Michael had drawn up his suspect list, but he knew that list was not going to be exhaustive.
He would be at the top, the spouse always was, and for extra emphasis, he wrote it in capitals.
Lady Adria would be there, her best friend, it would be easy to slip her the poison, but why?
The General, there was a piece of work, and probably his number one candidate, but again, motive?
Genevieve? He didn’t like her, and the feeling was mutual. The fact Agatha was about to literally pull the rug out from under her was reason enough, but she hadn’t been there long.
The Office PA – She had the means but not the motive, but then, stranger things had happened with people least likely to …
The other PA – Again plenty of opportunity, but why?
All six members of the charity staff. It could be one of them, but it was unlikely. Again opportunity, but no motive.
The board members. No!
Her father. Well, his money was on the old man. She had surpassed him in popularity and in achieving accolades for her work whereas he was constantly beating off the reporters accusing him of all manner of infractions. Motive and means, and one of his businesses dealt in poisons.
The boyfriend who wasn’t. If the boy was as dumb as he tried to make people believe, then maybe, but Agatha had picked him for a reason, and it wasn’t longevity. He had no reason to want her dead, considering he was making the most of her free accommodation.
The children, if only for a moment. They hated her, but that was normal. Neither would want to see her dead. It was a little odd they were not more upset though.
Monte, though only as guilt by association. Definitely no.
The IT expert. She was an enigma wrapped up in a puzzle. She had information and wasn’t going to share it. Yet.
…
There had to be more, people she associated with, friends, and or enemies. The police would add everyone and then remove them one by one.
It was a passing thought, but Michael knew if he could use field interrogation techniques, he could shorten that list dramatically, and very quickly. Perhaps he still might, if the opportunity arose, depending on the policeman assigned to the case and whether he was willing to share.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
It’s raining. There should be no surprise there. And cold. It’s late December and well into winter.
Perhaps not as cold as it could be, somewhere between three and four degrees.
We are staying at the Hilton Metrotown, at Burnaby. Metrotown is also the largest shopping mall in British Columbia. I agree that it is large and found it a great way to get some exercise after being in and off planes for the previous 24 hours.
The first discovery for the day was a trolley bus, something that I thought didn’t exist anymore.
The second was to discover so many global brands, but how different the products are to what we can get back in Australia. This is particularly so for cars where we discover that GM-based vehicles and Mazdas are so much better than what is available for us.
The third was to discover it seems we are almost in the heart of Chinatown, where going out an exit on the second floor takes you to a Chinese food court, with all manner of food types, and, it seems, tea bars. It also explained why, in one supermarket we went in, signs were in both Chinese and English.
Being still tired from the travel, we don’t venture further than the mall where we have lunch, for me, the Canadian version of KFC, which seems to defeat the purpose of trying local food. It seems most of the food that I can see in the food shops does not seem that appetizing.
Later we go out and find a Boston Pizza with a sports bar where we indulge in a 21 ounce Molton on tap, and a lime mojito, while watching the ice hockey on the big and surrounding small screens. The ice hockey is some world junior championship (but mostly north hemisphere hockey playing nations) and seems as ferocious as the NHL.
But it does raise a question, why isn’t there a female NHL? I guess this wasn’t the time to canvass opinions in the bar.
Something else we discover is that alcohol is relatively cheap, and get a case of Molten Canadian ale, Bacardi Black label, and maple flavored whiskey, for about a third of what it would cost at home. Of course, it must be cheaper than firewood in keeping Canadians warm in the dead of winter.
We didn’t try the pizza, which kind of defeated the purpose of going there.
Meanwhile back at the room, we find the local ice hockey channel, and then to make sure we get to see the Maple Leafs, plug in the computer so that we can test it. Good to go.
That’s tomorrow, tonight we watching the Vancouver Canucks.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
What’s it like turning around and not finding your shadow lurking behind you, watching every move.
Down at the stationhouse (it sounds just like what is said on a TV show called Murdoch Mysteries) he finally gets the message across that he’s not the infamous Jacob.
He also suddenly realises that until his doppelganger is brought to justice, this is going to be a new sort of normal for him.
The thing is, how did an exact copy of him walk the earth and no one seem to notice. He was a criminal before, but perhaps he hadn’t killed anyone before. It’s an interesting question.
Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about the connection between Jack and Jacob, and it seems to me the best, and possibly only explanation, is that his mother’s sister, the one that was supposedly killed in a native attack in Africa, lived on, came back to England, found his mother (her sister) and took the first man she ever loved (and had a child with) away from her, and basically did the same thing.
What are the odds, though, that the same man fathers two identical children, one each from identical twins. Talk about a twist in the tale!
The burning question should be, why didn’t his mother tell him about her twin sister?
It also adds some context to Jack’s sighting of what he thought was his mother and the fact he was bothered about the man with her. Every right to, the man was Jacob.
And his memory is telling him that his aunt was the one who shot him, not the police. It might need to be refined a little more, but the clues are there.
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three letter word.
Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.
Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.
It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar. The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz
Bar, as in the legal variety
There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.
Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low. When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.
Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here. Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something. This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.
Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia. God help you if it is all three.
There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.
It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.
Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now. What’s your favorite?
And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.
Confused? Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.
It wasn’t long after Janine had died that I was sent out of the room while the hospital staff did whatever they did after a patient died. I was by the nursing station, and two were talking.
“You wouldn’t believe it. just as one patient died, the other came out of her coma. The exact second. It had to be divine intervention or something.”
I didn’t ask, but I could guess. I walked up the passage to Margaret’s room and looked in the door. She was awake. Well, her eyes were open, and she didn’t look like she was in a coma, but I wasn’t a doctor.
