Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense: A Superior Shores Anthology, #5

Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers

22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense

Edited by

Judy Penz Sheluk

Contents

Featuring

Introduction

Charlie Kondek

Secretly Keith

Susan Daly

A Talent for Fame

Pam Barnsley

The Underground

Rand Gaynor

Julia’s Garage

Amanda Capper

A Time to Tell

Linda Bennett

The Artist

donalee Moulton

Maladaptives Anonymous

Edward Lodi

Watch Your Step

Julie Hastrup

Dinner at Angelo’s

KM Rockwood

Evening Escapade

Joseph S. Walker

Quincy and Crow

Bethany Maines

Front Desk Staff

Debra Bliss Saenger

Checking Out at the Live Free or Die Motel

Clark Boyd

Hopscotch & Pop Tart

James Patrick Focarile

A Promise to Pete

Jim McDonald

Ticket Out

Peggy Rothschild

Ghost Wolves

Beth Irish

Friendship Never Dies

Gina X. Grant

Secrets Unleashed

Michael Penncavage

Try Hard

C.W. Blackwell

Making Up for Lost Time

Judy Penz Sheluk

A Foolproof Plan

The Lineup

Repeat Offenders

Publisher’s Note

More Superior Shores Anthologies

Featuring

Pam Barnsley

Linda Bennett

Clark Boyd

C.W. Blackwell

Amanda Capper

Susan Daly

James Patrick Focarile

Rand Gaynor

Gina X. Grant

Julie Hastrup

Beth Irish

Charlie Kondek

Edward Lodi

Bethany Maines

Jim McDonald

donalee Moulton

Michael Penncavage

Judy Penz Sheluk

KM Rockwood

Peggy Rothschild

Debra Bliss Saenger

Joseph S. Walker

Praise for Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers

Editor Judy Penz Sheluk has assembled a stellar group of crime fiction authors for this extraordinary collection. Storytelling at its best! — David Bart, short-story specialist, contributor to the Anthony Award-winning Mystery Writers of America anthology Crime Hits Home

An engrossing exploration of how far people will go to realize their dreams. A must read!—Debra H. Goldstein, award-winning author

There’s not a clunker in the bunch.—Joan Leotta, multi-nominated author and storyteller

Whether it’s a down-and-out hopeful seeking a happy ending or an unscrupulous schemer playing the system, the twists and turns in these stories keep the reader guessing.—Lesley A. Diehl, author of the Maddie Sparks Mysteries

"From thieves in a seedy Detroit bar to a nasty murder in Santa Cruz, Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers reflects the creative knack of editor Judy Penz Sheluk. A fascinating anthology."—Wil A. Emerson, multi-published Derringer nominee

Praise for the Superior Shores Anthologies

The Best Laid Plans: 21 Stories of Mystery & Suspense

Crime doesn’t pay, especially for criminals who think they’ve found a loophole… —Long and Short Reviews

Heartbreaks & Half-truths: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense

A memorable collection. Yes, there’s heartbreak, but those half-truths will get you every time.—Crime Fiction Lover

Moonlight & Misadventure: 20 Stories of Mystery & Suspense

Dialog snaps, characters carom, and plots surprise.—James Blakey, Derringer award-winning author

Larceny & Last Chances: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense

Sharply written, tightly plotted, and thoughtfully curated—Kathleen Marple (Nikki Knight), Derringer and Black Orchid Novella Award Finalist

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events described herein are products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense

Compilation Copyright © 2025 Judy Penz Sheluk

Story Copyrights © 2025 by Individual Authors:

Pam Barnsley: The Underground

Linda Bennett: The Artist

Clark Boyd: Hopscotch and Pop Tart

C.W. Blackwell: Making Up for Lost Time

*Amanda Capper: A Time to Tell

Susan Daly: A Talent for Fame

James Patrick Focarile: A Promise to Pete

Rand Gaynor: Julia’s Garage

Gina X. Grant: Secrets Unleashed

Julie Hastrup: Dinner at Angelo’s

Beth Irish: Friendship Never Dies

Charlie Kondek: Secretly Keith

Edward Lodi: Watch Your Step

Bethany Maines: Front Desk Staff

Jim McDonald: Ticket Out

donalee Moulton: Maladaptives Anonymous

Michael Penncavage: Try Hard

Judy Penz Sheluk: A Foolproof Plan

KM Rockwood: Evening Escapade

Peggy Rothschild: Ghost Wolves

Debra Bliss Saenger: Checking Out at the Live Free or Die Motel

Joseph S. Walker: Quincy and Crow

* A Time to Tell originally appeared in The Algomian: Winter 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Collection compiled by Judy Penz Sheluk www.judypenzsheluk.com

