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Living Dead(heads): Lesbian Adventure Club, #20

Living Dead(heads): Lesbian Adventure Club, #20

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Living Dead(heads): Lesbian Adventure Club, #20

Length:
140 pages
6 hours
Released:
Aug 22, 2019
ISBN:
9781932014839
Format:
Book

Description

Newsflash: Gossip columnist Heady Heaper whacks the mayor of Granton! But she won't stay dead!

What other horrors await the 1930s crew at the mayor's mansion? They're about to find out.

Lesbian Adventure Club, Book 20

Approximate word count: 32,000

Released:
Aug 22, 2019
ISBN:
9781932014839
Format:
Book

About the author


Related to Living Dead(heads)

Titles In This Series (26)

Book Preview

Living Dead(heads) - Rosalyn Wraight

Self

Chapter 1

The Murder

Claudia, I have to work late, I lied, and it made me sick to my stomach.

Oh, really? Any idea how long? the green-eyed inquisitor asked.

This time, at least, I did not need to lie. I’m not sure. It shouldn’t be too long.

Okay. I’ll see you soon then, honey. I love you.

I returned the sentiment and thought for sure I’d hurl. I disconnected, threw my phone to the passenger seat, and hit the gas.

A few moments later, I eased into the drive-thru lane at Road Swill’s biggest competitor. After a two-car wait, my eyes frantically scanned the overwhelming menu. Road Swill’s was simple and to the point, and it sure as hell didn’t have sizes in Italian sounding words. This was goddamn stupid, and when the crackly voice on the speaker asked what I wanted, I said, "Latte, medium." She translated my emphasized word into pseudo-Italian as though I was a moron, not a rebelling traitor trying to make a point.

It didn’t take long to make it to the window where a gaudy cup was presented to me. As I waited for my change, I glanced at my watch: four-thirty-five.

With fifteen minutes to kill, I took a spot in the parking lot, cut the engine, and lit a cigarette. I rolled down the window halfway, and January rushed in as though welcome. I was nervous, frickin’ nervous. Pacing would have helped, but that was close to impossible in a car’s front seat.

Now don’t go thinking I was simply being my wussy self. You would have been nervous, too. At least, I hope you would have been. It was not every day you loitered in a parking lot until it was time to go murder someone. Seriously, that was exactly what I had to do and why the hell I had lied to Claudia. Seeing myself as neither murderer nor liar, I was in way the hell over my head. And to shove my head under even further, Alison was my intended victim. Alison! Jesus, I’d rather murder myself than even say an unkind word to her, but here I was.

No, I hadn’t come unhinged, although I must admit I found humor—very dark humor—in the thought of being a murderer whose best friend was a homicide detective. But that wasn’t the case, at least not in the real world. In the Lesbian Adventure Club world, however, that’s exactly what the hell the deal was, and I couldn’t even call upon Claudia for a pep talk, the mess-with-and-be-messed-with talk we were never supposed to need again. I freely admit: I needed it.

I extinguished my cigarette, took a swig of my coffee that was finally a non-lethal temperature, and started the engine. I pulled out into traffic and reminded myself not to drive in my usual speedy way. I needed to arrive precisely at five, no earlier, no later, and I had no goddamn clue what would happen if I failed.

As the sun set, I drove funeral-procession slow, and even then, I still needed to overshoot my destination and return before it was the exact moment to turn down Alison and Janice’s street. As soon as I did, my eyes madly scrutinized all cars and houses, and I felt like an honest to God criminal.

I parked in front of their house and checked the time again, this occasion on my more precise cellphone: an impressive thirty-seven seconds after five. Damn, I was good.

