A Susan Slutt Mystery: Susan Slutt Solves the Mystery
By Kate Emburg
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
Visit http://www.jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2010 Kate Emburg
ISBN 978-1-61152-006-4
For more titles by Kate Emburg at Smashwords visit
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/kateemburg
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Cover Photo Credit: Cano, pcross
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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WHO IS SUSAN SLUTT?
Merely the greatest girl detective since the invention of re-usable enema bags!
You’ve met her before, in the girl sleuth books of your youth. You loved her then, but since you were just a kid, you didn’t realize how ridiculous and unbelievable some of her adventures were.
Meet Susan Slutt. She’s not Nancy Drew, Kay Tracey, or the Dana Girls, but her R-rated adventures will bring back memories of your favorite heroines and (we hope!) leave you laughing.
The writers of this book wish to make clear that we intend no disrespect toward juvenile series books. Nor are we prejudiced against homosexuals or people of any ethnic group. In fact, we’re both avid collectors of series books, homosexuals, and people of all ethnic groups. The stereotypes in Susan Slutt make fun of the stereotypes that frequently appeared in series books, especially before 1950.
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A Susan Slutt Mystery: Susan Slutt Solves the Mystery
By Kate Emburg
Chapter 1: Sign In, Please!
“Isn’t this exciting?” exclaimed Susan Slutt. “Here I am, a beautiful, vivacious, world-famous girl sleuth, attending a detective convention right here in my hometown of Porkerville, USA! Teams of the finest sleuths from across the globe have been invited by the owner, Leilani Gnash, to sample her hotel’s cuisine and solve a baffling mystery! Accompanying me on my quest are my adopted sister, boyish Butch Hawkins, and my best beau, Rodd Turgood. Desk clerk, I’d like to register right away. My name is Slutt, Susan Slutt. That’s S-L-U-T-T, as in Jonathan Slutt, world-famous and highly paid criminal attorney. He’s my father, you know.”
“Very impressive,” yawned the clerk behind the desk at the Porkerville Motel-6. “But even if you’re the Queen of England, you can’t shove your way to the front of the line. Go to the end and wait your turn.”
“Well! Clearly, he doesn’t realize who I am,” Susan sniffed to her chums.
“Yes, I do! Susan Slutt, S-L-U-T-T, famous girl detective,” called the insolent clerk.
Susan’s sapphire blue eyes narrowed. “I should report your conduct to Ms. Gnash, who would likely fire you immediately. But because I’m such a compassionate human being, I’ll let your insult slide. Come, Butch and Rodd, we’ll wait at the end of the line.”
Susan, followed by her grumbling friends, took her place behind a tiny girl with golden curls. The moppet appeared no older than five, and tears were streaming down her chubby cheeks. Susan assessed the child, decided she had nothing to do with Ms. Gnash’s case, and turned her thoughts to the upcoming mystery. But Butch, taking pity on the small girl, knelt to the child’s level.
“What’s wrong, kid?” asked Butch kindly. “Lost your Mommy?”
The tot threw Butch a withering glance. “Back off, lady! I don’t need no Mommy! I’m Bunny Hutch Morton, famous sleuth. I work the waterfront. I’ve brought more thugs to justice than you could shake a stick at.”
“Then why are you crying?” asked Butch reasonably.
“Can’t you read, you stupid broad?” Bunny Hutch pointed to a sign that read, Detectives Must Register in Teams of Three.
“I had a team,” the young sleuth explained. “But at the last minute my cousin Snub and my friend Norman came down with measles, so I’ll have to go home.”
“What a coincidence!” cried a dark-haired boy of twelve standing in front of Bunny Hutch. “Measles caused trouble for me and Bitsy, too.”
“That’s right,” said a brunette girl, who looked identical to the boy except for her longer hair. “We’re Bitsy and Bobbsey, the Boobsey Twins. Our detective team normally consists of four. Our younger brother and sister, Bobby and Bossy, both wanted to attend the convention, but we could only choose one.”
“We picked Bossy,” continued her brother, “but we didn’t want to hurt Bobby’s feelings, so we spiked his chocolate milk with some measles virus. But Bossy drank some, too, so both twins broke out in spots and we’re short a partner. Whatever shall we do?”
“Why not team up with me?” Bunny Hutch offered.
Bobbsey considered. “It depends. Got any cigars?”
Bunny Hutch opened her trench coat, revealing inside pockets stuffed with blackjacks, knives, a flask of bourbon, and several of Havana’s best cigars.
Reaching for the smokes, the Boobsey Twins chorused, “It’s a deal!”
“Those kids are pretty hardcore,” said Rodd, shaking his head. “They might just solve the mystery first.”
Before Susan could slap Rodd silly for daring to suggest such an impossibility, she was distracted by a shrill scream from a teenaged girl with curly blonde hair. Accompanied by a handsome older man in a tailored suit and a middle-aged woman in shabby clothing, the young blonde had gotten in line behind Susan’s party.
“Daddy, I can’t stand waiting!” cried the girl who, like the man, was expensively dressed. “Make them all leave so we can check in now!”
“Penny, sweetheart, angel,” wheedled the older man. “These people are detectives, just like us. They have a right to be here. If I give you twenty dollars, will you please be quiet and wait your turn?”
Penny snatched the money and stuffed it in her purse. “Thanks, Daddy, but it’s not enough! Make these people get out of our way!”
The man sighed. Then he pulled a rifle from one of the five pieces of luggage carried by the shabbily-dressed woman. “Everybody down!” he shouted. “Outta my way or you’re dead!”
Amid shrieks and cries, the sleuths scattered, taking cover in various parts of the lobby. The man stashed his gun and strolled up to the desk. “Hello, I’m—”
“I’m Penny Dreadful,” said his daughter, shoving him out of her way. “That’s my father, Christopher Dreadful, and our housekeeper, Mrs. Squeamish.”
No sooner had the Dreadful team checked in than the other sleuths emerged from hiding and rushed to line up. Everyone was in front of Susan, including several parties who had previously been behind.
Butch checked her watch and groaned. “It’s seven forty-three! At this rate we won’t get our room until well after eight P.M. I’ll miss most, if not all, of the latest episode of Survivor! Susan, you’re the hotshot sleuth. Do something!”
But before Susan could form one of her typical brilliant plans, she was startled by the girl ahead of her in line. Whirling around, the brassy redhead snarled, “Susan Slutt, leave this motel or dire consequences will befall you!”
