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Justice: Fiction by Stephen Lochton Kincaid
Yellow: Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Climat Perfume is a Capitalist Decadence: Fiction by J. B. Stevens
Country Living: Fiction by Abe Margel
The Dead Key!: Fiction by Pamela Ebel
Shirley Templeville: Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Good Dogs Don't Die: Fiction by Gene Lass
Crossroads: Fiction by Zachary Wilhide
How to Backmask Liner Notes: Fiction by Robert Jeschonek
Retirement Fund: Fiction by RE Carroll
The Irish Connection: Fiction by Roy Dorman
The Road to Nowhere: Fiction by G Garnet
Berserk: Flash Fiction by Zvi A. Sesling
Princess on the Pillow: Flash Fiction by Armand Rosamilia
Lightning Strikes: Flash Fiction by Gregory Meece
Merciless Ono: Flash Fiction by Charlie Kondek
The Samurai's Signal: Flash Fiction by Charlie Kondek
Hobs: Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
The zodiac with detergent powder: Poem by Partha Sarkar
F/8 and Be There: Poem by Damon Hubbs
Girl, Killer: Poem by Damon Hubbs
New York City: March 13, 1978: Poem by John Doyle
The Dog Pictured on Google Maps in Gouvy, Wallonia: Poem by John Doyle
Number 1073: Poem by John Grey
Vantage Point: Poem by John Grey
Perfect Egg: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Remodeling: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Morning Trek: Poem by Michael Keshigian
Flirt: Poem by Michael Keshigian
Narration: Poem By Michael Keshigian
Untitled: poem by Yucheng Tao
Night: Poem by Yucheng Tao
The Dead: Poem by Yucheng Tao
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Strange Gardens
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Pamela Ebel: The Dead Key!

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Art by Hillary Lyon © 2025

The Dead Key!

By

Pamela Ebel

 

“Morning, my friend. How you doing this cold day?”

The desk manager looked up as the Head Bell Man pushed a huge steamer trunk through the front doors of the hotel toward the front desk check-in station.

“Doing okay right now. I just started my shift, and I don’t see many memos or notes on things that went wrong overnight. Same for you?”

The Head Bell Man shook his head and shrugged.

“Same for me except for this big trunk that UPS dropped off last night around midnight. I’ve only seen one of these in old 1930’s movies. The paperwork says it goes to a Paul Richter. A note signed by Richter says to leave it in his room if he isn’t here when it comes. Which room is he in?”

“Let me check. The computer is slow this morning. Oh, here it is. Richter is in Suite 405. Says he checked in at 9:00 last night.”

“Okay. But I just realized I must have left my master key in my other uniform jacket. I don’t have time to go back to the locker room. Got one I can borrow in case the guy’s not there?”

“Let me reset one of these dead keys for you.”

He pulled a plastic card out of a box on the counter, entered it into the computer port and hit a series of commands.

“There you go. This should open all the doors for you.”

The Bell Man took the card, tipped his hat, and pushed the huge streamer trunk into an elevator and disappeared.

In front of Room 405 he knocked several times and got no answer. Using the master, he opened the suite door and called out to announce himself. Still no answer.

Following instructions from the note, he pushed the trunk into the sitting area, off the luggage cart and to the center of the room just as his beeper indicated he was needed in the lobby.

“Be right there.”

He closed the suite door and jiggled the handle to ensure it was locked.

A minute later the trunk lid snapped and creaked open. Slowly, like Venus Rising, a red-haired woman stood up and climbed out of the trunk.

Stretching, she pulled a tote bag out, went to a mirror, checked her hair and makeup, smoothed her black velvet jump suit. She pulled black leather boots from the tote and put them on.

She checked her watch, walked to the bar, removed a small bottle of champagne from the fridge, poured it into a flute, drank deeply, then smiled.

Rearranging the clothes in the trunk, she closed and locked the lid. Removing a bottle of scotch and a card from the tote, she placed them on the bar and took her drink into the bedroom, closed the door, and waited.

An hour later Paul Richter entered his suite and grinned as he saw the trunk. As he pulled out his cell phone, the bottle of Macallan Rare Cask Black Scotch on the bar caught his eye and his grin widened.

“Jamie, it’s me. The trunk’s here. I see that bottle you sent. Don’t be spending our money on $800 Scotch right now. Give me a call back so we can get the next step going.”

