Short Stories of Earl Staggs

SHORT STORIES OF EARL STAGGS

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Earl Staggs

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Welcome. . . . .to my world of short mystery fiction. This collection includes what I consider the best of my stories written and published during my writing career.

I enjoy writing stories in a variety of styles. That’s why, in this book, you may read a hardboiled crime story, then go right into a light and humorous whodunnit, and from there, into a softboiled private eye yarn. I like this kind of variety when I read, and I hope you do, too.

At the beginning of each story, I’ve added the history of it, a little of the story behind the story, so to speak.

You won’t find offensive language, gory violence of explicit sex here. I hope you’ll find, however, a few hours of entertainment in a mixture of settings, situations and characters.

With kindest regards and best wishes.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

To proceed to a particular story, press Ctrl key and click on link beneath story title.

All The Fine Actors

AllThe

A Rainy Day Robbery

ARainy

Baltimore Bounty

Balti

Battered

Batt

Brother-In-Law

Brother

Caught on Christmas Eve

Caught

Dead Wife Walking

DeadWife

Fig Newtons and Heavy Bags

FigNewtons

Robbery on Christmas Eve

Robbery

Room Six

Room

Silky’s Getaway

Silky

Taking Richie Gold Down

Taking

That Night in Galveston

ThatNight

The Chopsticks Clue

TheChop

The Naked Man on the Roof

TheNakedMan

The Waitress

Waitress

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About this story. . .

When I decided to put the stories in this collection in alphabetical order, this one came first. That’s a neat coincidence because this story is special to me. It originally appeared in a wonderful webzine called EWG Presents: Without A Clue. At the end of the year, a good friend urged me to submit it to the Short Mystery Fiction Society for their annual short mystery story contest. I did and was thrilled when the story brought home a Derringer Award as the best in its category. Since then, I’ve had the honor of presenting myself as a Derringer Award Winning Author, and it feels good.

Another neat thing about this story is that the opening scene was originally the beginning of an entirely different story. I eventually decided to begin that other story a different way, but I saved this opening. A year or so later, I thought I’d try it as the beginning of a new story and see where it went. It went in a totally different direction, and I’m proud of the way it turned out.

One more neat thing. The title All the Fine Actors may seem odd at first, but when you get to The End, it won’t.

ALL THE FINE ACTORS

A Short Story

by Earl Staggs

He'd been sitting on the hot tarred roof for an hour with his rifle across his lap. His back ached from pressing against the stubby concrete safety wall edging the front of the building, and his face and scalp itched from perspiration under the blond wig and beard. Campaign speeches rose with their own tinny echo from a PA system rigged up for the street rally below. The mayor was talking now, promising better schools, lower taxes and anything else the crowd wanted to hear.

Good for you, Mr. Mayor, the shooter mumbled to himself. Now shut up so I can do what I have to do and get off this stinking roof.

As if he'd heard the plea, the mayor began what sounded like a wrap-up to his part of the program.

. . . so I hope you good folks know you can count on me. I know I'll be counting on you.

Using his rifle for support, the shooter twisted himself around and rose into a crouching position just below the top of the short wall that had become like a second spine over the last hour or so, then inched his head up to have a look. Four stories down, the street was cordoned off at one end by police cars and an ambulance and by a mobile TV van at the other. Blue and white lettering on the van said Channel Five Eyewitness News.

. . .put your confidence in me once again with your vote come election day.

Some two hundred people stood shoulder to shoulder in the street, surrounding a speaker's platform erected in the middle of the block for the occasion. Twenty more sat in two rows of folding chairs on the platform facing the building the shooter had chosen for his own part of the program. At the lectern, the short, balding, pear-shaped mayor, sharply dressed in a dark suit and red necktie, raised both arms high in the air and gave the crowd his best smile as they erupted into a round of shouting and applause.

