Dogs and Cats by John Coultas

This is a scene from Tripping Over Murder

Darleen pulled at a wayward strand of hair, twisting it around her finger as she read. “Darleen, did you read it?” Emma, tall, thin and blonde gushed. “Wasn’t it just the best?” Darleen head dropped, I don’t need this, not now.

Darleen pushed aside the remains of her lunch as she looked up to her friend. “Emma, have a seat.” How do I do this without hurting her feelings, but stay true to my beliefs? “Did you eat?”

“You know me, energy drink is all I allow myself,” Emma asserted her oft repeated mantra. Darlene should have known better. Yeah, one of the many sacrifices to be made while searching for Mr. Right.

“So, the book? Wasn’t he just such a man, strong, take-no-prisoners type.” Emma swooned a she sat next to her friend.

Darlene leafed the pages of the textbook she had been studying. “I’ve been working on my Trig assignment.” She rubbed at the side of her head to emphasize the mental demands of the work. Graduation just weeks away, major trigonometry test, and my good friend can only think of Mr. Hunk.

“Yeah…whatever…about the book?” Emma was not going to let an inconsequential trig test get in her way.

Darlene sighed. If nothing else Emma was tenacious. “Well, it was an interesting story.” Yes all those body parts flying here and there propelled by the macho hero, not to mention women tossed in and out of his bed chambers.


“Makes me think of dogs and cats,” Darlene offered.

“Dogs and cats? There weren’t dogs or cats in the story.” Emma was bewildered.

“No, something I remember…think it was Mark Twain…” Emma crossed her arms, knowing Darlene was on a major rant. “He said that dogs can be abused by their owner, time and time again, they stay loyal to the end. A cat, if abused just once, will never forget, and their loyalty is held back.”

“Huh?” Emma was puzzled. “That has nothing to do with the story…did you read it?”

“It has everything to do with the story. Your hero abused the heroine, cheated on her and she kept going back, pleading for more abuse. A woman should be more like a cat, not accepting ill treatment, being strong within herself.”

“Wha…but what kind of story would that make? That’s not interesting…not exciting.” Emma’s forehead crinkled recklessly.

“A woman should hold her head high, take pride in her self-worth. In a relationship she should be a coequal with her partner, they should respect and support one another.”

Emma was numb; Darlene’s response deflated her enthusiasm, what good was a story if you couldn’t share it with your best friend. Shoulders slumped, she drifted off to another table.

Darlene went back to her text book, flipping pages but not seeing the numbers and formulas. “That’s not exciting” kept echoing in her head. War, the clanging of swords, the ships scuppers flowing with blood, now there were images that over heated the brain. Living at peace within a community, or with a mate, how so very dull. She exhaled a sigh and went back to her study in earnest.

Down On the Farm

This is a scene from my Tripping Over Murder mystery, enjoy!

Janeane was unsure if this was such a good idea, stopping by Ian’s place unannounced. She found the turnoff that would take her there, a sign over the road announced Shangri-La. The sign didn’t seem to match the north woods; a tropical setting might be apropos. She paused to study the sign; it was a broad wood panel, the letters being composed of metal rosettes pounded into the wood. They appeared to be identical to the one in her possession; several of the metal ornaments were missing. She considered the implications, then shoved off down the hill.

She took her feet off the pedals allowing the bike to coast down the dirt drive to…well through the trees she could see a clearing and at the far end a manmade structure. The road opened out at the edge of a meadow, she identified orange hawkweed and the ever present lupine. Her wildflower study was progressing. And then there was the rustic cabin, nuzzled up amongst the trees. She got off, and walked toward the homestead.

“Hello!” He called out as he came on to the porch, hand waving a welcome. He extended his hand as she approached the steps.

“This is beautiful,” She looked around, in awe of the setting. “I don’t want to speak; I just want to listen to the quiet.” She kicked down the bike stand, and walked along the edge of the drive, she stooped to look at some of the small flowers hidden in the tall grass. “So small, so delicate,” her fingers reaching in to better view the varied colors and shapes.”

