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  “Jill,” he called. “Jill, Jill.” When she appeared he said, “I need another reading.”

  He sat at the dining room table in a way that indicated he expected no argument. Jillian gave him one, anyway.

  “It doesn’t work that way, Gene. You know that. The rule is to wait until circumstances in your life have made a definite change before consulting the cards on the same issue.”

  “Someone just tried to assassinate me. They put a bomb in my car. How is that for a definite change?”

  Without another word, Jillian produced the Tarot cards, unwrapped the scarf and set them in front of the querent. She did not lower the lights or burn jasmine. Mr. G shuffled the cards and passed them to her.

  “How should I deal with the betrayal of my wife and my employee?” he asked.

  “Jeezuz,” a voice said behind him. Mr. G turned to look. Joe immediately left the room.

  Jillian dealt the cards in the Ellipse Spread: The Magician, Death, five of Wands, three of Wands, The Lovers, eight of Disks and The Star.

  “You’ve recently suffered a shocking blow in both an emotional and business relationship,” she said. “You seem to be expressing a deep sense of distrust and disappointment. You also seem shaken and disbelieving. In the imminent future there will be a certain amount of conflict, both inner and from outside. You will sometimes feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the events that have taken place and uncertain of your ability to deal with them. I think you will also feel bitter and angry, but if you accept that you’re bound to be feeling hurt and then just engage with your hurt, you’ll soon be kinder to yourself as you come to grips with this situation. It is important that you make no compromises during this time. You must be true to yourself. You must follow your code. You’ll feel stronger and more clear if you do. In a short time, decisions will be made that will begin to straighten this situation out. Again, it is important that you take care of yourself and make sure your emotional and business needs are attended to. The final card in your reading, in my opinion, is the very best card in the deck. The Star. It promises that your dreams will be fulfilled, your hopes realized and your aspirations satisfied. It’s a beautiful card.”

  That was all Mr. G needed to hear. He stood abruptly. Jillian also rose from her chair. He took her face in the palms of his hands. He felt like kissing her. He had never done that before. Hell, he thought, he had never even touched her. But that was going to change. Everything was going to change, and quickly. The future she had promised was so wonderful he couldn’t wait for it to begin.

  Mr. G released the young woman and stepped back.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  He left the loft.

  Three days later, Mr. G’s wife and her driver were killed in a traffic accident. Or so it was assumed at the time. Acting on an anonymous tip, the police soon discovered the truth and Mr. G was arrested and charged with two counts of first-degree murder. Bail was refused. Joe was the one who broke the news to Jillian.

  “He thought his dreams were about to be fulfilled,” he said.

  “I can’t help it if Gene believed all that crap.”

  “I don’t get it. You told me you weren’t psychic, that the only reason you were reading Tarot cards at the art fair in the first place was to make some extra money for college.”

  “That’s right,” Jillian said.

  “Yet everything you told Mr. G in the past two years came true.”

  “Nah. He subconsciously manipulated events so it seemed to him that my predictions were always accurate even when they weren’t. He talked himself into it. That’s what true believers do. My old psychology professor called it confirmation bias.”

  Joe stepped up to Jillian and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “So, now that you can go anywhere you want, where do you want to go?” he asked.

  Jillian draped her arms around Joe’s neck.

  “I thought we’d stay in,” she said. “After all, I never did thank you properly for setting the bomb.”

  “A Turn of the Card” Copyright ©2012 by David Housewright. First published in Fifteen Tales of Murder, Mayhem, and Malice from the Land of Minnesota Nice,” Nodin Press.

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  Author’s Note: When Otto Penzler, the renowned mystery author, editor, publisher, columnist and bookstore owner calls, you answer. He said he was editing an anthology of crime stories and he wanted me to contribute. I said sure. He said there would be ninety other writers involved. I said ninety? He said the anthology would be called KWIK KRIMES and each story would be told in a swift one thousand words or less! Are you in? I said umm, okay… Writing a complete story in less than a thousand words? Not as easy as it looks.

  The Blackmailer Wanted More

  He heard the fear in her voice the moment she recognized his.

  “No phone calls,” she said. “We agreed to communicate only through chat rooms.”

  He assured her that it was an emergency and directed her to a park they both knew.

  “Are we in trouble, Kevin?” she asked.

  “Yes, Emma. I’m sorry.”