* * * *
Chapter 2: The Fur Flies
At first Susan was annoyed, but then her annoyance turned to gratitude as she recognized the speaker as her longtime rival and almost exact double, Ethel Easton. Flinging her arms around the astonished Ethel, Susan cried, “Thank you! Thank you very much!”
“For what?” asked the mystified Ethel as she wriggled from Susan’s grasp.
Butch answered for her sister. “Susan thanks you for moving the plot along by providing the requisite chapter cliffhanger in the form of a non-specific threat of harm if she doesn’t drop her case.”
Rodd stepped forward, nodding eagerly. “She is also grateful to you for filling the role of unpleasant but ultimately buffoonish jealous rival, a stock character in many juvenile series.”
“Not to mention,” Butch added, “the stereotype of the heroine’s double, as well as the coincidence of the heroine’s enemy mysteriously showing up wherever the heroine vacations, be it Florida or Tibet.”
“I’ve never been to Tibet,” Ethel protested. “I don’t want to go there. All I want to do is prove I can be a better detective than Susan Slutt.”
“But you’re not a detective,” Susan corrected her. “As Rodd pointed out, you’re nothing but a pathetic wannabe.”
“Yeah, but I hooked up with two detectives,” Ethel said, thrusting her jaw out stubbornly. “I found them in the yellow pages, which is strange because they’re not yellow, they’re black. With their help, I’ll solve this mystery. Meet Jean and Louise, the Dinah Girls!”
Susan gazed at Ethel’s companions. They looked exactly alike, except one wore her hair in a black Afro while her sister’s Afro was dyed a freakish buttercup shade. Smugly, Ethel introduced the blonde as Jean and the brunette as Weezy.
Though Susan greeted the sisters politely, inside she felt a twinge of apprehension. The Dinah Girls were indeed famous detectives. They even had a series of books written about them. They would be formidable competition. The only person who might be worse than the Dinah Girls was—
“Fancy Few!” exclaimed Rodd in excitement. “It’s Fancy Few!”
Susan glared at her escort. “Rodd! You read my mind! Don’t do it again; it violates my privacy.”
“No, no, look over there!” Rodd pointed to the rear of the lobby, where a tall girl with perfectly-coiffed titian-blonde hair had entered, trailed by a large entourage. The newcomer wore white gloves, a saucy hat, stylish alligator pumps, and a blue sports frock. Her ensemble was topped off by a luxurious silver fox jacket.
“Nice coat,” Susan approved. “I must buy one or two or half a dozen like it.”
But as the titian-haired girl and her two dozen followers headed for the reception desk, an ordinary-looking brunette blocked their path.
“How dare you wear the skins of innocent animals?” the brunette accused.
“They were hardly innocent,” said the coated girl, with a superior smile. “This fox bit me, and as for these shoes…” She pointed a dainty toe. “Let’s just say alligators don’t belong on Crocodile Island.”
She tried to sidestep the brunette, who held her ground and thrust out her jaw. “As a vegetarian, I find your attitude unworthy of a girl sleuth!”
“A girl sleuth?” the girl gave a musical laugh. “My dear, I am the girl sleuth. Fancy Few, the standard against whom all girls sleuths are measured and found wanting. Who might you be?”
“Donna Rockerford,” the brunette mumbled, not meeting Fancy’s eyes.
“Who?” Fancy’s brow wrinkled prettily. “I don’t remember ever reading about you.”
“No one does,” chimed in a girl with dark auburn hair, whose jeans and shirt were just as ordinary as Donna’s. “I’m Jennie McGarrity, and this is Dolores Pyne.”
Dolores, an extremely overweight girl in sloppy, food-stained sweats, took up the tale. “We teamed up with Donna when we realized that, although our series were wildly popular twenty years ago, readers today don’t even recognize our names.”
“With God’s help, we’ll solve this mystery and gain enough publicity to get our series back in print,” added Jennie.
Fancy looked skeptical. “If you want to stay in print, you can’t be a vegetarian or mention God. You’ll alienate readers who don’t share your beliefs. No, girls, you must be vague enough to appeal to everyone, yet have a fabulous wardrobe and eat ten course meals without gaining an ounce. You three obviously don’t have the right qualifications. Step aside.”
Instead of obeying, Donna turned crimson with rage. Then she grabbed Fancy’s lapels and tore out two handfuls of silver fur!
* * * *
Chapter 3: Fancy Fever
If Donna expected the great girl detective to dissolve into a sobbing puddle, the has-been sleuth was greatly disappointed. Fancy just glared at her coldly, then signaled one of her entourage. “Georgia, please subdue this upstart with some judo moves.”
An athletic-looking girl with close-cropped brown hair stepped forward and wrestled Donna to the carpet.
The titian beauty peered down. “Thank you, Georgia. You may stop wrestling her now. Georgia? Georgia, I said you may stop wrestling that girl!”
“Sorry.” Sheepishly Georgia released Donna, who slunk away with her cronies. Several police officers with Fancy’s group then ordered the line of sleuths to stand back and allow Fancy to check in first. There was a short delay while several Fancy groupies begged to be chosen for her team, but at last Fancy selected the boyish-looking Georgia, as well as a stupid-looking young man with vestigial lobotomy scars. A slightly-plump blonde girl pouted when she wasn’t picked, but a brunette in her twenties became livid and defected from Fancy’s crew on the spot.
“You’ve ignored me once too often!” she shrieked, grabbing her suitcase and stomping out of the motel. “You’ll be sorry, Fancy Few! You haven’t seen the last of Helen Horney!”
“Golly, wasn’t that exciting?” asked Rodd as Fancy and her friends headed for their rooms, accompanied by several star struck bellboys.
Susan stamped her foot. “What’s so exciting about it? That scene could have occurred in any Susan Slutt Mystery! Everyone thinks Fancy Few is special but she’s exactly like the rest of us!”
“Oh, no she ain’t!” Jean Dinah protested. “Fancy Few be de greatest girl sleuth since collard greens!”
“What on earth are colored greens?” Susan asked.
Rodd frowned. “Perhaps she means radicchio. Don’t forget, colored folks aren’t as smart as normal Americans.”
Jean stamped her foot. “Who you be callin’ colored, fool? Only thing ‘bout me that’s colored is mah hair!”
“People!” Susan clapped her hands to get their attention. “Have you forgotten that I am the greatest girl sleuth since the invention of colored greens or whatever the heck they are? I shall expose Fancy Few as an imposter by solving Ms. Gnash’s case ahead of Fancy and her team.”
