"TURKEY IN THE SAW" SHORT STORY CONTEST

NOV 24, 2023

These were the rules:

Write a crime story of up to 500 words using ALL of the following terms, and I'll publish my five favorite stories on my brand new website: (1) Moonlight Sonata, (2) Grand Slam, (3) Slinky, (4) Chain Saw, (5) Turkey

A wonderful thing about running my own writing contest is that I can change the rules if I feel like it and no one can do anything about it.

So, instead of five winners, I've decided to post my baker's dozen favorite entries, here set out in all their gory glory in diplomatically astute alphabetical order, lovingly formatted and mildly edited by yours truly.

And, you know what else? I think I’ll offer a free Kindle edition of any of my books, including my own short story collection, It’s a Crime! as a prize to all thirteen winners!! Check them out on my website and let me know which book you’d like.

Congratulations, All! To those who didn’t win, don’t worry. I’m having fun doing this and will have another contest in the near future (if I feel like it).

...

...

NOW YOU KNOW: Kerry K. Cox

“He didn’t name it that, y’know.”

Finster looks down at his eggs, the yolks seeping into the hash browns. “That particular name, it was after he was already dead.”

“Why do I care?” Krummel hates talking to Finster. Hates it every morning.

“Because of accuracy.” Finster dips a fork into the eggs, splashes some yolk on his shirt. While chewing, says, “Know the real name?”

Krummel scans the place for Raymond, their waiter. Instead, sees Sammy push through the door. He raises his arm, snaps his fingers. “Sammy!”

Sammy hobbles through the Denny’s, waves hello to Carlos behind the grill, says, “Hi, kid,” to Patty at the register. Takes him three years to get to the table.

“Looking good, Sammy,” Krummel says, thinking, how is this guy still alive?

“Feel like shit,” Sammy says. His voice buzzes like a chainsaw. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Grand Slam,” Finster says, chewing bacon.

“What’s with your voice?” Krummel asks.

“Phlegm. I got lots of phlegm,” Sammy says.

“Christ. You gonna eat something?”

“Naw. I don’t know. Maybe the usual.” Sammy collapses into the booth next to Finster, looks at the man’s plate. “Looks like you threw up in that.”

“You know Beethoven?” Finster asks him.

“The piano player?”

Krummel interrupts. “Nobody cares, Finster.”

Finster looks upset. “Well, they should. For accuracy.”

Krummel waves a hand. “Raymond must have died. I’m getting Patty.”

Sammy says, “I like her. Nice kid. Tell her, the turkey on white. No tomato.”

“Tell her yourself, she’s coming.”

Patty isn’t as old as Sammy, but she’s gaining fast. Looks like every step hurts, which it probably does, Krummel figures. Maybe that’s why the thick white socks.

“Morning, boys.” She holds her order pad ready.

“Where’s Raymond?” Krummel asks.

“He had a thing at home. I can help you.”

Krummel pointed at Sammy. “He’ll have the usual.”

“No tomato,” Sammy snarls.

“Of course, no tomato,” Krummel says. “It’s always no tomato. Christ.” He looks up at Patty. “Sorry. Eggs over hard, couple of pancakes. And more coffee, please. And hey, how’s your grandbaby?”

“He’s good. Birthday’s tomorrow,” Patti says. “Still gotta buy him something.”

“Slinky!” Sammy says. “Best toy ever. Put it on a stair, the goddamn thing climbs down, all by itself.”

“Christ,” Krummel says, “that’s a thousand years ago! And it was just a spring. No kid wants a fucking spring for his birthday. Excuse the language, Patty.”

Sammy waves a dismissive hand. Finster says, “Patty, you heard of Beethoven, right?”

Patty looks confused. “Yeah, why?” “Moonlight Sonata. He didn’t name it that. Know the real name?”

“Jesus Christ, Finster,” Krummel says.

Patty says, “No, I don’t.”

Finster splashes his fork onto his plate, yolk flying. “Piano Sonata Number 14. That’s what he called it.”