He ended the call and poured himself a generous glass of scotch and drank it down. Pouring another, he took a key from his pocket and opened the steamer trunk.

The clothes packed for his overseas cruise were neatly stacked. He downed the second glass of Macallan, leaned in, and began feeling at the bottom of the trunk. After a couple of minutes, he began tossing the clothes to the floor as he continued to search.

Richter listened as the message on his cell phone indicated that “the party you are calling is not available.”

“Jamie, damn it! Answer the phone. Where’s the money, and where are you? Answer the phone.”

“I’m afraid Jamie isn’t going to be available to answer his phone ever again.”

Richter stood up and stared at the redheaded woman whose life savings he had planned to spend on himself in France.

“Why, Paul, you look surprised to see me.”

“What are you doing here, Shari? We agreed when I left you in Chicago, I’d send for you when I reached France. And why can’t Jamie answer his phone?”

“We both know you didn’t intend to send for me once you had my million dollars. You really should have picked your ‘best friend’ more carefully and not been so trusting about my money.

“When Jamie demanded the money and I realized what the real plan was, I convinced him that he’d have more fun with me and the money, rather than killing me like you ordered.

“After a bottle of your favorite scotch, I was able to get the gun away from him but instead of letting me go he tried to stop me so . . .”

She shrugged and gave Richter a hard smile.

“Look, you have it all wrong. I was going to send for you. Jamie must have gotten greedy and lied to you. We can go together this afternoon. My clothes are in the trunk, and we can buy you a new wardrobe. But we need the money. Where is it?”

“Right here in my tote bag. And I do plan on taking that cruise ship this afternoon. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to join me.”

Richter leaned into the trunk lid as Shari smiled again.

“There’s no gun there. I have it right here. I searched the trunk and then worked on its ventilation system for three hours before UPS picked it and me up. It was a little tight, but I managed.”

She pulled the gun and pointed it at Richter.

“You won’t shoot me. It’ll make too much noise.”

“I don’t have to shoot you. You’re wobbling and sweating. Don’t you feel well? I’m sure you don’t because that scotch you drank was laced with Fentanyl. By my calculations you should . . .

She watched as he pitched forward into the trunk.

“. . . Be near death right now.”

She removed the room key from his pocket and rearranged the body, tucking him inside the trunk and checking his pulse until it was no more.

She locked the trunk, placed the Macallan and champagne bottles and glasses in her tote bag and wiped down all the surfaces she had touched.

The front desk manager answered the call from Room 405 with a “maid” saying a note left by the guest said he had checked out on the TV screen system and asked that the trunk be taken downstairs for pick up.

The Bell Man returned to suite 405, started to reach for his “dead key” master, found the door ajar and the instructions on top of the trunk. He wrestled the trunk back onto the luggage cart, closed the door and headed to the elevator.   

As the elevator door closed, Shari emerged from the suite. She tried the card she had taken from Richter. It didn’t work, meaning the guest had checked out. Riding the glassed-front elevator down, she watched the trunk disappearing out the front doors.

  She smiled at the desk manager as she passed the counter. At the taxi area, she watched the Bell Man help the UPS driver with the steamer trunk.

“Where you taking this old, heavy trunk?”

“I’m delivering it to the airport cargo area. Says here it is going to Bolivia in about two hours.”

“No one going with it?

“Not part of my job. I need to get going and thanks for the help.”

Shari stopped the Bell Man as he headed inside.

“Can I help you, Miss?”

“I found this room key in front of the main doors.”

 “Probably from a room already vacated. I’ll give it to the front desk manager. He’ll check it out and put it in the box to be reprogrammed. You going someplace special?”

“Yes, I’m taking a cruise. Thanks for taking care of that key card.”

“Not a problem. We get a lot of ‘dead keys.’”

She smiled and nodded as she got in the taxi.

“I bet you do!”

Pamela Ebel has been published in Shotgun Honey, The BOULD AWARDS 2020 Anthology, as well other venues. Her poetry has appeared in the Delta Poetry Review. A native of California, she now concentrates on tales from her original home state and tales from the highways of the South. She also knows, like the Ancient Greeks and the Irish, that as a southern writer you can’t outrun your blood.

She has turned to writing full time as of 2020, obviously either perfect or bizarre timing, and this will be her fifth career. She lives in Metairie, Louisiana, with her husband and two cats.




Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She's an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications © 2025