“You cain’t,” Weezy Dinah responded. “Fancy’s become a pop culture icon, thanks to the keynote speaker at dis heah convention.”
Susan turned stricken but brilliantly beautiful blue eyes toward Butch. “Tell me this ignorant darky is mistaken.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.” Butch held out a brochure she’d picked up from a nearby table. “According to this itinerary, the keynote speaker will be David Fawcett-Majors, the world’s greatest authority on Fancy Few books and collectibles. It says here he has medical degrees in several specialties, including pathology, sociopathy, and necrophilia. He’s also a lawyer, an orthodontist, and a multi-billionaire. His IQ is reportedly too high to measure. David says, and I quote, ‘My speech will explain why Fancy Few is the greatest girl sleuth since the invention of collard greens, exposing all other girl sleuths as pale imitators.’”
“Who he callin’ pale?” demanded Weezy indignantly. “Not me and Jean, fo’ sho!”
Susan snatched the brochure from Butch, needing to see it with her own eyes. The blurb was exactly as Butch had read and was accompanied by a photo of a slim, dark-haired man with heavy braces on his teeth and a maniacal gleam in his eyes.
“This is horrible!” Susan burst out.
Butch nodded. “Yeah, the photo’s all grainy and the guy resembles a weasel.”
“Not his appearance, although he is rather ugly,” Susan replied. “No, Butch, I mean his speech. If people believe Dr. Fawcett-Majors, then we’re doomed! The whole world will catch Fancy Fever, and all other sleuths—including me—will become obsolete!”
* * * *
Chapter 4: Getting into Susan’s Pants
At this dire prediction, the Dinah Girls turned a grayish shade Susan assumed was the black equivalent of pale. They began to tremble, rolling their eyes and moaning, “Lawsy me! We all gonna die!”
“Oh, shut up,” muttered Ethel Easton.
“Never fear, ignorant darkies, I shall save you,” Susan said, patting Jean and Weezy’s woolly heads. “I’ll vanquish Fancy Few and Fawcett-Majors, right after I get my eight hours sleep and consume a nutritious breakfast.”
“Fat chance,” Butch muttered, checking her watch. “I’ve missed Survivor and I’m about to miss CSI: Porkerville, and we’re still last in line! At this rate we won’t get our room until Christmas!”
Fortunately Butch’s prediction proved highly exaggerated, as it was only 10:00 P.M. when the three chums were installed in Room 10. As they crossed the threshold, they noticed the room had two double beds.
Butch sidled up to Susan and squeezed her arm. “Look, Sue, there’s three of us and only two beds! I think you and I should share, since we’re both girls.”
“Why, yes, that makes sense,” Susan agreed.
Rodd glared at Butch, then grabbed Susan’s other arm. “Don’t do it, Sue! Butch is a dyke who wants to get in your pants. Sleep with me and I’ll protect you!”
“No, Rodd’s the one who wants to get in your pants,” Butch said, returning Rodd’s glare. “Don’t trust him, Sue! I’ll protect you!”
Susan shrugged off both their hands. “Rodd, I don’t know why you think Butch is from Holland. She was born right here in Porkerville, USA! And I can’t imagine why either of you would want to wear my pants. I doubt you could even get them past your hips. But if it means that much to you, you can each have a pair.”
So saying, Susan went to her four matching suitcases, which were stacked next to Rodd’s duffel bag and Butch’s backpack. She extracted two pairs of last season’s jeans and tossed one each to Rodd and Butch. They caught the garments, then stood there with their mouths hanging open.
“Since I’m the series heroine and you’re just my sidekicks,” continued Susan, “it’s only fitting that I have my own bed, and you two can share.”
Butch and Rodd looked at each other, identical expressions of disgust etched upon their features.
“Since my plans for tonight are shot to hell,” Butch said at last, “guess I’ll work out in the motel health club.”
“No, Butch, first we must check out our competition,” Susan said. She thrust a sheet of paper at her chums. “Here’s a page from the desk clerk’s register, which I confiscated while he was fetching our room keys. It lists all the detective teams and the rooms they’re in.”
“Room 1,” Butch read. “Fancy Few, Georgia Payne, and Nerd Knickersoff. Room 2, Ethel Easton and Jean and Weezy Dinah. Room 3, Bitsy and Bobbsey Boobsey and Bunny Hutch Morton. Room 4, Frank and Joe Baccardi and Chet Gorton. Room 5. Nutso Swift, Brick Rant, and Don Snott. Room 6, Dolores Pyne, Jennie McGarrity, and Donna Rockerford. Room 7, Penny and Christopher Dreadful and Mrs. Squeamish. Room 9, Trixie and Mort Bolton and Gingerberry the horse. Room 10, Susan Slutt, Butch Hawkins, and Rodd Turgood.”
“What happened to Room 8?” Rodd inquired.
“That’s David Fawcett-Majors’ room,” Susan explained. “How fortunate we were given the room next to his! We can gain access by knocking on the adjoining wall until we find a secret panel.”
“Or we can gain access by knocking on the door until he lets us in,” said Butch sarcastically.
Susan shook her head sadly. “Oh, Butch, that’s too obvious! A real sleuth never knocks on the front door when she can slip in through a secret panel, find an unlocked window, or disguise herself as a maid and pretend to deliver room service.”
“I don’t care!” Butch retorted stubbornly. “I’m sick of this shit. I’ll just knock on Fawcett-Majors’ door and ask him where he gets off idolizing Fancy Few and trashing the rest of us. Are you with me, Rodd?”
Rodd cast a hopeful glance at Susan. As usual, she ignored him. “Might as well,” Rodd sighed. “It’s not like I’ll get any action here.”
Susan watched them go, her emotions mixed. Although disappointed by her chums’ disloyalty, she felt she could work better without their interference. Unencumbered by her bumbling sidekicks, Susan consulted the list of teams.
“Room 4,” the young sleuth murmured to herself. “The Baccardi Boys are almost as famous as me. Perhaps they’ll help foil Fawcett-Majors’ plan.”
But when Susan reached Room 4, after first changing from her smart blue traveling frock into an equally smart blue casual frock, replacing her dark blue suede pumps with medium blue ones, and adjusting her makeup from evening to nighttime hues, she heard an ominous noise issuing from behind the closed door. Listening carefully, she could make out male voices chanting the words:
“PAR-TY! PAR-TY! PAR-TY!”
“It must be a party,” the clever sleuth deducted.