“That’s a shitty name,” Sammy says.

Krummel and Patty nod in agreement.

“Great musician. Shitty namer,” Finster says. He looks up at Patty. “So, now you know.”

...

...

COMING IN ON A WING AND A SWING!: Pamela Ebel

The two men sat in companionable silence sipping their Rye on rocks and staring at the roaring fire as the Glenn Miller Band’s version of Moonlight Sonata drifted into the club room. One week before Thanksgiving, 1974, the Timberline Lodge, sitting at the foot of Mount Hood, Oregon, was filled to capacity with early winter skiers.

“What do you think Beethoven would think about Miller’s interpretation of his love song Don?”

“What I know about Ludwig and the rest I learned from the music appreciation class at Cal Berkley. I assume classical music is in your German veins, Baron Gottfried von Cramm. I’m glad you were able to take some time to visit me. I needed to get out of Oakland and this is my escape route.”

“Don, this is the perfect place for a reunion. It was completed in 1937, the year we met. It was quite the competition. I’m glad we stayed friends, considering Hitler and all.”

Raising glasses in a toast they stopped midway as a gorgeous woman appeared in the door. She wore a pageboy of dark auburn hair and slinky, shiny ski pants, a matching sweater and leather boots, all a Cardinal Red.

The room grew quiet as she looked around. Seeing Don and the Baron she broke into a smile appearing to float over to them.

“Gentlemen, I was told I could find you here. I hate to interrupt, but it’s time for the judging at the Pavilion. Please follow me.”

The friends were escorted to the front of the crowd along with six other men.

“Welcome to the annual Timberline Ice Sculpting Contest. Our first category is the men’s doubles team division. They must share the labor of creating a four-foot-tall sculpture of a turkey using a chain saw and chisel. The judges have spent several hours inspecting the entries and I have their results.”

Don and the Baron listened as the second and first runners up were announced.

The Baron whispered: “I haven’t been this nervous since Hitler called to wish me good luck in our first meeting.”

“And Now For Our winners. This year the First Place Men’s Doubles Sculpture Prize goes to Don Budge, who in 1938 became the first player in tennis history to achieve the Grand Slam winning Australia, France, Great Britain, and US ‘tournaments. He is joined today by longtime friend and early competitor, Baron Gottfried von Cramm.”

Blue ribbon medals around their necks, they stood for pictures next to their creation, The turkey wore a jaunty cap. One wing was spread wide, the other held a tennis racket. His medal, chiseled into its breast, read “GRAND SLAM FOR FREEDOM!”

[Editor’s Note: Budge and von Cramm were two of the greatest tennis players in the first half of the 20 th century, often friendly rivals in the game’s major international tournaments. Von Cramm, blond, handsome, and German, was a poster child of the Nazis in the 1930s –– claims were made that Hitler himself telephoned him –– until they found out that he was having an intimate relationship with a foreign, Jewish male, after which the Nazis totally disavowed him. Von Cramm, however, never was supportive of the Nazis, and, in fact, actively worked against them. Somehow, he survived the War intact, only to die in a car accident in Cairo in 1976.]

...

...

IN THE HABIT: Arthur Elias

They had had such a magical rendezvous in Turkey, making love to the distant strain of the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Now she stood at the top of the stairs, crying disconsolately, a bloody chainsaw in her hands.

She had just decapitated Rudolfo, and watched him descend the staircase like a Slinky in a forest green smoking jacket and ecru colored slacks, the yellow ascot having been shed as the head separated from the torso.

And yet, they would never convict her of the crime. Who would suspect a former nun with no carpentry experience? The village was still baffled by the similar demise of her three former paramours. Now, with the termination of Rudolfo, Sister Estelle had technically and literally, achieved a grand slam of lovers. Amen.

[Full Disclosure: If the name “Elias” rings a bell, it could be because Arthur is my older brother. Nepotism? How dare you even think that!]

...

...