All stories, with the exception of A Foolproof Plan, edited by Judy Penz Sheluk

A Foolproof Plan edited by Ti Locke and Debra Bliss Saenger

Editorial assistance by Amanda Capper, Andrea Adair-Tippins, and Debra Bliss Saenger

Cover Design by Hunter Martin

Published by Superior Shores Press

ISBN Trade Paperback: 978-1-989495-77-3

ISBN E-book: 978-1-989495-78-0

First Edition: June 2025

But I tried, didn’t I? Goddamnit, at least I did that.—

R.P. McMurphy, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Introduction

Two things influenced the theme of this anthology. The first was rewatching, for the umpteenth time, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. If you’ve never seen it (and you must), Jack Nicholson plays (to perfection) Randle Patrick (R.P.) McMurphy, a convicted criminal who pleads insanity as a means of avoiding manual labor while in prison. Like most schemes, his insanity defense sounds good on the surface, but McMurphy soon learns that the implacably manipulative Nurse Ratched (brilliantly portrayed by Louise Fletcher) rules the psychiatric ward with intimidation and an iron fist.

It’s quickly apparent that McMurphy, despite his best efforts, is in a battle of wits that he will never win, no matter how much his fellow patients (and audience) want him to succeed. But here’s the thing—he never stops trying. McMurphy, you see, is not just a schemer, he’s the ultimate daydream believer. And we root for him because of it.

I was still thinking about Cuckoo’s Nest when ‘Daydream Believer,’ released by The Monkees in 1967, and covered by countless bands since, came on my local oldies radio station. That’s when it popped into my head. What about Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers? I jotted it down (a dull pencil being sharper than the sharpest mind) and went off to walk the dog.

The idea may never have gone beyond that, had not my husband Mike, used to finding (and ignoring) my random scribblings, said, That sounds like a great theme.

Turned out the short story author community agreed with him, and submissions, capped at seventy-five, closed in under a month. Of those, twenty were selected in a process that included multiple readings on my part, followed by detailed feedback on the long-listed candidates from Andrea Adair-Tippins and Amanda Capper. My appreciation for the efforts of these two individuals, and their belief in me, cannot be overstated.

I was well into the editing process (and still fine-tuning my own story) when The Algomian, the magazine of Algoma University, was released. I had a vested interest in it, my own craft article on writing for magazines having made the cut, but upon reading Amanda Capper’s ‘A Time to Tell,’ I knew it was a story that deserved a wider audience. For that reason, and with her permission, I have included it in this anthology of otherwise previously unpublished stories.

A huge debt of gratitude also goes to the talented authors in this collection, with a special nod to Debra Bliss Saenger, who volunteered her editing and English teaching skills to give the stories a final review.

Last, but not least, my sincere thanks to you, the reader. I couldn’t do it without you. And I wouldn’t want to.

Judy Penz Sheluk

Author/Editor/Publisher

Daydream Believer

June 2025

Charlie Kondek

Charlie Kondek is a marketing professional and short story writer from metro Detroit. His work previously appeared in the Superior Shores anthology Larceny & Last Chances, and in such publications as Black Cat Weekly, Dark Yonder, Hoosier Noir, and elsewhere. He is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society.

Find him at www.CharlieKondekWrites.com.

Secretly Keith

Charlie Kondek

B ig John Warmer was not a big man, unless you counted his stomach, a characteristic he not only failed to conceal but to which he drew attention by wearing t-shirts a size too small. Equally mismanaged was his hair, bald except for the ring below his crown, which he kept long in a so-called skullet. A ridiculous dark mustache complemented this and, with Big John’s propensity for wearing Levis and cowboy boots, sleeveless flannel shirts and trucker hats, he looked like he’d stepped right out of The Dukes of Hazzard . Warner? someone would ask, meeting him for the first time. Your name’s Big John Warner?

Warmer, he would correct. As in, ‘you’re getting warmer.’ He was the local bookie at Fleet’s, a working man’s bar in Westland.

Big John was not mobbed up but operated independently, albeit with the tacit permission of the bar’s owner, Tim Fleet. One had to assume he kicked a percentage of his book to Tim also, a quiet, amiable, but serious and enterprising man that often emerged from his office to stand behind the bar and chat with customers. Still, as small as Big John’s operation was, he probably took in a few thousand dollars a month from the bar’s regulars and those in its wider orbit betting on professional, college, and even some high school games. Nick Papke, setting up his guitar and amplifier on Fleet’s small stage that Friday, tried to remember when he and Rex first got the notion to rob Big John, or if it was simply another in the long chain of questionable ideas and worse decisions that comprised his life’s sequences.