The shooter lifted his rifle, gently rested its barrel across the top of the wall and snugged the stock into his shoulder. He sighted his scope on the mayor's chest for a second, then slowly panned left. Sheriff Sanford Thornberry, broad-shouldered and ruggedly handsome, sat there tall and straight in his perfectly fitted tan uniform, reading something. His speech. Beside him, an attractive, leggy blonde in a white suit and pink blouse, did her best to appear interested in what was going on. Mrs. Sheriff. Next to her, Chief Deputy Ansel Williams squirmed in his chair as though he wasn't at all comfortable being there. He was a tall man like the sheriff and wore the same uniform, but his sloping shoulders and bulging gut made it look like a misfit. Businessmen in suits and more uniformed deputies filled the chairs in the second row.

The mayor waved his arms up and down in a motion to quiet the crowd and leaned toward the microphone.

And now it gives me great pleasure to introduce the man who has served as your sheriff for two terms and needs your vote for another one. . .

The shooter pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped perspiration from his forehead and eyelids.

. . .the man who's done more to clean up this county than anyone else. . .

He lowered his cheek to the stock of his rifle again, adjusted the scope slightly with two fingers, and waited.

. . .the best sheriff we've ever had around here and a man I'm proud to call my very good friend, your sheriff and mine. . .Sanford L. Thornberry.

The crowd exploded in a thunderous round of applause as the sheriff stood, shook hands with the mayor, and stepped up to the microphone. The man on the roof waited until the noise of the crowd died down before he squeezed the trigger. He watched just long enough to see the sheriff grab his chest and fall, then hurried across the rooftop to the stairwell door, his rifle in one hand, a briefcase in the other.

He took the first flight of steps quickly, stopping at the third floor landing long enough to disassemble the rifle and place it in the briefcase along with the wig and beard. On his way down two more flights, he wrestled off the dark tee shirt that covered his short-sleeved dress shirt and necktie underneath. At the exit door on the first level, he stopped to stuff the tee shirt in the briefcase and took time to run a comb through his short dark brown hair. He stepped out of the building onto a side street looking like any thirty-five-year-old bank manager or insurance salesman out for a midday stroll. If anyone had happened to spot him on the roof, their description would be useless.

He weaved his way through the frenzied, horrified crowd in the street and up to the speaker's platform. Sheriff Thornberry lay on his stomach beside the lectern. A ragged blotch of crimson stained the wood planks beneath his chest. The mayor had removed his suit jacket and placed it over the sheriff's head and upper body. Within minutes, an ambulance worked its way through the crowd and a team of paramedics lifted the sheriff onto a stretcher and carried him away.

The shooter scanned the people still milling around on the platform until he met another pair of eyes looking back. A nod passed between them. The brief nod acknowledged that everything had gone as planned. It was also an unspoken confirmation of the prearranged meeting to complete the transaction. The old warehouse at the edge of town. Nine o'clock tonight.

The shooter turned, made his way back through the crowd and walked a block away to his car. The easy part was over. The hard part lay ahead. Most of the time, the final part went as planned, but sometimes his clients got cute and decided to change the arrangements. Something in that pair of eyes told him this would be one of those times. He checked his watch. Ten past four. Nearly five hours to wait.

He drove slowly and casually around town to kill the first hour, then stopped at the Four Star Cafe. By now, he figured the news would be well spread. He was right. Inside the narrow restaurant, six locals stood like a cluster of statues at the end of the long counter. Six more sat motionless at small round tables along the opposite wall. A distressed young anchorwoman, blond and long-faced, spoke from a TV set hanging on the back wall next to the kitchen door. The shooter settled onto a stool at the end of the counter close to the front door, unnoticed, and joined the silent audience.

Hundreds watched in shock and horror as Sheriff Sanford L. Thornberry, apparently dead from a single gunshot to the chest, was taken away to Memorial Hospital. Chief Deputy Ansel Williams spearheaded an immediate search of the area to locate the person who fired the shot. Pete Crosby is on the scene now. Pete, can you tell us anything new on this terrible tragedy?

Sally, I'm here with Deputy Ansel Willams who is in charge of the investigation. So far the person or persons responsible have not been apprehended. Is that correct, Deputy Williams?