MURDER FOR HIRE: Wendy Haber

Back from the exclusive private balcony seats above in her slinky red silk gown with the plunging neckline, Jade heaved a big sigh as the orchestra was playing Moonlight Sonata. Jade sat down meticulously taking off her red gloves turning them inside out and carefully placing them inside the plastic bag in her clutch.

Arm in arm, Jade and Dom walked out of the historic Grand Theater going home to enjoy the live Grand Slam tennis tournament on the big screen in their entertainment center. Dominique was four inches taller with his curly dark brown hair in contrast to Jade’s straight long black hair reaching her waist.

“Should we stop and get takeout before going home?” asked Jade.

“Turkey and all the sides!” smiled Dom.

“Did you complete the task?”

“Yes. I found the chainsaw behind the seat, activated the silencer, slipped the blade through the cut in the curtain, and made a swipe right to left, and then put it back behind the curtain. No one was in seat U2. No one was around,” said Jade.

“I followed all instructions in the letter.”

“Mission accomplished! An extra mil doesn’t hurt. Next time my turn.”

...

...

HOLIDAY LIGHTS: Jane Johnson

“It’s about time, Zelensky!” Lieutenant Bronson bellowed. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Detective Zelensky replied. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Well, let’s wrap this up so we can all go home,” Bronson said. “This is the fourth murder this week. If we can solve this it will be a Grand Slam.”

“Where’s the body?” asked Zelensky, looking around the room for the first time.

“Over there, under the chandelier. We covered it with the pool table cover,” replied Bronson.

“Pretty gruesome stuff,” Detective Hickey inserted, sauntering up. “Looks like someone took a chainsaw to him. Kinda like carving a turkey,” he added, laughing at his own joke.

“Shut up, Hickey, and get back to work,” Bronson grumbled.

“Let’s arrest the dame in the slinky dress standing over by the French doors,” Zelensky said. “She looks guilty.”

“That reminds me,” Hickey mused. “My kids want a Slinky for Christmas. Hot toy this year, hard to find.”

“Hickey!” Bronson yelled. “Get back to work!”

“Yes, Boss!” Hickey mock saluted before he marched off.

“Idiot,” Bronson murmured under his breath.

“So, what’s the story on that girl?” Zelensky asked.

“Name’s Laura Morton,” Bronson answered. “The deceased, Joseph Morton, is her uncle.”

“Why is she all dressed up?” Zelensky asked. “Kind of fancy for the morning isn’t it?”

“There was a big party last night. Claims she felt faint and went out in the garden to get some fresh air and fell asleep,” Bronson explained. “Came inside this morning and found the body.”

“Anybody else in the house?” queried Zelensky.

“Butler and housekeeper are in the kitchen,” Bronson answered. “We’ve kept them sequestered there until you could interview them.”

“How was the deceased dressed? Formal or night clothes?”

“Look for yourself.”

“No thanks,” Zelensky said quickly.

“What’s the matter, squeamish?’ Bronson laughed.

“I might be coming down with something,” Zelensky admitted.

“Well, why don’t you go interview the staff in the kitchen,” Bronson suggested. “Maybe the housekeeper will brew you a cup of tea.”

In the kitchen, Zelensky found a distinguished older gentleman and a sour-faced middle-aged woman.

“It’s about time someone came to interview us,” the woman said before Zelensky could say a word. “I need to get back to work. This place is a mess since that party last night.”

“I just have a few questions for both of you,” Zelensky replied. “But you can’t get back to work until we release the crime scene.”

“Well, glad I hoisted up the chandelier to its rightful place and cleaned off the blood before the police arrived,” she complained. “One less thing for me to clean later.” “What?” Zelensky asked, in shock.

“I walked into the game room this morning and there was Mr. Morton on the floor with the chandelier on top of him and that stupid player piano was playing Moonlight Sonata. Probably passed out from too much booze and the vibration from the piano made the chandelier fall. Those spiky dangly things are sharp.”

