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.
Flexing her fingers encased in leather gardening gloves, Betty Birdsall leaned back and admired her freshly-weeded rock garden. Now that it was mid-June, the fuchsia creeping phlox had faded, but purple rock cress and blue star creeper were in full flower, complementing the pink hydrangeas in bloom against the house.
You’re gone. That’s why I’m out here driving this gosh darn Bobcat in this gosh darn wind to dig a gosh darn trench in this gosh darn field. The wind rises like a breath and works its way under the Bobcat, under my skirt. I hunch over the controls, press my skirt between my legs, and clamp them shut. Digging a trench is man’s work. Women are supposed to be, “discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands.”
The doorbell rang just as I set my phone alarm for my midday Tylenol. Stormy hurled herself onto the couch, barking at the front window. With hands braced against the furniture along my path, I hobbled to the door. My neighbor, Sheila Wright, stood on the porch holding a narrow cardboard box. A larger package lay on the metal table next to her.