* * * *
Chapter 5: Party Hardy
Before Susan could decide on a course of action—pretend to be a maid, or simply unlock the door with one of her many credit cards—the door swung open and a young man asked, “You here for the party? Come on in!”
Susan’s gaze traveled from the lad’s curly dark hair, to his sky blue silk shirt and double-breasted jacket, to his matching navy slacks with sharp creases in both legs, to his black dress shoes that gleamed with polish from a recent shine. The boy blushed at being examined by such a beautiful and well-endowed young woman, and stuck out his hand. “I’m Frank Baccardi,” he said shyly.
“I’m Susan Slutt.” She looked past him into the room, where Dolores Pyne and an equally fat teenage boy were stuffing pizza after pizza into their gaping mouths. The vegetarian, Donna Rockerford, was sitting alone in a corner, munching on a handful of hay and looking depressed. A blond youth in a football uniform was sprawled on his back on one of the rumpled beds, half buried in crumpled beer cans. Two red-haired teens—a boy and girl who resembled each other—were galloping around the bed on horseback; Susan took them to be Mort, Trixie, and Gingerberry. Presiding over the scene, holding an open Bible, was Jennie McGarrity, praying for everyone’s souls.
Frank popped the top on a beer can. “Want a drink, Susan?”
Susan shook her head. “I never drink alcoholic beverages! I’m shocked that you, as a boy sleuth, would do such a thing!”
Frank looked abashed, but only for a moment. “Let me explain our philosophy. We got it from our dad, Ron Baccardi. He told us, ‘Party ‘til you drop, and your case will usually solve itself and you can take the credit. If not, tell everyone you couldn’t solve the case because you were drunk. Instead of blaming you, people will feel sorry for you and cut you some slack. After all, alcoholism is a disease, not a choice.’ We find it usually works out the way Dad said. If not, no biggie. Turns out in a world of insufferably perfect sleuths, small character flaws can be endearing.”
“No kidding!” cried Dolores. “In my series, binge eating and morbid obesity are minor character flaws.” Lumbering over to Chet Gorton, she demanded, “Hand over that last pizza, Fatso.”
“No,” whined Chet, clutching a sausage and onion pan-crust to his chubby chest.
Undaunted, Dolores shoved Chet backward. He landed on the bed and the pizza bounced out of his arms. Dolores caught it expertly and wolfed it down.
Meanwhile, Susan appealed to the blond Baccardi brother sprawled on the other bed. “You must be Joe. How can you lie there drinking beer when there’s a mystery to solve?”
Joe’s glazed eyes focused on Susan for a split second before they rolled back in his head. His limbs jerked feebly and he let out a loud burp.
“No use talking to him,” Frank said. “When he’s drunk, he can’t put complete sentences together. But if Joe were sober, which he rarely is, he’d agree investigation is a waste of time. We’d rather wait for the bumbling crooks and the incompetent police to screw up and drop the solution into our laps so we can take all the glory.”
“Not this time,” said Susan grimly. “You’re in Porkerville, on my turf! I’ll get the credit for solving this mystery!”
Before Frank could comment, a scream rang out. It came from the room next door!
* * * *
Chapter 6: The Clue in Blue
Susan and Frank rushed into the hallway, with Dolores lumbering behind them. The door to Room 2 hung ajar.
“You go first,” Dolores said, shoving Susan from behind.
“Do I look stupid?” asked Susan.
“Do you really want an answer to that?” Dolores retorted.
Frank squared his shoulders. “This is a job for a man.”
“Since we don’t have a man, I suppose you’ll do,” Dolores decided. She grabbed Frank by the scruff of his neck and tossed him through the door. Susan followed. Inside, Ethel Easton was staring in horror at two empty, disheveled beds. She let out another piercing scream.
“Honestly!” Susan exclaimed in disgust. “If you want the beds made, call room service. It’s nothing to scream about!”
“But Jean and Weezy are missing!” Ethel sobbed. “When I left to get ice from the machine, they were sound asleep. I came back five minutes later, and they were gone. This handkerchief is the only clue.”
Susan reached for the white hankie. It was embroidered with blue forget-me-nots and the initials FF in blue thread.
“The Clue in Blue!” Susan cried. “I know those initials. Fancy Few has kidnapped the Dinah Girls!”
“Why would she do that?” Frank asked, scratching his head.
“They’re her competition,” Susan explained. “She’s desperate enough to want them dead.”
“But Fancy doesn’t see the rest of us as competition,” protested Dolores. “According to Fawcett-Majors’ Guide to the Fancy Few Series, Fancy is so superior to every other girl sleuth in every way that she doesn’t feel threatened. Sure, I’m here to try and solve the mystery ahead of her, but deep down I don’t really believe I’ll succeed. I doubt Fancy loses sleep over other detectives.”
“You’ve been brainwashed!” Susan accused. Springing forward, she delivered a resounding slap to Dolores’s face before the fat girl knew what hit her.
“Ow!” Dolores cried.
“But Fawcett-Majors has a point,” Frank argued. “The Fancy Few series sells trillions of copies and has been in print for thousands of years. Why would Fancy worry about being beaten by the Dinah Girls?”
Susan slapped Frank across the face. “You’ve been brainwashed, too! But you’re cured now.” Whirling on Ethel Easton, Susan slapped her as well.
“Why did you slap me?” Ethel sobbed, holding her throbbing cheek. “I wasn’t brainwashed!”
“True. Your brain is too small.” Susan flexed her arm. “But it never hurts to be certain. Besides, I needed the exercise.”
“Where to now?” Frank asked.
“Fancy’s room,” Susan decided. “We’ll grill her.”
“Okay,” Dolores agreed. “But I think she’d taste better roasted or fried.”
The four raced down the hall to Fancy’s room but found the door gaping open and the trail gone cold. Gloves, hats, and handkerchiefs were strewn about, but there was no sign of human habitation.
Again the kidnapper had left a clue. This time, an arrow in red lipstick had been drawn on the bathroom mirror, pointing down to three objects in the sink. Susan identified them as a can of mixed nuts, a red brick, and a Kleenex liberally smeared with green snot.
“Nuts…brick…snot,” said Frank thoughtfully. “Whatever can it mean?”
“It’s obvious,” Susan said. “The kidnappers are Nutso Swift, Brick Rant, and Don Snott. Let’s confront them!”
But Dolores backed away. “Not me! Nutso Swift is hopelessly insane!”