...

...

STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT: April Kelly

Hours after last call, as disheveled gumshoe Clint Vole staggered alongside a railroad track, he spotted something on the ground. Bending, he grasped the end of a chain, saw a woman in a slinky dress secured to a railroad tie at the other end, and asked the two obvious questions.

“What’s your name, gorgeous? And how’d you get yourself in such a pickle?”

“Sonata,” she murmured. “And that turkey I’m married to wants a trial separation.”

When the 4:15 to Flagstaff rolls through, Clint silently mused, her husband’s gonna get his wish.

In the moonlight, Sonata looked like a young Jane Russell, so when Clint heard the whistle-shriek of the Arizona-bound choo-choo, he pocket-fumbled his jigglers out and unlocked the handcuffs that held her to the chain.

Chivalrously assisting the lady to her feet, Clint pulled her into his arms while the locomotive and forty cattle cars roared by. Inhaling the Chanel No. 5 fragrance of Sonata’s hair, along with a hot, dusty whiff of cow shit, Clint looked over her shoulder and clocked the first streak of pink low on the horizon.

“How about some breakfast, baby? My AARP card gets me fifteen percent off at Denny’s.”

“Oooh,” she simpered, pressing her twin peaks into his lapel. “Can I get a Grand Slam?”

Leading Sonata back toward town, Clint made her an offer he hoped he was sober enough to deliver on.

“Play your cards right, doll, and you might get two.”

...

...

THANKS FOR EVERYTHING: Charles Philipp Martin

Some people argue politics. Others watch football. For Trevor, Thanksgiving has always been the day to murder his girlfriend.

Not that his lovers have been particularly terrible. Some were hopeless, sure. But most of them, he concedes, were good souls. Tracy knit him an afghan for his sofa. Loretta introduced him to shakshuka. Joyce recharged his Honda’s air conditioner. That lady was really something. And she rocked those coveralls.

Commitment is Trevor’s problem. A relationship is fine at first, but then she’ll start demanding his time, cluttering up his small, neat house, and transferring her perfumy scent to his pristine shirts. It’s all too much.

He tried a traditional breakup, but Trevor dislikes confrontation, all that screeching, sobbing, throwing dishware, and pouting for days. And the women can be unpleasant about it as well.

So he prefers killing them and moving on, always thankful for the time they had together.

With Amanda it was the chainsaw, noisy but efficient. A terrible accident, officer. Rachel caught the grand slam with his Louisville Slugger. He regretted leaving part of his childhood at the crime scene, but such is love.

And there was Chelsea, who slipped on a dropped morsel of pecan pie and bounced down the hall stairs like a fast-motion Slinky. It happens, said the nice policeman who comforted Trevor in his bereavement.

This year it is Sydney, who will fall from Trevor’s bedroom window. To that end, as the turkey warms in the oven, he suggests that they take in the view upstairs.

“Let’s have a drink first,” Sydney proposes, unbagging a bottle: absinthe, which Trevor has never tasted. She pours a couple of shots, adding water and sugar to cushion its notorious bite.

They raise a glass to Thanksgiving and chug. Absinthe is strong stuff, he concludes.

“Again for good luck,” Sydney says, and she prepares more shots. Trevor doesn’t mind; he’ll need a bit of luck.

Soon the room is reeling around him, and he struggles to concentrate on the plan. Now Sydney’s reassuring arm guides him to the garage and helps him into his Honda’s driver’s seat. Her hand closes around his on the ignition key, and the motor roars to life.

On the car radio a pianist deftly works the opening arpeggios of the Moonlight Sonata: a tender touch. Trevor can’t seem to move. Where’s Sydney, he wonders. She’s over at the threshold, finger poised on the garage door button. “Bye, Trevor,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I have a hard time with breakups. You should know, though, that I’m thankful for the time we had together.”