Ian crouched next to her, and whispered, “May I speak now?” He smiled, and she returned his.

“Yes, You may speak…but this is just so breathtaking, the openness, the colors, and the mountains off in the distance. To own this, to be a part of it is so special.”

Ian’s brow furrowed, “I don’t really own the farm, yes I have a deed with my name on it.” He stood, along with Janeane, “Some day someone else will come along, hopefully they will feel the same way about the land and the woods as I do. The farm should honor our ancestors, nurture those today who will eat our produce, and it should be fostered to sustain future generations.”

Janeane’s shoulders slumped, Ian had the habit of sucking air out of a rising balloon, or raining on parades, ever the philosopher. “Would you like to see our gardens,” He motioned with one hand. At a turn in the road, beyond an apple orchard stood acre after acre of vegetables. Janeane was able to recognize some of the basics: carrots, turnips, and spinach. Everything was so green, so tall, and so delicious to look upon. “We practice permaculture, no chemicals. The soil was thin here; we built it up with organic amendments, manures, and plant matter. Now we have soil that will produce quality produce as long it is cared for and loved.”

The word loved caught her attention, loving the land, is he a people lover, one who could have a relationship, Janeane wondered. “I hear you saying we.” She looked around, “Who else is involved with the farm.”

“I have a network of friends; you know that I write articles, for conservation and permaculture magazines? Friends will come up when I plant or harvest. We sell at farmers markets as well as bartering.” He chewed on the end of a weed. “It’s not about me; it’s about nurturing the land and having a community that lives in a sustainable way. It is all about we.”

Janeane nodded, damn he is a philosopher, one that likes to get his hands dirty in the soil, She had difficulty responding. “I know that you are from Boston, did you have farming experience before you came up?”

“No, I heard a lecture at my college that changed my life. My parents, many people I know strive to make change through politics; but nothing seems to change. This professor suggested that change needs to come from the bottom up. People should build communities that are autonomous, self sufficient. Everyone sees the big corporation coming to town as the answer, that only last a generation or two. Sustainable communities can go on forever, people nurturing one another’s needs. Buying local, building local, drawing upon local resources.”

God there he goes again, I need to keep my mouth shut. Her eyes glazed.

Ian stooped down, grabbed a handful of the dark earth, feeling it in his palm, “local resources for the local population.” Janeane noticed a tire track near his foot, that same tire, not with the rosette, but the same model. Mr. Flynn at the garage said it was a common tire for older cars, especially imports, like that VW van.

“You must have to do a lot of weeding, and spraying for bugs.”

Ian popped up like he was sprung from a jack-in-the-box, a frown on his face, “We have no sprays here, no chemicals.” Now she had done it, she had fallen down a deep dark well, and he would not help her out. If she hadn’t been thinking about that tire she wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question. Damn.

She melted back a step or two, his laser like gaze was more than she could handle. This was a wasted trip! There was the missing piece from the Shangra-La sign, and maybe that tire track. If only.

Ian realized that he had scared the hell out of the girl from the big city, she didn’t know any better. “I’m sorry.” He offered an apology. “And you made that long ride from town, you must be tired.” He looked up at the sun, “We can sit on the porch, I have juice in the frig.” He smiled.

Janeane gave him a tentative nod, and a sideways smile. “Okay.” Well I get a second chance here. Don’t blow it Janeane!


 Sitting on the steps in the shade Janeane thought about who comes and goes on the farm and what sort of vehicles might be involved.

“Here you go,” Ian handed Janeane a glass filled with a greenish liquid. She thought about asking what it was, her statistics with questions was abysmal. She smiled and drank. Then she gave an honest smile.

“Taste good.” But she was not going to ask, if he offered that would be fine, but no questions. She clicked the toes of her shoes together.

“It’s a natural fruit powder, from the health food store.”

Janeane nodded, deep in thought, “Do you use a tractor to plow your fields?”

“Oh, no, Mac Dill down the road has a team of mules. I do work for him and he lets me use his team. That kind of makes me a part-time mule.” He made a slight chuckle; the closest Janeane had ever seen him get to a laugh. Lighten up Ian.