* * * *
Chapter 7: Swift Danger
The ground shook as Dolores fled, but Frank and Ethel promised to stick around and serve as Susan’s back-up. “Sleuthing is kind of fun,” admitted Frank in a surprised voice. “There’s only so much beer a fellow can drink before passing out, puking, or getting a splitting headache. But I could investigate a mystery for hours without feeling any pain!”
“Good boy,” Susan approved. Frank is such a nice-looking lad, she thought. And such a snappy dresser! I’m sure I can convert him from a party animal to a full-fledged boy sleuth. I just won’t mention getting hit on the head, strangled, pushed out of planes, chloroformed, run off the road by mysterious cars, or being chained in a cave and left to starve. Other than that, sleuthing is a piece of cake!
The trio proceeded to Swift’s room and found the door locked. Susan was about to pick the lock with her credit card when the incompetent Ethel committed the colossal error of knocking politely!
“Who’s there?” cackled a hopelessly insane male voice.
Susan clutched Ethel’s arm. “Say it’s room service.”
“It’s Ethel Easton.” Ethel ignored Susan’s advice. “Have you seen Fancy Few or the Dinah Girls?”
“We’re not interested in girls. We don’t even talk to females, except for our mothers,” said a second, equally demented voice.
“Perhaps they’ll talk to me,” Frank suggested hesitantly.
“Spoken like a true detective,” Susan approved.
The Baccardi Boy thrust out his shoulders, seeming to grow two inches as he swelled with pride. In a newly confident voice, he called, “Ahoy there! I’m Frank Baccardi, famous boy sleuth. May I come in?”
The door flew open. Framed in the threshold was a blond boy wearing glasses and a space suit. Behind him, Susan glimpsed a lab outfitted with test tubes, Bunsen burners, and what appeared to be a large nuclear warhead on one of the beds. A slender boy in a white lab coat and a hulking fellow in a Marine uniform joined the blond in the doorway, blocking Susan’s view of the room.
All three stared at Frank. For some odd reason, the Marine was drooling, while the lab coated boy licked his lips.
“I’m Jon Swift, but you can call me Nutso,” the blond said. He greeted Frank in the European manner, by kissing him on both cheeks. “The chap in the coat is Brick Rant, and the Marine is Don Snott, better known as Snotty.”
Frank gazed at the proliferation of scientific paraphernalia cluttering the room. “You lads have some impressive equipment.”
“So do you,” said Nutso, his gaze dropping to Frank’s crotch.
“What do you do with all that equipment?” Frank asked.
Brick and Snotty exchanged smoldering looks.
“Would you like to find out?” Brick asked.
“Want us to show you?” Snotty offered.
Nutso smiled. “The Baccardi Boy wants to come inside and play with our equipment. Should we let him?”
His companions responded with a lusty, “Hell, yes!” Strong hands reached out, yanked Frank into the motel room, and slammed the door in Susan and Ethel’s faces.
Quickly Susan grabbed the knob. But the door was again locked, and her futile pounding went unanswered!
* * * *
Chapter 8: A Dreadful Murder
After a few minutes, strange moans and groans could be heard inside Swift’s locked room. They were soon joined by grunts, someone gasping for breath, and what sounded like the slap of leather against well-toned buttocks.
“This motel is haunted!” Ethel cried. “I don’t want to be a detective after all—it’s much too dangerous! Susan, maybe we should call Ms. Gnash, or even the police!”
“Nonsense,” Susan replied. “Have you considered perhaps there’s no danger at all? This whole thing could be a set-up. Perhaps it’s one of those mystery weekends where a fake murder is staged for the enjoyment of the guests.”
“So Ms. Gnash brought us here on false pretenses?” Ethel asked. “Nutso, Brick, and Snotty are in on it?”
Susan nodded soberly. “Some of the other sleuths may be in on it, too. Until we find out exactly what’s going on, we trust no one.”
As if to prove the girl sleuth’s point about a fake murder, the door of Room 7 suddenly flew open and a dead body was tossed into the hall!
Susan and Ethel hurried to investigate. The lingerie-clad body of Penny Dreadful lay in a crumpled heap, a knotted stocking around her throat and a ghastly expression contorting her face.
“Penny’s not dead,” Susan told the quaking Ethel. “She’s just a talented actress.”
Hesitantly, Ethel nudged Penny’s body with her toe. “She’s awfully stiff, and she seems to have lost control of her bowels and bladder.”
“Please,” Sue sniffed. “Anyone can smear herself with dog feces and fake her own death. Get up, Penny, you’ve been exposed.”
But Penny continued to lie motionless.
Ethel touched Penny’s neck. “Sue, she has no pulse, and she’s turning blue.”
Susan shook her head in disgust. “So Penny, you still won’t admit your deception? I have ways of making you talk. Ethel, go fetch some acid.”
The Easton girl, who always traveled with an ample supply of deadly acid on the chance it would be needed in an emergency, hurried to her room. She soon returned with a beaker of seething acid, which she handed to Susan.
“This is your last chance.” Susan poised the beaker above Penny’s face. “Get up, or I’ll pour this acid on you.”
Still, Penny didn’t move.
“She thinks I’m bluffing,” concluded Sue. “Okay, Miss Dreadful, you asked for it! Here comes the acid!”
Susan dumped the contents of the beaker on Penny’s face. Despite a loud sizzle as the flesh dissolved, there was no response from the prone girl.
“Iron control,” marveled Susan in grudging admiration. “Perhaps I should add her to my detective team.”
Just then, the door to Room 7 opened again. Christopher Dreadful, carrying his Burberry overcoat, and Mrs. Squeamish, balancing five suitcases, tiptoed out. When they saw Susan and Ethel hovering over Penny’s body, they looked frightened and ducked back into their room.
“That was mighty suspicious,” said Ethel thoughtfully.
Susan shrugged. “They were going for a walk but changed their minds. Nothing suspicious about that.”
Ethel argued they should investigate further, but Susan insisted there would be ample time the next morning. Leaving the disfigured Penny Dreadful in a heap, each girl retired to her own room. Before closing her eyes, Susan noticed Butch and Rodd had not yet returned from their visit to David Fawcett-Majors. Frowning, Susan sincerely hoped the mad doctor had drugged her chums and was holding them captive. If not, it meant Butch and Rodd were voluntarily consorting with the enemy!