She vanishes, the door rumbles closed, and Trevor’s swimming head nods forward. His eyelids descend slowly, like the final curtain in a melodrama. The motor purrs and the air begins to thicken, so his breathing is enough to tire him. He really should get back to his plan, but what harm can a few minutes’ rest do?

[Editor’s Note: This story wins the coveted All Gore Prize for An Inconvenient Mayhem.]

...

...

MOONLIGHT SAYONARA: Shane McRoberts

Joe “Turkey Legs” Bantam leaned on the bulwark of the upper deck of his 100-foot motor yacht (107-foot, because he wanted it longer than anyone else’s 100-foot yacht) and looked out over the nighttime Seattle skyline. As always, he wore a polo shirt and khaki shorts showing off the massive calves and narrow ankles that many assumed had earned him his name--only a few people still living knew the real story.

The moon peeked over Capitol Hill, and Joe set down his glass, took out his phone, and cued up some music. As befitting a yacht of this size and a man of his tastes, the sound system could have powered a large club. As the gentle, rolling triplet of the C-minor chord started its haunting progression at a volume he could feel in his bones, Joe sighed softly and closed his eyes. Nothing like Moonlight Sonata on an actually moonlit summer evening, drinking thousand-dollar-a-bottle 25 year Balvenie on your multi-million-dollar yacht.

When he opened his eyes, he started. Gina was standing next to him in that slinky blue dress he bought her.

“Turn that shit down!,” she shouted.

Joe reluctantly complied. If Gina wanted to talk, there was no getting out of it.Damn, she looked good in that dress,though.

“Why are you interrupting my reverie?” Joe asked.

“Oh, reverie is it now?”

“Yeah, reverie. I was just enjoying the fruits of my labors. What’s so important?”

“Fruits. Ha! I’m leaving.”

“What do you mean you’re leaving? We’re not going ashore for at least an hour yet.”

“Listen to you. ‘Reverie.’ ‘Fruits.’ ‘Ashore.’ Who are you, and what have you done with Joe from Hoboken?”

“I’m not from Hoboken.”

“Exactly. Where’s Joe?”

“He’s not… I mean, I’m not…”

Gina raised one eyebrow.

He tried again. “Seriously, where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.” She paused.

“Leaving leaving.” Another pause.

“Like for good.”

Joe looked her up and down. He puffed out his cheeks and sighed out a breath. “I gotta say, sweetheart, you’re not really dressed for moving.”

“I’ll send for my stuff.”

“You know I can’t let you do that, Gina.” He never called her Gina. She started to fidget with her dress, smoothing it down. He thought maybe he saw a glisten on her forehead, and imagined beads of sweat dripping down the channel between her breasts.

“You know I won’t tell anyone about that thing with the chainsaw, honey.”

“Oh, I know. Because you’re not going anywhere, and you really don’t want to find out why I’m called ‘Turkey Legs’.”

Her pout showed he’d won.

She sighed. “Okay, honey. Let’s have a drink and then kiss and make up.”

She handed him his glass. He took a deep sniff of the oaky, peaty, liquor and drank.

His eyes went wide and the glass smashed on the deck, followed by his body.

Gina turned and walked away.

“Who names a boat the ‘Grand Slam’, anyway?”

...

...

A CLOUDY NIGHT: Alice Openshaw

Organized crime, gangster, racketeering. Not words Jimmy Vincent ever imagined would apply to him. But his restaurant, Vinnie’s, was in the red; it’s real value was as a cover for the private club he ran at night. He was in too deep to get out. At least his kids didn’t know. He’d kept them in the dark. They were good kids; they’d been raised right. Growing up in the South End, he and his friend Eddie played baseball, cards, and hooky. He made sure his son Jason stuck to baseball. But, at sixteen, Jason was a curious boy. There were rumors that Vinnie’s was a wild place at night. He’d go down to Magazine Street to check it out. He wouldn’t go inside. He’d just look. From the sidewalk, it appeared dead inside; nothing going on. So he went around to the back of the building. Just to check.