“Have you had anyone helping you in the fields lately?” Janeane held her breath, she wasn’t sure if she was pressing too hard, asking intrusive questions. Please, please!

“Popper and his family have been here off and on.” There was another almost laugh, as he thought about Poppers work ethic. “Out beyond the gardens there are several camp sites, the Popejoy’s, Popper, his wife Natasha and the kids have been staying. I haven’t seen them for a few days. Like I said they come and go. He will help some.”

Janeane let that rumble around in her head. That’s it, no more questions; thank him for the farm tour, and the drink and you are on your way. She thought about what she had gathered from this outing: The source of the rosette, another tire track, and a name, the Popejoy family, not confirmed but possible.

The Picnic by John Coultas

This is a scene from Tripping Over Murder

Dan drove up past the old lighthouse, an abandoned cider mill and then into a parking area adjoining a meadow. He took Janean's picnic basket from the trunk, the detective leading the way along a trail through the knee high grasses and yellow sun flowers. He stopped, "This is the spot." Grabbing the ground blanket from his date he flung it out letting it settle onto the green stalks. She took in the setting, listened to the distant ocean and the calls of the seabirds.

Smiling at Dan she asked, "How is it you knew of this place?"

Taking on his professional face he imparted, "Many a time it was necessary to come up here to rescue an underage lover."

"Ah, so you brought me to a place where young women are known to be debauched." She feigned innocence for his benefit. "Some date this is." this

"One can only hope." He replyed with a shrug.

Janeane laid back on the blanket, staring at the fleeced clouds passing above. “Librarians are a lot like detectives,” She began her well rehearsed quest for details on Detective Kane’s investigations. “We need to be aware of the territory, what went before, what may be coming down the road.” Sitting up she looked at the seascape spread out to the east, pulling for elements to add to her waning train of thought. Her head nodded, deep in thought. “We need to look below the surface…” The tranquility of place, the grass, the bay below, the cloud dappled sky washed away her designs.

“And?” He asked.

Her head bobbed along with the fishing boat, her point of focus. “Hmm.”

“And?” His query came again.

“Oh, where was I?” She looked at Dan, surprised at her lapse in thought.

“I’m not sure where you were going; you were talking about looking deep, like below the surface; at what I am not sure.”

“Now I remember. Librarians deal with a vast amount of information, we sift through it, determine what is and isn’t relevant, and voila, the answer is found.”

“But you are searching for someone else, a customer. The customer asks the question and you find what they want, they determine the truth in a sense.”

“Truth, interesting, I never thought of it in that sense.” Her chin wrested on arms crossed at her knees, her eyes back on the bobbing fishing boat. “Hmm, truth is the answer…librarian think in terms or right or wrong, correct or incorrect…funny how truth carries such a strong, noble sound. Truth, justice,” Her head began the rhythmic bob, “They demand a lot of a person, of a system.” She looked at Dan who was rolling a stalk of grass between finger and thumb. He nodded.

“I try,” Was his somber response. “I work for the chief and the county prosecutor, they are my customers, they evaluate what I come up with.” He looked at the picnic hamper, “All these deep thoughts are making me hungry, how about lunch?”



Dan helped Janeane, putting the remains of their lunch into the hamper, a crust of hard bread, the last of the wine, and pieces of cheese rind. "I can’t imagine a more wonderful picnic,” She inhaled the ocean air, giving the officer-of-the- law a satisfied smile. He leaned to her, kissing her neck. Gasping she fell backwards and he on top. He rolled to her side, kissing her mouth, to which she pushed away. “No, not here. You never know who might pass by.” She sat up, and looked toward the parking lot.

“Are all librarians like this, so concerned with looking prim and proper?” Dan brushed grass from his slacks

“It’s just so public here; I mean someone could drive by.” She again stared at the road. “I don’t care for it, having to be circumspect, but it comes with the job. It feels hypocritical. Teachers and librarians are held to high moral standards.” She stood, “Help me with the blanket, and you can come back to my apartment, we will draw the curtains tight, finish off the wine, and what you started here.”