* * * *
Chapter 9: Susan Slutt Solves the Mystery
The next morning, Susan saw Butch and Rodd’s bed had not been slept in. Perhaps they were already at the sleuths’ Brunch and Business meeting, Susan thought. But when the pretty sleuth arrived in the dining room, her only tablemates were Ethel, Trixie, Mort, Bunny Hutch Morton, Dolores, Donna, and Jennie. All were huddled at one end of a long table, close to the breakfast buffet. Gingerberry was tethered nearby, chomping a bowl of oats. Everyone else, except Donna, had heaping plates of sausage, scrambled eggs, ham, waffles, and pancakes. As Susan took an empty seat next to Donna, the brunette complained loudly that she couldn’t eat brunch because the Motel-6 refused to provide a special vegetarian meal.
“These pancakes look yummy,” said Susan, helping herself to a stack with butter and maple syrup. “They don’t have meat in them.”
Donna explained that she did not eat animal products of any kind. “Pancakes and waffles are made with milk, eggs, and butter. Eating these items deprives cows and hens of their natural right to reproduce and be parents.”
“How about these strawberries?” Susan suggested, pointing to a heaping bowl.
Donna recoiled in horror. “Susan, the bowl of strawberries is right beside the plate of bacon! A stray breeze may have wafted some bacon fumes onto the fruit, contaminating it.”
“Here’s a green salad,” Susan pointed out. “Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, shredded carrots, and it’s nowhere near the bacon or sausage.”
“But it was prepared in the same kitchen as the meat.” Donna shuddered. “How do you know a careless cook didn’t use a knife to slice meat, and then use that same knife to chop cucumbers? I can’t risk it.”
Giving up on Donna, Susan turned her attention to Bunny Hutch Morton. The pint-sized sleuth was telling everyone how her partners had vanished the night before.
“I got up around three to use the can. My mommy says not to drink water after six, but I always ignore the bitch,” Bunny Hutch confessed. “When I came out of the bathroom, there was a strange man in my room. He asked, ‘Hey, little girl, want some candy?’ I pulled out my machine gun and he ran off. I woke up Bitsy and Bobbsey and told them about it, but the crazy kids lost their heads. ‘Candy! Candy!’ they screamed, running into the hall. I yelled at them to come back, the guy was probably a child molester, but they chased him around the corner and I never saw them again.”
“Maybe the man was Nutso Swift,” Ethel spoke up eagerly. “He kidnapped Frank Baccardi. I saw it with my own eyes. Or maybe the man was Christopher Dreadful. I think he murdered his own daughter, so maybe he’d murder other kids too.”
“Wait!” cried Susan, as all the sleuths began talking at once. She banged on her water glass with a fork to get their attention. “Let’s not lose sight of our priorities! Our first order of business is to give a name to this mystery.”
Dolores Pyne spoke first. “Let’s call it Dolores Pyne: Dead Heat at the Breakfast Table.”
“Or maybe Dolores Pyne: Dead Meat at the Breakfast Table,” said Donna sourly, wrinkling her nose at the ham and sausage on Dolores’s plate.
Bunny Hutch piped up, “I vote for Bunny Hutch: Her First Little Homicide.”
“Or Trixie Bolton and the Motel Mystery,” Trixie suggested.
“Since we can’t agree,” said Susan, “I’ll choose the title. We’ll call it Susan Slutt Solves The Mystery.”
“But you haven’t solved anything,” Trixie pointed out.
“Not yet, but I will,” Susan assured her. “We’re overlooking the fact that Christopher Dreadful is a man, so he may be the man who offered Bunny Hutch candy. We must go to Room 7 and question him.”
“But that was my idea!” Ethel protested. “If Christopher Dreadful is guilty, then I solved the case, not Susan, so it should be called Ethel Easton Solves the Mystery.”
“Theoretically,” Trixie Bolton agreed. “But, much as I hate to admit it, that title just doesn’t have the same alliterative ring.”
“Look at The Yellow Warning,” Mort pointed out. “There’s nothing yellow in the book, and there’s no warning. But a catchy title helps sell a book, even if it has nothing to do with the story.”
Jennie McGarrity nodded eagerly. “All my books have meaningless one-word titles. Prayed. Strayed. Played. Betrayed. Afraid. Laid. Paid. Raid. Trade. Spayed. Sprayed. It got readers’ attention.”
“So it’s settled,” Susan proclaimed. Ethel just pouted.
* * * *
Chapter 10: True Detective Confessions
In a body, the sleuths marched to the Dreadfuls’ room and stealthily removed the hinges from the door. It fell with a bang, startling Christopher Dreadful, who was brushing his teeth.
As Penny’s father spat out a mouthful of toothpaste, a blubbering Mrs. Squeamish threw herself at Susan’s feet. “I confess! Chris and I did it! But we were provoked! We couldn’t take it any longer!”
“Shut your yap!” cried Christopher Dreadful. “They can’t prove anything!”
“We don’t need proof. The Porkerville police will believe anything I say,” Susan told him. “But we’re willing to make a deal. Return the kidnapped sleuths, and we won’t press charges.”
“Kidnapped?” Detective Dreadful’s brow wrinkled in astonishment. “We didn’t kidnap anyone.”
“We thought you were asking about Penny’s murder,” added Mrs. Squeamish. “We killed her because we couldn’t stand being under her thumb. Ordering me around like a slave—”
“—Always whining for money. Staying out until four in the morning on a school night to go sleuthing,” Christopher added.
“The girl was out of control. We had to take matters into our own hands,” Mrs. Squeamish explained.
“So you’re both innocent of abducting Fancy, Georgia, Nerd, Bitsy, Bobbsey, Jean, and Weezy?” Susan asked.
Chris Dreadful and his housekeeper nodded, insisting they had nothing to do with the disappearing sleuths.
“Come,” Susan told her cronies. “Let’s leave these innocent citizens in peace.”
“Aren’t you going to arrest them for murder?” Ethel asked.
Susan laughed. “I told you, that was playacting! I’m sure Ms. Gnash will tell us it was part of the game.”
“What if she doesn’t?” persisted the Easton girl.
Susan shrugged. “Well, then Penny’s murder doesn’t concern us because it isn’t connected to our present case. A teen sleuth can only solve one mystery at a time.”
Ethel seemed about to argue when a tall figure rounded the corner ahead and began walking toward the sleuths. The person wore a long trench coat and a white hockey mask.
“That’s him!” cried Bunny Hutch. “That’s the man who offered me candy! After him!”
As the sleuths lunged toward him, the man changed direction and darted into a nearby men’s restroom. The girls stamped their feet in frustration. The villain had chosen the only hiding place where they dared not follow!