  He was sorry, too. Sorry for her, but mostly sorry for himself. A year ago, Kevin was named the youngest vice president in the firm. Old man Torrance himself had taken notice and often invited Kevin and his beautiful bride Lisa to gatherings at his fabulous estate—that’s where he was introduced to Emma, Torrance’s long-legged trophy wife. Unfortunately, he and Lisa had drifted apart mostly because of the grueling hours Kevin worked and the long trips Torrance sent him on. They hadn’t enjoyed sex in weeks. Kevin decided if she was going to be that way… He met Emma in the elevator. She was willing, so he slept with her that evening. Kevin meant for it to be a one-night stand, something to remind him that he was still desirable to women. Yet he saw her again the following week and then a third time three days later—never at the same place twice. They had been very careful

  Emma was waiting for him on the park bench. He could see the anxiety on her face. He answered her nervous questions by presenting a letter that he discovered in his mailbox. “I know about your affair” it said and “I will tell Torrance” unless “I’m paid $10,000.” The letter was accompanied by three laser-printed photographs. The first was taken through a bedroom window and showed Kevin and Emma embracing. They were embracing in the second photo as well; although Emma’s yellow sundress was now lying at their feet. In the third photo, Emma’s bra and panties had joined the sundress.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “Pay him. He’s threatening to take away my wife, my job, probably my career. What would you lose?”

  “Everything. The way our pre-nup is written and Roger, his temper—you can’t imagine his temper. And his kids… What was I thinking sleeping with you?”

  “Good question.” Kevin was attempting to sound blasé, yet was surprised at the ache he felt. He liked Emma and thought she liked him. “I can come up with five thousand.”

  “I can find the rest, but what if he wants more?” Emma asked.

  Turned out, the blackmailer did want more. Kevin had followed his instructions impeccably—the cash was sealed inside a white envelope with “Room 1242” written on it and brought to the front desk of a downtown hotel. Kevin gave the envelope to a clerk. He tried to learn who was staying in 1242, but the hotel had a policy against revealing information about its guests. Two weeks later, Kevin received a second letter. The instructions were identical to the first except for a change in room number and hotel.

  “What are we going to do?” This time it was Kevin who asked the question. “I can’t keep withdrawing five grand in cash from our accounts without Lisa finding out.”

  “Sooner or later he’ll betray us, anyway,” Emma said. “I know he will.”

  “Maybe we should just go to our spouses and explain…”

  “No, no, no, no, no. When I married Roger everyone accused me of being a gold digger, a blonde bimbo from the wrong side of the tracks who wa
s using her looks and sex to snare a rich husband. It wasn’t true. I married Roger because I genuinely loved him. There’s no way he’s leaving me. No way I’m leaving him. They were right about one thing, though. I am from the wrong side of the tracks. I know people.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Emma glanced cautiously around her. When she was sure no one was watching, she dipped into her bag and produced a white envelope. She told Kevin to take it and follow the blackmailer’s instructions. Roger knew what it was, yet asked anyway.

  “It’s a letter bomb,” Emma said. “We’re lucky because the blackmailer expects the envelope to be thick with cash. It allows us to pack it with more explosives. Otherwise it would just pop and flash like a firework.”

  Kevin held the bomb as if taking a deep breath would be enough to set it off. Emma told him to relax, but he couldn’t. He gave her a long list of reasons why they shouldn’t do this.

  “We have no choice,” Emma said. “Besides, it’s the blackmailer’s fault. He started it.” Kevin still wasn’t convinced. She kissed him, kissed him passionately. “Do this and I’ll sleep with you one last time,” she said.

  An hour later, Kevin delivered the envelope to the downtown hotel designated by the blackmailer. The next day, he was arrested for murder.

  The case was smartly presented. First, the prosecutor described how Kevin had withdrawn five thousand dollars in cash to buy the bomb. Next, he presented security footage of him handing the envelope to a hotel desk clerk who passed it to a bellhop. The bellhop testified that he carried it to Room 4786 and gave it to Roger Torrance. Finally, the medical examiner explained how Torrance opened the letter, detonating the bomb that killed him as well as the woman he had been meeting at the hotel once a week for six months—Kevin’s wife, Lisa.

  Kevin blamed Emma. Emma denied everything and since the letters and photographs had somehow gone missing, Kevin couldn’t even prove they had an affair much less that it was she who plotted the crime.

  “I loved my husband,” a teary-eyed Emma testified at a pre-trial hearing. “It broke my heart when I learned he was cheating on me.”

  Kevin believed her. In the end, he exchanged a guilty plea for a chance at parole in two hundred ten months. That same week, Emma inherited half of her husband’s estate.

  “The Blackmailer Wanted More” Copyright ©2013 by David Housewright. First published in Kwik Krimes, Thomas & Mercer. Edited by Otto Penzler.

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  BIO

  A reformed newspaper reporter and ad man, David Housewright has published 16 crime novels including THE DEVIL MAY CARE. His book PENANCE earned the 1996 Edgar Award for Best First Novel from the Mystery Writers of America as well as a Shamus nomination from the Private Eye Writers of America. PRACTICE TO DECEIVE (1998), JELLY’S GOLD (2010), and CURSE OF THE JADE LILY (2013) have each won Minnesota Book Awards. Housewright’s short stories have appeared in publications as diverse as Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine and True Romance as well as mystery anthologies including SILENCE OF THE LOONS, TWIN CITIES NOIR and ONCE UPON A CRIME. He was elected President of the Private Eye Writers of America in 2014. In addition, Housewright has taught novel-writing courses at the University of Minnesota and Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, MN.

