old, classic radio programs scared us out of our wits. Cool! There was nothing like a good scary radio program in the dark to get one’s creative juices flowing. Some of the best, deliciously awful pranks I pulled on Timmy were inspired while listening to the radio.