Suddenly Trixie thrust her brother forward. “Mort, you’re male! Get in there and grab him!”
Hesitantly Mort stepped into the restroom. The girls waited, holding their breath. Then, simultaneously, they heard the rushing water of a flushing toilet and a high-pitched scream!
* * * *
Chapter 11: Brawl Room Blitz
Thrusting propriety aside, the fearless girls barged into the bathroom, expecting to see Mort murdered, or at least unconscious. Instead, he pointed a trembling finger at an overflowing toilet. It was gushing water like a bursting dam!
“He ripped off his trench coat, and underneath he was wearing a wetsuit!” Mort gasped. “He dove into the toilet and flushed himself down. I never saw anything like it! Even for series fiction, that little stunt violated the laws of physics. It made the toilet overflow, too!”
Susan looked thoughtful. “Escape through the plumbing might be impossible for mystery fiction, but not science fiction! Therefore, we check out people whose series combine mystery with science fiction: Nutso Swift, Brick Rant, and Don Snott!”
Mort and the girls raced to the Swift room, where Dolores threw herself against the locked door, shattering it to splinters.
“Hey!” Brick Rant exclaimed. “You didn’t have to break down the door! If you wanted to come to our party, why didn’t you just knock?”
From the looks of the room, the party had been going on all night. The guests included all the missing sleuths, as well as Butch, Rodd, and David Fawcett-Majors.
“Hi, Susan!” cried Frank Baccardi, raising a glass of champagne. “Good news! I’ve converted these sleuths to the Baccardi Party way of life!”
“But I thought I’d converted you into a competent boy sleuth,” protested the bewildered Susan.
Frank sidled closer and whispered in her ear, “You did! That’s why it’s such good news our rival sleuths are now drunken party animals. All the best mysteries will be ours!”
“I like the way you think,” said Susan, linking her arm with Frank’s.
“Hey, get away from her!” slurred Rodd, lurching forward in a drunken rage. “Susan Slutt is my girlfriend, not yours!”
Rodd took a swing at Frank, missed, and fell facedown on the floor. The resourceful Baccardi Boy took the opportunity to leap on Rodd’s back and pummel him mercilessly. Meanwhile, Dolores spied Chet Gorton consuming an entire bucket of crispy fried chicken. She tried to grab it, but the plump boy hugged it to his chest while kicking out at Dolores with his pig-like feet.
Butch Hawkins sidled up to Fancy’s friend Georgia Payne. Leaning close to the boyish girl, Butch panted in her ear, “Is it true what they say about you in all those pop culture journals? Are you really a daughter of Sappho? A muncher of carpet? An Eleanor Roosevelt wannabe?”
“I don’t know what books you’ve been reading!” Georgia gasped, recoiling in horror. “Obviously not the Fancy Few on Campus series, where I get pregnant by my politically correct Native American boyfriend! Pervert, prepare to die!”
Too late, Butch realized the Fancy Few series had been revised so many times and had so many spin-offs that one could never be sure exactly what character traits a person had, or even what their name or age was from one book to the next. On the heels of that realization, Georgia’s fist smashed into Butch’s nose, and for the next few minutes Butch was too busy defending herself to ponder Fancy Few trivia.
But Butch was not the only person fighting. Joe Baccardi dove in to help his brother beat up Rodd; Donna Rockerford was beaten by Chet and Dolores when she tried to take the chicken away from both of them and give it a decent burial; and the Boobsey Twins began biting and scratching Snotty, shrieking, “Where’s the candy you promised us?”
Brick Rant, busy fighting off the amorous advances of Ethel Easton, kept shouting, “I have no use for girls!”
Jennie found herself on the receiving end of Bunny Hutch’s blackjack when she told the youngster to quit smoking or she would burn in hell.
In the midst of all the furniture smashing, drunken shouts, and sharp slaps across faces, Susan noticed something strange. Fancy Few and David Fawcett-Majors were walking around the room, taking pictures. They appeared perfectly calm and sober but, even stranger, they were not taking any photos of Susan Slutt!
Susan marched over to them. Before she could demand to know why they were ignoring the most photogenic person in the room, she overheard Fancy say, “We’re getting some great footage here.”
“Yes,” came David’s chilling reply. “This should be enough evidence to prove to the world once and for all that you, Fancy Few, are a goddess and all these other so-called sleuths are just a bunch of slobs!”
* * * *
Chapter 12: Fancy Few Solves the Mystery
Susan glanced around the room, unsure what to do first. Call the police? Confiscate the cameras? Restrain Frank and Joe before they cracked Rodd’s skull like an eggshell?
As Susan pondered her dilemma, the door swung open. Framed in the doorway was a striking brunette of about thirty. Her beige suit and red silk blouse set off her trim figure to perfection. She would have looked attractive if not for her expression of shock and disgust.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I’m Leilani Gnash, motel owner and avid fan of teen sleuth fiction. You’re all supposed to be in the conference room so I can give you the background on my mystery. Instead I find you brawling like common trash!”
“That’s it exactly, Ms. Gnash!” David ran up to her, waving his camera so excitedly spittle flew from the corners of his mouth. “These so-called sleuths are common street trash, all except the saintly Fancy Few, and I have the whole thing on tape as evidence!”
“This is a serious charge,” said Ms. Gnash gravely. “Not only is the room vandalized, but there appears to be underage drinking and smoking going on. I’m afraid I have no alternative but to award the title of World’s Greatest Sleuth to Fancy Few and ask the rest of you to leave.”
Fancy and David gloated as Susan turned pale. “Y-you can’t do that!” Susan gasped. “This adventure is called Susan Slutt Solves the Mystery, but you haven’t told us about the mystery, so how can it end without getting solved?”
“Oh, bother! I suppose you’re right.” Leilani pushed aside an empty pizza box and several beer bottles and sat down on the motel bed. “Okay, here goes. A ghost is haunting the motel. There! Can any of you solve it?”
“I can,” Brick volunteered. “The ghost is a robot, rigged by a rival government to steal American secrets.”
“That’s stupid,” Trixie snorted. “No, the ghost is obviously a rival resort owner, trying to scare away your guests so you’ll go bankrupt and sell him the property cheaply.”
“You’re both wrong, of course.” Fancy Few turned up her nose with a haughty sniff. “In cases like this, the ghost is probably someone searching for treasure on the premises. He or she seeks to frighten away guests and find the treasure without interference.”