  http://www.davidhousewright.com/

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  Other Titles by David Housewright

  Holland Taylor Series

  Penance

  Practice to Deceive

  Dearly Departed

  Rushmore McKenzie Series

  A Hard Ticket Home

  Tin City

  Pretty Girl Gone

  Dead Boyfriends

  Madman on a Drum

  Jelly's Gold

  The Taking of Libbie, SD

  Highway 61

  Curse of the Jade Lilly

  The Last Kind Word

  The Devil May Care

  Young Adult Novel

  Finders Keepers

  Written with Renée Valois

  The Devil and the Diva

  Back to TOC

  Other Titles from Down and Out Books

  See www.DownAndOutBooks.com for complete list

  By J.L. Abramo

  Catching Water in a Net

  Clutching at Straws

  Counting to Infinity

  Gravesend

  Chasing Charlie Chan

  Circling the Runway (*)

  By Trey R. Barker

  2,000 Miles to Open Road

  Road Gig: A Novella

  Exit Blood

  By Richard Barre

  The Innocents

  Bearing Secrets

  Christmas Stories

  The Ghosts of Morning

  Blackheart Highway

  Burning Moon

  Echo Bay

  Lost (*)

  By Rob Brunet

  Stinking Rich (*)

  By Milton T. Burton

  Texas Noir

  By Reed Farrel Coleman

  The Brooklyn Rules

  By Tom Crowley

  Viper’s Tail

  Murder in the Slaughterhouse (*)

  By Frank De Blase

  Pine Box for a Pin-Up

  Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights

  The Cougar’s Kiss (*)

  By Les Edgerton

  The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping (*)

  By A.C. Frieden

  Tranquility Denied

  The Serpent’s Game

  By Jack Getze

  Big Numbers

  Big Money

  Big Mojo (*)

  By Keith Gilman

  Bad Habits

  By Don Herron

  Willeford (*)

  By Terry Holland

  An Ice Cold Paradise

  Chicago Shiver

  By Darrel James, Linda O. Johsonton & Tammy Kaehler (editors)

  Last Exit to Murder

  By David Housewright & Renee Valois

  The Devil and the Diva

  By David Housewright

  Finders Keepers

  Full House

  By Jon Jordan

  Interrogations

  By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)

  Murder and Mayhem in Muskego

  By Bill Moody

  Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz

  The Man in Red Square

  Solo Hand (*)

  The Death of a Tenor Man (*)

  The Sound of the Trumpet (*)

  Bird Lives! (*)

  By Gary Phillips

  The Perpetrators

  Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)

  Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers (*)

  By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes

  Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)

  By Robert J. Randisi

  Upon My Soul

  Souls of the Dead (*)

  Envy the Dead (*)

  By Lono Waiwaiole

  Wiley's Lament

  Wiley's Shuffle

  Wiley's Refrain

  Dark Paradise

  By Vincent Zandri

  Moonlight Weeps (*)

  (*) Coming soon

  Back to TOC

  Here’s a sample from LonoWaiwaiole’s Wiley’s Lament.

  ONE

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  I picked Seattle because you don’t piss in your own peonies, and because Seattle’s tendency to look down on the rest of us had always rubbed me a little raw.

  That’s the problem with having the Space Needle for a nose—the thing sticks straight up in the air. But to me, Seattle was nothing but a safe-deposit box to which I had the matching keys. Every time I needed some money, I just drove three hours north and picked up a bag or two.

  I got the idea from the evening news. You’ve probably seen the same story—a drug bust hits the airwaves, the first thing the cops do is flash the thousands of dollars they found. I could occasionally use thousands of dollars in those days, so I
eventually decided to wage my own little war on drugs.

  Ripping off a drug dealer sounds tougher than it actually is, mostly because I never met one who wanted his money more than his life. It makes perfect sense when you think about it, because money is easy to come by in the drug business and life isn’t.

  I liked midlevel targets, which is why I’d been on the skinny kid in the Seahawks jacket for almost five days without harming a hair on his cornrowed head. The kid was doing all right for himself that night, but he wasn’t doing well enough for me—that’s why I was waiting for his connection to arrive.

  I’m better at waiting than most people, and waiting on the skinny kid in the Seahawks jacket was a piece of cake because he looked right through me every time he glanced in my direction. You hear all the time that appearances can be deceiving, but I don’t know many people who really believe it. It’s amazing how invisible you can get when you mix two weeks without a shower or a shave with an overstuffed shopping cart and a bottle of Mad Dog in a brown paper bag. I was only half a block to the kid’s right, but I could have been on the far side of the moon for all the attention he gave me.

  The Lexus was late that night, so the kid and I were both ready to move well before it appeared. The car rolled to a stop, the window on the passenger side slid down and the kid leaned inside. I pushed my cart in his direction while he did it, using my right hand for the cart and my left to lift the Mad Dog bottle to my mouth. I don’t drink alcohol, so the Mad Dog ran down my chin and collected in my grimy undershirt every time I tipped the bottle.