Three tales of murder and mystery from everyone’s favorite dick: With a name like Shell Scott, you can imagine a lot of peculiar things creep up on me—even murder. Especially when there are minor—er, major—distractions that keep me from sleuthing properly . . . or, in some cases, help me to sleuth improperly. There was the steamy Martita, whose sizzling seduction led me to the barrel of her pointed pistol and sent me sprinting from her singing bullets. And of course I can’t forget to mention my Hungarian hurricane Ilona, whose stormy winds swept me so far off the ground only parts of me returned in one piece. It’s no joke that I’m hanging on by thinning threads these days—but it’s cozier than hanging on to delicious Diane’s velvet noose. One frail’s ferocious. Two’s double trouble. And—pardon me if I croak—three’s a Shroud.