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Someone is watering my plants.
I first noticed this with the peace lily. I had watered it mid-week. (I remember because book club meets on Wednesday, and it was my turn to host. A wilted lily would have been a greater topic of conversation than Where the Crawdads Sing.)
The wind wasted itself in the night, whistling and whipping round the grim black hulk of Brandt’s house and down the silent, empty, sodden-cindered streets to rattle windows and shake the dark houses of the sleeping village.
The Slobaviakinsky Golf Course and Convention Center was located in a small, undeveloped country called Slobaviakinsky, somewhere north of the 23rd Parallel. The golf course was funded by a United States grant as an entrepreneurial endeavor to improve the lives of the 1,673,489 citizens of Slobaviakinsky. The convention center employed 312 individuals, ranging from groundskeepers to bartenders, chefs, and maids.
In Belladonna’s salon, the soft tinkle of feminine laughter often punctuated the gentle hum of conversations, but rarely were heads suddenly turned by the crash of chairs or the shattering of glass.
When I was small, we’d often stay with my grandmother in Barmouth, on the coast of North Wales. A beautiful part of the world. She was a lovely, fierce old woman with a rich, croaky voice, and I adored her. I was her favorite too. Which is why I have this tale to tell.
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Inspector Beaumont’s voice was cold. “Tell me what in hell happened, Sergeant Dunbar. Every damn thing!”
Bryce Dunbar looked across at his two companions, Constables Meeker and Johnson. The officers shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
“Clint, I don’t know why I let you con us into coming to this, man. We have a contracts exam in the morning, and none of us have studied for it.”
Jeff waited for an answer from Clint as Carson continued to survey the Egyptian Revival Gate to the catacombs created when Westminster Presbyterian Church was built over the graveyard in 1852.
It was to be the perfect murder, so perfect that Amos couldn't help but smile as he set things in motion. He moved up silently behind Craig Robertson, his partner at AC Scientific, wrapped the nylon rope around the man's neck and drew it tight.
Of course Bill was told almost at once. Some details remained murky, but he knew enough to avoid the funeral. Larry would’ve saluted his service for that. Never no sentimentality with him.
