Death Goes to a Picnic E-Book

Arthur Leo Zagat

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Doc. Turner Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 34

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Death Goes to a Picnic by Arthur Leo Zagat is a tantalizing blend of mystery and dark humor that will keep you guessing from start to finish. What begins as a seemingly innocent outing turns sinister when a group of friends discovers a body hidden among the picnic baskets. As the idyllic setting transforms into a crime scene, suspicions rise and secrets emerge. Each character becomes a suspect in a web of deceit and murder, where the idyllic picnic masks a deadly game. Can the truth be uncovered before the killer strikes again, or will the feast of death continue? Join the investigation in this clever and engaging whodunit where the stakes are as high as the tension.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Death Goes to a Picnic

Synopsis

1

2

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Death Goes to a Picnic

Doc. Turner Series

By: Arthur Leo Zagat

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published in The Spider, September 1936

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

Synopsis

When Jack Ransom became relief driver for the slum children's annual picnic, he didn't know that Madam Death was leading him... or that old Doc Turner, his partner in crime-fighting, would also be trapped in a new and insidious net drawing tight about the helpless, innocent folks of Morris Street!

The Spider, August 1942, with "Death Goes to a Picnic"

1

THE station wagon was crowded with chattering children. They were wide-eyed to perceive a sky not circumscribed by tenement roofs, or grass not marked Keep Off. The narrow, dirt road ran along the base of a daisy-studded hill and in a lush pasture to the right a herd of cows grazed.

"One's white, Frankie!" exclaimed Becky Aaronson, who was eight and small for her age. "It's all white. Gee, I didn't know there was white cows."

"'Course dere's white cows, stupid." Frankie Lynch was supercilious with the worldly wisdom of his ten years. "Dey're de ones dat give cream."

Up front, Jack Ransom grinned. "Ain't that rich, Mrs. Morton?"

Hair the lustrous blue-black of midnight showed through the open crown of the cart-wheel straw hat worn by the silent woman beside him. The brim hid her face.

"But then," Jack went on, "you got to figure those poor kids wouldn't know cows was anything besides pictures on milk wagons, if it wasn't for these picnics the Morris Street Settlement runs each year."

The woman made no more response to that than she had to the other remarks he'd addressed to her during the past twenty miles or so. He shrugged, his blunt-jawed, youthful countenance sobering. "Say. You sure you told me the right turn off the Parkway, back there?"

"Of course I am." Her voice was deep, vibrant. "Very sure." Her hands were thrust into the pockets of her beige polo coat. Her legs, in dark green slacks, were long and slim. On her slender feet she wore mannish brogues. Ransom had not yet seen her face clearly. "Do you think if I weren't certain I knew the route, I should have asked you to stop no matter how important my 'phone call was?"

Ransom slowed for a curve. "No. I don't guess you would have." But he was still uneasy. That stop had separated them from the two big buses they'd been following and there were no wheel tracks in the dusty surface of this lonely road. "How much farther is it?"

"Not far."

The curve took them around the hill, into woods that suddenly spilled down the slope. A rustic sign on the right said:

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE STATE FOREST

and something about being careful of fires. Jack thrust fingers through the carrot thatch of his hair. "I dunno, ma'am. Either we're going wrong or the buses did. Their big double tires would have left marks on this road."

He took his foot off the gas, and put it on the brake pedal. "I'm going to stop and see if I can find the farmer who owns those cows and ask—"

"No," Mrs. Morton broke in, so low that the Pavlich twins on the seat beyond her did not hear. "You're driving on." Her left hand, still in her pocket, pressed something hard against his ribs. "Unless you'd rather stop here permanently."

Skin tightened over the youth's cheekbones, but he grinned tautly. "If that's supposed to be a joke, it ain't funny."

The thing pressed harder. "Take your hands from that wheel and you will learn it is no joke. Drive faster, please. We are already a little late."

"Late for what?"

No answer.