The Good Neighbor by Lawrence Buentello

All her neighbors agreed that Henrietta Soames had murdered her husband.

An investigation followed the discovery of his body; his death was ultimately ruled a homicide. But after initially questioning Henrietta the police dismissed her as a suspect. Apparently, they had no evidence to charge her. Eventually the authorities ascribed his death to a botched burglary, which seemed reasonable to an objective observer, but not to anyone living nearby. The police simply didn’t know the circumstances the same way her neighbors knew them, nor did they take seriously her possible motives for killing him, and the crime remained unsolved.

The truth is that George Soames was a terrible man.

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Coffee and Killings by Simon Maltman

The hubbub of the cafe offered a pleasant background noise. It was Saturday and customers in the Starbucks seemed generally relaxed and to be enjoying their conversations. It was the beginning of spring and the morning sun allowed most to be in t-shirts and some to venture into shorts. Russell sat at the corner table in a sleeveless striped shirt and blue jeans. His second Frappucino sat as yet untouched while he leafed through his Classic Rock magazine. He glanced over at his Uncle Marty and then took a sip of his caramel frothy goodness.

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Mysterious Private Investigations by Peter DiChellis

Jimmy told me about the burglary almost exactly a year after it happened. Right after we got thrown out of the pawnshop where Jimmy tried to sell the jewelry.

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The Asshat Fund by Todd Morr

The wire digging into my wrists and the punches to the gut and face were unnecessary. I would have given them the name based on mean looks and harsh language. Depending on the day, they could have just asked nicely.

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Intimate Knowledge by Suzanne Baginskie

Gentlemen’s Night Club, where I pole danced, reeked of cigarette smoke and stale booze. Heat from the overhead spotlights illuminated the stage floor and made my skin clammy. I bumped and gyrated to the tune “Let’s Get it On” in front of twenty or so leering men with beer bottles in one hand and a fistful of dollars in the other. I pasted on a smile as their sweaty groping fingers slid the green stuff into my g-string.

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