As Fancy finished speaking, the other sleuths regarded her with awe. Cries of “Brilliant!” and “Outstanding!” and “Fancy Few, how do you do it?” rang out as everyone began praising Fancy at once.
“She’s right, there is a family treasure hidden on the property,” Leilani confirmed. “This means my first instinct was correct after all. Fancy Few, I hereby award you this Medal of Honor—”
Susan could tolerate it no longer. To avoid hearing any more Fancy praise, she stomped into the corridor—right into the path of a moaning ghost!
* * * *
Chapter 13: A Horney Ghost
For a moment, the ghost—who looked exactly like a person wearing a white sheet with two holes cut out for eyes—seemed as taken aback as Susan. Then the apparition recovered, waving its sheet-draped arms and howling, “Boo! Boo! Boooooooooooooo!”
Susan ducked back into the Swift room. The spirit followed, still repeating the ghostly word. Weezy Dinah began to shriek, while the slightly-braver Jean waved at the ghost and shouted, “Scat! Shoo! Go on, git yo’ spooky butt outta here!” Jennie grabbed a Bible and began the Rite of Exorcism.
“It’s not working!” cried Nutso Swift. “The ghost is still here! Our only choice is to detonate the nuclear device!”
Susan shrugged. “Or we could just do this.” Whisking the sheet from the ghost’s form, Susan revealed a cringing brunette.
“Who is she?” Fancy wondered aloud. “I feel like I should recognize her, but I don’t.”
“It’s me, Helen Horney!” Fancy’s former chum cried. “It’s no wonder you don’t know me. You never pay attention to me or give me a large role in your cases.”
“Now that’s not true,” spoke up Fawcett-Majors, leafing through a 2000-page book called Fawcett-Majors’ Guide to the Fancy Few Series. “In Fancy’s first adventure, The Secret of the Old Jock, Fancy discovered an unknown bacteria in the jockstrap of an elderly ex-tennis pro. In chapter five, Fancy takes a break from the case to play tennis with Helen. Then in book two, The Hidden Haircase, Fancy helps Helen’s great-aunts find a case stuffed with hair from their first poodle. In book ten, The Assword at Larkspur Lane, Fancy goes undercover at a nursing home after Helen overhears one of the staff use a cussword.”
“But I don’t appear in the following 6,822 titles,” Helen pointed out. “When I finally come back, it’s as a bit player in the Fancy Few, Girl Defective series, and nobody in their right mind reads that spin-off! In it Fancy gets amnesia and stumbles around, forgetting to put gas in her car, while Georgia solves all the mysteries.”
“Hey! I adore the Girl Defective series,” Georgia objected.
“My point is, I thought if I haunted the motel, Fancy would finally notice me,” Helen sobbed.
“I do notice you, you poor girl,” Fancy said kindly. “What did you say your name was again?”
“I know her name. It’s Helen Horney!” cried Susan triumphantly. “Ms. Gnash, I unmasked the ghost. I should get the medal, because I, Susan Slutt, solved the mystery!”
Leilani Gnash thanked Susan profusely. She was so grateful to the girl sleuth she agreed to have everyone in the room, except Susan Slutt and Fancy Few, arrested. While Leilani, Susan, and the police agreed all were guilty of at least one crime—vandalism, assault, battery, underage drinking, gluttony, and violating Porkerville’s strict segregation laws—there seemed to be nothing they could pin on Fancy Few.
“David lied about his credentials,” Police Officer Fezzi Wiggins explained, after running background checks on the police computer. “He doesn’t really have a degree in necrophilia. In fact, he dropped out of necrophiliac school in his sophomore year. He’s wanted in several states for practicing necrophilia without a license!”
Leilani shuddered. “And to think I invited that man here! Susan Slutt, how can I ever thank you for saving me from him?”
“How about a private banquet—just the two of us,” Susan said. “Don’t invite Fancy Few. I can tell you all about my next mystery, which I think will be called The Secret in the Old Watch.”
“Done.” Leilani linked arms with Susan. “From now on, you’re the greatest detective since the invention of collard greens!”
But Susan’s titian-haired rival was not to be cowed so easily. “You may have won this round, Susan Slutt,” she muttered. “But you haven’t seen the last of Fancy Few. I’m still the greatest, regardless of the fact that this one time, by some bizarre fluke, Susan Slutt Solved the Mystery.”
THE END
* * * *
Check Out Susan Slutt’s Previous Exciting Adventures!
The Dead Cat Mystery
Puzzle in the Polluted Pond
Mystery of the Chinese Junk
Captured by Cannibals in the Wilds of Canada!
The Ghost in the Outhouse
The Clue of the Broken Bed
The Disappearance of Helen
The Secret of the Lost Lunch
The Haunted Girdle
The Santa Secret
Susan Slutt Solves The Mystery
The Secret in the Old Watch
The Elusive Transvestite
The Sinister Second Susan Slutt
Peril Over the Carport
The Case of the Borrowed Bungalow
The Unfinished Beer
The Password to Delphinium Drive
The Search for the World’s Biggest Icehole
The Dreadful Revenge
Secret of the Golden Dildo
The Mystery at Honey Suckle’s Manor
In the Shadow of the Hunchback
The Crooked Boner
The Floating Saucer Mystery
Fracas at the Fudge Factory
The Phantom of the Porkerville Public Library
The Clue in the Cracking Wall
The Secret of Red Gateless Farm
The Geekmaster’s Secret
The Haunted Hoar House
The Case of the Dyslexic Detective
The Whispering Slut
Silver Wings for Susan
The Secret Button
The Thirteenth Squirrel
Really Bad Medicine
The Clue of the Prancing Puppet
Mystery of the Double Deception
The Secret of the Forgotten Sissy
The Red Trailer Mystery
The Legend of Black Booty
Secret of the Bar Window
The Clue in the Princess Dairy
The Missing Chumps
Susan Slutt Finds the Tomb of Tutt, the Boy King
The Mystery of the Brass-Bound Hunk
Harry Potted and the Chamber Pot of Secrets
Susan Slutt, Urology Nurse
The Bitch’s Omen
* * * *
ABOUT KATE EMBURG
Kate Emburg is the creator of the Susan Slutt series. In addition to the Susan Slutt series, Kate is the author of two other books. She is also the president of the Phantom Friends, a group dedicated to celebrating series books. She lives in Pennsylvania with her family.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. We are an invitation-only small press. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats. Visit us at jms-books.com for more information on our latest releases!