Nick, balding, bearded, eyes perpetually offended, had little to show for his forty-eight years on earth. Somehow he’d never been able to run the course laid out for him by his middle-class parents, the schools, the internships. Nor had he ever made it in a trade—that would have required some kind of initiative. And so he was stuck in a dead-end manufacturing job paying rent to his roommate and best friend Rex Haag, who owned a tiny house in Garden City. Nick was divorced. He had a daughter that wanted little to do with him. He had hoped when she turned twenty-one that she’d turn up at Fleet’s to hear him play, but she never did, despite his invitations. Which was a shame, because playing guitar and singing in a rinky-dink cover band was all he was really good at. Tim Fleet let Nick and the band play classic rock and country tunes on Friday nights, for an amount that almost covered their tab.

The thing about robbing Big John was, they thought they could get away with it without him ever knowing it was them. See, John, like many of his customers, could barely work his mobile phone much less a banking app, so he only ever took bets in cash. And especially on a heavy betting weekend like this one, heading into the NFL playoffs and college bowl games, that was a lot of money on hand. Whenever Big John accepted a large amount, or if he had to pay some out, he’d go out to his car, always backed into the same corner of Fleet’s lot with its rear to a fence, visible under the lights. Naturally, Big John had a ridiculous car, a long, champagne-colored 2006 Lincoln Town Car Classic Edition. When he needed to deal with money, he’d get behind it and open the enormous trunk and do something no one was allowed to see.

Even if somebody goes out there with him, Rex explained to Nick on one of those nights they were dreaming up the job, like to get a pay out? John will make him stand in front of the car. He’ll say something like, ‘Please don’t come behind the vehicle.’ And he’ll look around and make sure no one’s watching, and open that big trunk, and fiddle around and come out with the cash. So, what do you think he’s got back there? In the trunk of that big old boat?

A safe, Nick concluded.

That’s what I think, too. And a couple guns, I bet, in case he ever gets jumped. I don’t think he’s just keeping his cash in a paper bag.

Among themselves, they referred to Big John’s car as his bank. Thus, steal the car, rob the bank. They never, Nick reckoned, would have robbed Big John himself. Big John, Budweiser in hand, clowning, circulating the bar and the pool tables in a too-tight t-shirt that read FREE MUSTACHE RIDES and belting out Bob Seger tunes, was their friend. He was everyone’s friend. But his car? That was like finding money in the street.

And what was a friend, anyway, in a place like Fleet’s, and to people like Nick and Rex?

The other guys in the band were starting to join Nick on stage. Bob, the drummer, was an accountant. Ian, the bassist, was a plant rat like Nick. Nick was starting to get nervous because he didn’t see Dave Schweitzer, who could play rhythm guitar, keyboards, and sing. Dave was in a couple other bands and didn’t show up to rehearse or play with Nick’s half the time. But tonight of all nights, they needed him.

That’s because, as silly as it sounded, the robbery depended on the band’s performance of Sweet Home Alabama. It was Big John’s favorite song, one that always got him singing along, especially if, as Nick usually did, he changed the chorus to Sweet Home Ypsilanti, which is where John was from. Rex, a natural and incessant mastermind, worked for Wayne County public works and always had his hand in a half dozen plots. It was no problem for him to hire a car thief that could boost the bank and drive it off the lot. Rex also had a friend out in Waterford named Coop that ran a small repair and welding shop out of his pole barn where, once they got the car there, the safe in the trunk, if it existed, could be cut open with an acetylene torch. But at Fleet’s, there were a couple cameras aimed at the parking lot, their monitors hanging behind the bar for everyone to see, and Big John used these rather carefully amidst his glad-handing and carousing to keep an eye on his car. If their plan was going to work, Big John needed to be distracted for the few minutes it would take the car thief to do his part.

Hey, Bob said, settling behind the drums. Got a name for the band. Nicky Paprika and the Deviled Eggs.

This was a running joke; the band had never had a name. Nick glanced at his mobile phone to see that Dave had still not texted him back while Ian said, Bob, that’s awful. Dammit, they really needed Dave to play Sweet Home Alabama, because Dave could play the keyboards and join in on the choruses while Nick handled the main guitar riff part and sang lead. Tonight, of all nights, he lamented again. Nick glanced at Rex, pig nose, carp mouth, alligator teeth, sitting with some guys at a table near the back where he could watch everything in the bar, and at the clock with the Schlitz logo on it. Nine o’clock. If they were going to keep to their timetable, they had to go on.

Hell with it, Nick muttered, slipping the guitar strap over his shoulder and turning to his band mates. "All right, boys, Just What I Needed one, two, three, four…" Ian throbbed out the notes opening the Cars’ song while Nick crunched the guitar parts and Bob started tapping the drums.