Dan offered a lascivious leer as he grabbed one edge of the blanket, “I think I can live with that.”



Janeane’s apartment was dark; she sat in the corner of the couch with Dan. He had returned to where he had begun, exploring her neck with his lips, moving on to her mouth; their arms and legs were entangled as the level of heat built between the two. She relaxed allowing the emotions to wash over her. “I’m going to be in need of help here.” He suggested. How could he need help, his practiced fingers lightly strummed her body?

“How is that?”

“I’ve never done it…you know…with a librarian.” He said. She couldn’t see his face but she could sense the wide grin.

“Well I have all the parts that other women have, and I hope they respond as they should.”

“They are,” He purred, “Oh, how they are.” His hands groped and her body arched and ached in kind.

“Oh Dan, I have never been stimulated like this before. Oh Dan, do it. Don’t stop.” Her body rose and fell against his.

“No! No!” Dan seemed to be losing control, “Damn!” His hands went to his pockets, Janine fell back panting; wanting more, not wanting the moment to end.

“Why did you stop it was so good, you were just…”

He pulled the cell phone from his pocket, “It was on vibrate.”

He scowled at the device, opened the clam shell and growled, “Kane!”

Barbarian Invasion by John Coultas

A scene from my Tripping Over Murder story

The nose of the skateboard skimmed along inches above the sidewalk, Grunge the navigator shot across the curb into Main Street traffic, avoiding collision with irate soccer moms and cautious seniors. There was the squealing of brakes and shouted epithets from startled drivers. At the opposite curb he jumped his board high in the air, spun and gave a flourish of the hand and a bow as he landed for the benefit of the not so amused motorists.

“Grunge!” Flyman called out, “Cool spin, and did you see that old broad flip you off, thought she was going to have one of those stroke things.” He snorted as he laughed.

Grunge flipped his board in the air, caught it with one hand and swiped at the hair hanging in his face. “That was Mrs. Egan, lives on my block, I'll hear about it from my Mom.”

“Not so cool dude.” Flyman offered. “Hey, there's Tops.”

Tops approached, and leaned back on his board bringing it to a stop, “What's going Dudes?” He mumbled, he was not a man of many words. “The cops chased me off Main Street, The big guy.”

“Officer Dan, he’s okay, didn’t write you up did he. I heard he knew how to raise hell in his day. He knows what it’s like.” Grunge informed, “That new librarian starts work today. I talked to her at the Burger Barn the other night, kind’a cute for a librarian I guess, lot nicer than those old ladies that work there now.” He shot out with his board, “Let’s go see what she’s doing over there, might be cool.” Flyman and Tops shrugged and followed.

They shouted, jumped and spun their way to the old Carnegie building. Stopping at the front, they eyed the eight steps leading up to the entrance. “What do you think, can we do it.” Grunge asked. Tops and Flyman thought it over looked out to the street and down the sidewalk.

“Don’t see that Officer Dan guy,” Was Flyman’s thought on the subject.

“Dude, don’t be such a weenie,” Tops didn’t care about cops; he had a reputation to maintain. They spread their legs wide on the boards and began a much practiced walk up the steps, shifting, twisting, and lifting the nose then the tail. It would have been quicker walking, but this demonstrated to the world who they were, and what they could do.


Miss Morrissey was behind the counter sorting cards. She took great pride in her work, for over sixty years she interfiled cards into the libraries catalog. Some would have considered such an assignment, “Cruel and Unusual Punishment.” The frail senior made of it an art form, not to mention it gave her lifetime job security. No other staff member could be convinced it was not a mind deadening occupation. Just as she was considering her next card, the broad oak paneled door was flung open. Standing in the door way, back lit by the afternoon sun were three imposing silhouettes. Boards in hand, gladiator-like figures stepped forward. Morrissey’s birdlike body shook, her quivering hands went to her face,” They’re here, oh my god they're here!” A trilling gasp could be heard reverberating around the sacrosanct reading room.

”Were here for the young librarian,” Tops proclaimed, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“Yeah dude, that cute one.” Grunge added giving a melodramatic effect.