A chain link fence surrounded the place. He had a view through one window. Lights and people inside. Had his father mentioned tenants? There was a girl in there. God, she was beautiful. Long dark hair, short slinky dress. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was sitting next to an old man, on the arm of his chair. He was at least forty. His hands were all over her.

Jason could tell she didn’t like it. A card game was underway. The man had piles of cash in front of him. Stacks of it. Jason leaned in closer against the chain, saw the man swing his arm and slap the girl, hard.

He jumped the fence, crept close to get a better look and hear what they were saying. The old dude was losing badly. He groaned, “I’m down two grand,” slammed his fist on the table, shoved a pile of money across to another player.

He scowled at the girl. “Don’t just sit there. Be useful. Get me something to eat. A turkey sandwich. And a scotch. Chop chop.” He pushed her off the chair.

Jason couldn’t just stand by. He needed to do something. He tried the door at the back of the building. Locked. He heard the old dude laughing. His father would want to know what they were up to. But he couldn’t admit he’d been snooping. What could he do?

He’d have to call the police. Report the tenants. Shut the trouble down. Rescue the girl. Save the restaurant’s reputation.

Sgt. Ed Bailey responded to the call. “Uncle Eddie,” his father’s lifelong friend.

“Jason, you did right by calling me. I’ll check it out, make sure she’s okay.” He put his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “But, it’s a cloudy night. No moonlight, son. At a distance, you can’t be sure what you saw. I can’t see shit in the dark. Now get outta here. Don’t come back, and don’t say a word about it to anyone. Ever. I’ll take care of everything, and your dad will never know.”

...

...

THE CASE OF THE MISSING TURKEY: Sarah Rathbone

We arrived at Grandma’s house just before noon. Every Sunday, after church we’d go to her house for lunch, the afternoon narcolepsy settling in after the mass consumption of food Grandma prepared.

Sometimes I wished she’d offer pizza or tacos. Never with Grandma. It was always Thanksgiving…even in July. We’d have the same meal every time: Turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes drizzled with lots of melted butter, green beans, and sweet rolls from the local bakery that she visited at least once a week.

When I entered her house, the smell of baked turkey warmed my insides. Salivating, I imagined the tasty morsel inside my mouth. Grandma normally greeted us at the door. Instead, my Uncle Jake let us inside. One of my cousins was here, the sound of sporadic tinkling of the “Moonlight Sonata” by Ludwig van Beethoven on Grandma’s old spinet.

I peeked inside the kitchen, when a hand landed on my shoulder. My uncle wanted to speak but was interrupted by a loud rumbling from Grandpa’s chainsaw outside. Uncle Jake rolled his eyes, shook his head, and directed me to the living room where a TV was playing.

I wanted to say hi to Grandma but instead took a seat at the couch. A baseball game was on, the Atlanta Braves playing the Miami Marlins. I sighed and slumped into the velvet cushions.

As I sat down, I saw a Braves player hit grand slam, the score now in the Braves’ favor. The twins, my other cousins, raced into the living room. One of them, Matt jumped beside me. He had a Slinky in his hands. I couldn’t remember the last time I played with that annoying toy. When I had one, it was made of metal. The newer toys were plastic and in bright, neon colors. Matt had a banana yellow one.

“Wanna play?” Matt asked. He had smudges of what looked like chocolate on his face. “No thanks.”

Matt nodded and scampered away with his brother. Facing the TV, I saw that the Marlins had scored a couple more runs, now almost caught up with the Braves. Grandpa’s chainsaw revved up again. I rose from my seat and glanced out the window. I was about to turn away when something caught my eye. Trudging along a rock wall was a cat. A white and tan one. Normally, I wouldn’t have noticed such a thing, but what dangled from its mouth caught my attention.

Grandpa had his back to the cat, so he couldn’t see behind him.

“What the?” My voice drifted. I wanted to yell.

Amid the noise from Grandpa’s chainsaw, the piano playing, and the twins screaming at the top of their lungs, I had no chance of being heard.