Whenever he performed, there was always a moment when Nick wasn’t sure if he was going to sing competently or well. Maybe it was the urgency or the fear, the abundant nervousness, but tonight when he opened his mouth to sing about how maybe his girlfriend, her perfume and ribbons, was just what he needed, the voice that poured out was good. And as he swerved into the chorus with Ian singing counter, he thought that not only did he sound good, but the band was clicking tonight. The audience, scattered among a dozen tables and the bar, going about their business of chatting and joking and drinking, seemed to feel it, too, because their heads turned toward the band and nodded in time as their toes started tapping or their fingers started drumming. Big John, among them, let out an appreciative yee-haw, and glanced at the monitors behind the bar.

It would have sounded better with Dave’s keyboard, but by the time they finished the number, they knew they were in the zone. Nick could see Rex smiling and nodding appreciatively. Nick leaned into the microphone and called, What’s up, Fleet’s? Welcome to Friday night.

Their cheers let the band know they had them. Somebody yelled out, Hey what’s the band called this time?

Laughter among the regulars and the curious. What’d we say, Bob? Nick asked into the mic. Nicky Paprika and the Deviled Eggs? That got a laugh. Anyway, thanks for letting us play. We hope you all have a good time. He and the band launched into .38 Special’s Caught Up in You, a song which would have sounded even better with Dave’s extra guitar but still very much on point and Nick’s voice never finer.

Was there anything better, Nick wondered, in some part of his brain not occupied by performing, than a laid-back bar in metro Detroit on a Friday night? Happy, friendly people with a few drinks in them celebrating the end of the working week, ignoring the garbage weather or the possibility of overtime, getting ready for some football and banging through the classic rock catalogue? Nobody walking in off the street for the first time would have listened to the band and thought, that’s them, that’s the next Led Zeppelin, sign them at once. But they couldn’t deny that at that time, in that place, this band was a perfect fit for the space it occupied, and it all seemed to depend on the front man.

Beneath all the layers of his life’s crap, Nick had this fantasy. He was a huge Keith Richards fan, loved Keith for his ability to put together a simple, punchy riff and bring a gritty, sleazy humor to a song. But if the Stones had not taken off the way they did, Keef would have been a guy just like Nick. Just a blue-collar nobody playing the local watering hole on Friday nights. In his fantasy, Nick was secretly Keith Richards, an alternative timeline version of Keith if he’d been born in Detroit and forced to live undiscovered. Maybe, Nick considered when he indulged in this daydream, that’s why he had never been able to make anything in his life work. Because he’d been meant for other things, a troubadour’s life on fortune’s road, a Keith-shaped peg in a Nick-shaped hole.

Which brought him back to his present situation. The Schlitz clock said it was time to make their play. Face it, Dave wasn’t coming. And then Secretly Keith had an inspiration. He played the opening notes of Sweet Home Alabama, which prompted raucous cat calls from the crowd, but then stopped. Hey, Fleet’s, he said into the mic. I got a problem.

Somebody yelled, What’s the problem?

"Well, it’s a tradition here at Fleet’s to play Sweet Home Alabama. Except here we call it Sweet Home Ypsilanti in honor of our good buddy, Big John Warmer." Screeches and whoops from the audience. Big John removed his hat and waved it in circles over his bald head.

Only problem is, Nick continued, our other guitarist and keyboardist didn’t show up. Now we can probably bang it out but it ain’t gonna sound as good as it normally does unless… unless we get some help. He played those opening notes again as he asked, So why don’t we ask Big John his self to come up here and sing it? Tell us about where he’s from. Come on, John, whattaya say?

Nick kept up the riff, and Ian’s bass joined in, as Big John waved his hands and shook his head no. But the enthusiasm of the crowd, many hands slapping John’s back and many voices urging, Come on, John, get up there propelled him to the stage.

Ladies and gentlemen, Nick crowed, put your hands together and give a warm Fleet’s welcome to Fleet’s own—Big John Warmer!

The drums joined in. Nick kept playing but moved over to Ian’s mic. Big John, protesting, nonetheless took the mic, said, I’m gonna get you guys for this, and then sang about going home to see his kin. He was mostly off key and forgot a few words, but Nick and Ian joined in on the chorus, and the place went nuts. Tim Fleet came out from his office to stand behind the bar with folded arms and grin. By the time they got to the final bridge, everyone was in a frenzy, and on the last note, they exploded. Everyone was cheering and ordering more drinks and clapping Big John on the shoulder.

Nick risked a glance at the monitors behind the bar. Big John’s bank was gone.

It was after midnight. It was cold in Coop’s unheated pole barn, even with the acetylene torch flaring, and everyone except Coop, in thermal coveralls, wore their coats and hats. Nick took off his protective goggles to step away from where Coop was working and gaze out the open doorway, onto Coop’s property, unlit. The house and garage were set far back from the road, and Nick could see large puddles of frozen water on the long stretch of grass between where he stood and the surrounding tree line, dark against a winter night’s sky.

Nick hadn’t gotten a good look at