Williams stepped into camera view, looking even more nervous and uncomfortable than he had sitting on the speaker's platform. We're still searching the area, he said, leaning back from the microphone the reporter had thrust within inches of his face. Whoever did this won't get away, I promise you that.

Crosby asked, Did anyone see who fired the shot?

Uh, no, Deputy Williams replied, finally looking at the camera. As of yet, we have not found a witness who saw anything. We're still combing the area and will continue to do so.

The reporter had another question ready. What about roadblocks? Is it possible the shooter has gotten out of town this soon?

Williams shifted his weight and looked from side to side as though he wanted to finish the interview and get on with more important duties. We can't rule out any possibility at this point, but we've been in contact with the state police and roadblocks are being established.

The shooter grinned to himself. Roadblocks. Yeah, right, deputy. Tie up traffic for fifty miles around. Only an amateur would try to run. The best place to hide is in plain sight.

Crosby was saying now, Sally, I see Mayor Thompson over here. Let me see if I can talk to him. Mayor Thompson, can we talk to you for a minute? Crosby walked to his left with the microphone, leaving Deputy Williams where he stood.

The mayor turned to face the camera and ran a hand over his bald scalp as Crosby asked, Mayor, what do you have to say about this shooting.

The mayor looked at the camera for a moment, then closed his eyes, lowered his head and wagged it slowly from side to side. What do I have to say? he muttered sadly. What can I say? One of the finest men I've ever known has been shot down in broad daylight right here in the center of town. He looked straight into the camera then with a determined, tight-jawed expression. I'll say this. We're going to do everything possible to find out who's responsible. I'm personally taking charge of the investigation and no stone will be unturned until justice is done.

The shooter nearly snickered out loud. Very dramatic, Mr. Mayor. You should be on the stage. But then, he thought, all politicians are actors in a way.

Thank you, Mayor Thompson, the reporter said, and now back to you in the studio, Sally.

Thank you, Pete Crosby, for that on-the-scene report. Sally stared into the camera from her anchor desk in the studio. Angela Thornberry, wife of the slain sheriff, was driven away from the scene immediately after the shooting and made no comment. We're attempting to get an interview with her to get her reaction to the events of the day.

Good for you, Sally, the shooter thought. Don't you love to stick a microphone in someone's face and ask how it felt to see a loved one gunned down? Reporters!

The TV screen played a scene taped earlier of Mrs. Thornberry being led to and helped into the back seat of a police car. She appeared unsteady on her feet and her movie star face was a smear of tears and mascara. She looked into the camera for a second and mouthed something through trembling lips as she collapsed into the car seat.

The shooter rolled his eyes. A bit over the top but not a bad performance overall. Quite good, as a matter of fact. He wondered if Mrs. Sheriff had ever been an actress.

The waitress, standing below the TV at the far end of the counter turned her head in the shooter's direction and noticed him. He gave her a nod and a pleasant look as an invitation. She was a short plump woman in her late thirties with a pleasantly pretty face now pulled tight with obvious grief. Over her left breast, her dark blue polo shirt displayed four embroidered white stars in a crescent pattern over the name Mitzi. She came to his end of the counter with a glass of water in her hand.

This county's never going to be the same without San Thornberry, she said, shaking her head as she placed the glass in front of him. Her voice quivered as though she needed to cry. She pulled an order pad and a short pencil from a back pocket of her tight jeans and looked at him with her best effort at a friendly smile. What can I get you?

Did you know him well? the shooter asked.

After a deep breath and a loud exhale, she said, All my life just about. We grew up together, went all through school together. We even dated a few times before he went away in the Marines.

And after the Marines?

Mitzi sighed and tried the friendly smile again. It was weak. Oh, he was hooked up with that Angela by then. We stayed friends, though. He came in here a lot and we talked. It's not going to be the same around here without him. She turned her attention back to the TV.

How's the chocolate cake? the shooter asked.

Huh? Her eyes were