Nervous as all hell now, I pulled an envelope from my jacket pocket. Claudia and I each received one a week prior. The return address spot read, From the Office of the Mayor, and on the back, an emphatic black marker scrawled, For your eyes only! I removed the paper and unfolded it. The first part of the letter contained the particulars about our weekend, but what concerned me at the moment was the paragraph after Mayor Alison and Girl Friday’s signatures. For the hundredth time, I read:

At precisely 5:00 PM on Friday—no earlier, no later—you are to enter the mayor’s mansion (Alison’s, not the actual one’s please) by way of the back door. Follow the shoveled path and use the key very sneakily hidden under the flowerpot. Go directly to the sunroom at the end of the hall on your right. There, you must choose one item in the room as your murder weapon of choice in taking out the mayor. Leave it displayed prominently for our very own investigative team, of which you will be a part. You do not need to whack the mayor. Please do not whack the mayor. You just need to create the crime scene, minus the body, so everyone has something to do all weekend. :) Place the towel where your dastardly deed was committed. You will also need to stash three items of incriminating evidence that point to your guilt but not so sharply that our weekend lasts ten minutes. Do your thing and get out of the mayor’s mansion as quickly as possible!!! If you have any questions, you are SOL.

As a wordsmith-ing reporter and the one-time orderer of coffee in Italian sizes, I readily deciphered the initialism for shit outta luck. I already had questions, but they pertained more to the What the hell? of it all. At the moment anyway.

After claiming the last swallow of my coffee, I zipped my jacket, put on my gloves, and grabbed the empty cup and the copy of the Journal’s competitor. I got out and hurried up the driveway, looking for the path to the back of the house. Not finding it next to the garage, I headed up the front walkway, and there I found it, through the yard and around the far side.

There were a shitload of footprints, and the little tire tracks told me the path had not been made with a shovel, but rather a snowblower. Not that it mattered, but still. I zipped around the house and found the flowerpot next to the back door. It had red and yellow plastic flowers in it and looked totally out of place in the snow. Not that that mattered, either, but still.

I grabbed the key, unlocked the door, and returned the key to its strange home. Then, I entered the completely dark house. I fumbled for a light but suddenly realized that was probably not what a murderer would do. I stopped to think as I removed my gloves and unzipped my jacket a bit.

Let’s see... Was there the danger of being caught? Was I to be stealthy? Had the others been informed of what the hell I was supposed to do? Were they staking out the joint? Was that what the game was: getting away with it? All I could know with certainty was that I was shit outta luck in getting answers. Plus, my car parked on the street was a dead giveaway; no pun intended. Still. I thought a little harder and decided to slink down the hall in the dark. Hell, I had once spent the night in their frickin’ linen closet, and I knew the sunroom was right next door. I could do it, and so I did.

Now, when I got inside the sunroom, a whole new set of problems manifested themselves. It was very dark, and the drapes were open, meaning that hitting the light would put me on display to the entire neighborhood—and anyone out there trying to catch me. I didn’t have a flashlight, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to rummage through their house for one. I was a murderer, damn it, not a ransacker.

Left with little choice and under the gun to get out of the mayor’s mansion as quickly as possible, I dashed around the room and pulled shut the huge drapes. Then, I braved a swat to the light switch. If I’d be caught, so frickin’ be it. I’d be a gutsy-as-all-hell murderer who liked it with the lights on. I was simply making myself notorious, developing a modus operandi. Those things, coupled with a detective best friend... Hell, they’d be writing books about me.

With a sudden sense of urgency, I surveyed the room for my murder weapon of choice. How, exactly, would I kill Alison? Jesus! I decided to strike that phrasing and try again. As Heady Heaper, infamous gossip columnist of the 1930s, how would I kill the mayor of Granton? The pithy and poetic answer would have been a poison pen, but that would have given me away in a heartbeat. No. ... Let’s see. ... Um. ... Aha! I spied a very plump stone Buddha on a corner shelf, and two seconds later, I snatched that sucker and checked its weight. Deeming it heavy enough to inflict serious blunt force trauma, I had my murder weapon. I placed it on the rug in front of the couch. That seemed right, the only place I could have done it without the slumping body knocking things over.

Draped over the back of the couch was the towel mentioned in the letter. I figured it would appear blood-spattered or something just as gruesome. I unfolded the big-ass thing to find, instead, the crime scene outline of a body. Curious as hell, I held it up to get a full view as I wondered whether it really was Alison’s form, perhaps traced by Janice. I wasn’t at all sure, and I reckoned it yet another thing that didn’t really matter.

After moving my murder weapon out of

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