“Will?” I turned around. Grandma’s cheeks were as red as a beet.

“I need your help,” she said. “I can’t find the turkey.”

...

...

FOOL OF CHAINS: SJ Rozan

It was grand, slamming around the Turkey Trot in my slinky chemise, but when the mug with the chain saw me, I knew it was time to dance off into the moonlight, son. Ata here!

[Editor’s Note: “Fool of Chains” wins the Less Is More Prize, especially adapted for Very Slow Readers.]

...

...

GRAND SLAM: Libi Siporin

The man sitting at the video games in the hallway across from the bathrooms curses himself and punches the machine.

“Damnit! You fucking turkey! What the hell are you doing!”

I’ve never seen him in the bar before. He’s not from the area, and I have no idea why he’s here in this small-town Tuscan bar yelling at himself in an Italian coated with a heavy Eastern European accent.

A young woman wearing a slinky black top, tight black pants, and heavy make-up is standing next to him, gently twisting his long black hair around her index finger. He grunts.

I hear bells and jingling from the machine.

“Fuck!” he yells.

I stop working on my computer, carefully tilt my head to peer around the wall again, and see the girlfriend lean forward and lick his ear.

“Calm yourself, Vlad. You can’t win on these shitty machines; they fix it so you can’t, …but….” Her voice drops to a whisper I can barely hear, “you know and I know what you can do with that little toy you keep in the bedstand.” She flicks out her tongue, licks his ear again, and squeezes his shoulder. “We both know who hits the bull’s’ eye every time!”

“Shut up! Just shut up!!” He slaps her hard across the face.

I jerk back.

“Aw c’mon, Vlad,” she whines. “I didn’t do nothin.’ I just wanted you to think of your real life. The machines are rigged. C’mon….”

“Shut up and play my song.”

“Again? My phone’s almost dead.”

“I said play it, damnit!”

I took another chance and peeked around the wall. She was holding her phone above him. The first notes of Moonlight Sonata floated out above Vlad’s head. He swayed gently in place. As the music came to the end of the adagio sostenuto movement, I saw three workmen across the street jerk the cords of their chainsaws and, in a grinding roar, begin slicing off limbs of a fat-trunked tree that had fallen in the storm the day before.

I looked around the wall. Vlad and the young woman were staring at the workers through the window above the video game.

“Je-sus Chr-ist!” Vlad yelled. “It’s Beethoven, for god’s sake! And he doesn’t have to put up with that shit!”

Vlad jumped from his stool, spun around the wall, gave me a dirty look, and burst out the door, yelling. The men switched off their chain saws and, curious, watched him approach.

“What’s wrong?” the youngest one asked.

“You are! Do your goddamn work tomorrow! It’s Beethoven!”

The older of the men shook his head and muttered, “crazy,” and with one last look at Vlad, the men bent, jerked the cords, and the chainsaws roared again into earsplitting action. Vlad pulled the gun with such speed I didn’t realize what he was doing. Pop! Pop! Pop! As the three workmen dropped to the ground, Vlad’s girlfriend squealed with delight. “Yes! Yes! Grand slam, Vlad! Grand slam!”

...

...

WHERE WAS GRANDMA?: Estelle White

My man, Mickey, in a rush to get to turkey dinner, hit a grand slam for the Yankees’ win.

Moonlight Sonata was playing on Grandma’s Victrola, and Dad’s chainsaw was buzzing out back. Little Jerry was playing with his favorite Slinky.

All was well except, where was Grandma???!

[Full Disclosure: Any biographical references to “Little Jerry” are purely intentional, as the author is my older sister. Again, no nepotism here. My decisions are purely based on talent.]

LOOKING FOR THAT PERFECT (AND EASY) HOLIDAY GIFT? HOW ABOUT AN AUDIOBOOK?

MURDER AT THE ROYAL ALBERT

...SINCE NOTHING SAYS LOVING MORE THAN A MURDER MYSTERY.