Morrissey’s body verged on shaking its self to pieces, her lips formed words but nothing came out. At last she gained control of her mouth, “Rape, murder,” She screamed.

Miss Morrissey ran from the counter, past the parting boarders, screaming her way out the front door. At the top step, in front of Somerset’s venerable library the octogenarian shouted, “Murder, help, crazed murderers.”

The Stalker by John Coultas

This is a scene from my story Tripping Over Murder

She hummed to herself as she wound along the forest road. John had offered to ride into town with her, she was insistent that she was an accomplished rider; she would have no problems, finding her way or avoiding catastrophes.

On the paved main road she sensed a car behind her, she kept to the shoulder to avoid a collision, giving the driver room to pass. Back to her humming she forgot about the car and focused on John. The warmth he generated in her. And what an accomplished person, building his cabin, surviving in the woods, baking and cooking, what a guy. He was the true Renaissance man.

Back to the real world she thought about that car, it never passed. Quick glances over her shoulder would reveal a flash of color behind or she would hear a distant crunch of gravel.

There was a rise above, at the top she would stop and look back to see who was following her. At the high point she did just that, she looked back upon vacant pavement, but around a bend there were wisps of vapor, such as that made by an idling vehicle.

There was a good grade down this side of the hill, she would put distance between herself and whoever it was that was following. She pushed off, and began pumping the peddles, keeping her head low, she whipped around the first curve. She could feel the tires slip a bit but she came out fine, ahead she was going to go through a dark tunnel of overhanging pine and oak. She remembered this turn, not as tight as the one above, another look over her shoulder, she thought her stalker was still there.

Inside the tunnel it was night like, and cold, again she pumped at the peddles, she knew that she would be going into the curve just as she came out into the light. Her eyes adjusted rapidly, she forced the handle bars into the turn, God no! Her peripheral vision picked up a brown blur, she was hit from the side, the impact felt like a Mack truck.


“Janeane,” She could here someone calling her name, from far away. It was dark, nighttime or was it a thick fog. “Janeane,” The voice called again, maybe closer. There was pain all over, her head felt as if it had exploded. Someone was pulling her arm, shaking it. Don’t do that it hurts, everything hurts, go away leave me in my pain! “Janeane, its Dan, are you okay?”

Her eyes flickered to narrow slits, “Ouch,” She complained, “No I’m not okay. Go away! Just let me die here.”

“Good, I thought you might really be injured,” Dan leaned back holding on to her hand.

“What hit me, all I remember was the force...and then my rough awakening? You need to work on your bedside manner.”

“A herd of deer came across the road. Lucky they butted you to the side, otherwise you would have been road kill.”

“Oh, deer," Janeane groaned,"Who would of thought Bambi could be so careless?”

“Lot of people get injured up here...even killed...by our deer, not to mention elk and moose.”

“So, how did you know that it was a deer that hit me?” She gave Dan the quizzical look.

“Oh, I saw, I was up the road.” Innocence planted on his face.

She winced as she sat up, “You were behind me? You were the one following me? You were the one that made me ride like a maniac down this deer infested road and almost killed me? Some help you aren’t.” Her hands went to her throbbing head.

“You want me to call the paramedics?”

“No, just take me and my bike back to town. Where is my bike?” She looked around.

“Like I said you were lucky they nudged you to the side...you could have died." His hand scrubbed at his ten o'clock shadow," The bike got trampled. I’ll put what’s left in the trunk and drive you back to town.” He offered shoulders slumping.

“My bike!” She began sobbing. That bike had been so important to her, her only means of transportation for years. She wasn’t sure she could survive without it. She gritted her teeth, restraining herself from putting all the blame on Dan. And why was he following me. She looked at him through her tear filled eyes.

All of this would have to be resolved in time. Right now she would have to shape up for work on Monday. Miss Chambers would disapprove of a battered and bruised librarian. She felt her face, a bump on the forehead, an abrasion on the cheek. With a sweep of hair across the bump, and the cheek would be covered by a slathering of makeup, that should do it.