But I had to wonder if there was a connection between the two events.
Those last few days with Janine were impossible. I don’t know if she realised the pain she caused me in making those baseless accusations or not, and I could only put it down to the medications the doctors had her on.
She was certainly not her usual self.
Something that did come out of it, not that she had intended it, or that I had consciously thought about it until now, was what would have happened to Margaret if she had not recovered.
I’d noticed that there was no next of kin on her paperwork, which meant that she might have died and just been cremated or just would have disappeared.
No one deserved that fate.
It was only a fleeting thought because the moment the hospital staff had completed their work, the administrator arrived and wanted to know what I was going to do. Whilst sympathetic to my loss, they still had a hospital to run and a bed to free up for the next patient.
That meant for the next few days I was tied up with arranging funerals and organising the three children who had been on a rotating cycle of being with her at the hospital, and then altogether at the funeral, a feat only manageable at Christmas.
They stayed just long enough to see if there was anything to inherit and when they realised it was all passed to me, asked me if I would be OK, each said they were willing to stay if I needed them but were on the next plane out when I said I didn’t.
Perhaps I would see them again at Christmas.
I know the day after the last child left, I was sitting alone in the dining room with a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper wondering what I was going to do without her.
Someone had suggested I should pack up all her things and donate them to a charity. The girls had taken what they thought she would want them to have, and suggested I hire someone to do it. They couldn’t; the memory of her passing was too raw. It was for me too, but then I had a whole house filled with reminders and memories.
That’s when I had to get out of there, if only for a few days, and it was where, as if driven by an unseen force, I ended up back at the hospital, and after an hour of wanting to but not wanting to I found myself knocking on Margaret’s door.
I didn’t know if she was well enough or had even recovered enough to have visitors.
She turned her head, saw me, and smiled. “James, come in. What a pleasant surprise. Oh, and I’m sorry for your loss. I was devastated when I heard that Janine had passed. How are you?”
It was probably more than she should be saying. She looked tired if not very sad.
“I don’t know how to feel or what I should do. I couldn’t stay at home, and I know it sounds stupid, I didn’t have anywhere else to go?”
“That’s not stupid at all. You’ve just suffered a terrible loss, and it can be very disorientating. Come and sit.”
I went over to collect the chair and sat where she could see me without having to move too much.
“You don’t have to say anything. Perhaps you simply take the time to reflect on what you had and what you still have. That will never go away, not as long as she remains in your heart.”
Had I expected those words? No. Perhaps coming from someone else, they may have sounded hollow, but I got the impression she meant every word. Perhaps having suffered a hugely calamitous point in her own life, she had gained an insight into how precious life was, and it was not meant to be frittered away or ended until it was the time. She certainly sounded different to the last time we met.
“I was told that I woke up the exact moment Janine died. I doubt there was a significance that it was just a coincidence. I certainly never expected to come back, and no, what I did was not because of something I did or said.”
Those were the words that Janine had used, almost to the letter. it had crossed my mind, but what I had said, someone needed to, and if it could not come from what was once a friend, then she was beyond help. “Janine seemed to think that I was responsible.”
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked when I didn’t say anything. There was no reproach in her tone, just curiosity.
“Not really. I thought I would come and see how you were. Perhaps it was the notion that I could lose two people I cared about was worrying me. You know me well enough to know that I speak my mind when I’m with friends, and I always wanted to believe you were one. I was hurt when you chose William, but it was not unexpected. You were raised with certain expectations, and I could never fulfil those, for your parents, or you.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I know what I did, and I’m not proud of it, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you. But I can’t blame my parents and their expectations, just my stupidity in not realising that I should have chosen love. Because of that, I have the rest of my life to pay penance. I do hope, though, despite everything, that we might still be friends. God knows I don’t deserve it, but I promise I will never hurt you again.”
That thought, a leopard never changed its spots came into my mind, but then, most leopards don’t go through near-death experiences. I shook my head, though I couldn’t say why. “This is too soon,” I said. “I feel sad, and I feel angry, and I feel cheated. It’s not your fault.” I stood. “Perhaps another time.”
Why was I there? What on earth had made me think going to see Margaret for any reason was going to assuage the pain I was feeling? And it was pain, far stronger than I imagined it would be. An onlooker would say I was a mess, and they would be right. Janine, if she knew what was happening, would be disappointed. I knew she would want me to be strong for the children’s sake, and I had been.
But in those hours, days after they had returned home and I was alone, that was when it came home and hit me. I was alone. I had no one to talk to, no one to do the things we did together, no one to just be there. it might be said that I took her for granted, but I think over time, you both do that to a certain degree. You do stuff, you argue, there a good moments and bad moments, but that was what a relationship was, and you look forward to being together for the rest of your days.
When that is cut short, when one or the other dies, there’s an empty spot that can’t be filled. And it was the reason why, at that moment in time, I couldn’t function. It was why, a week later, after several phone calls from my eldest son, David, not being answered, the police came to see if everything was ok, and I was found unconscious on the floor.
I woke up in the hospital, and an odd sensation went through me moments before I opened my eyes, an image of someone waving to me as they disappeared into a bright light. Had I just experienced my own near-death experience, had I just spent some time in heaven’s waiting room, where Janine had told me in no uncertain terms that I had to pull myself together?
I certainly felt like I used to after she told me off.
“Thank God.”
I turned to see David; concern written all over his face.
“I thought we all thought we’d lost you too. why didn’t you simply ask one of us to stay with you?”
“You have your own lives to live.”
‘You are a part of those lives, and we want, no, need, you to be in them for as long as possible. I should have realised. Mum said you’d be lost without her, but we thought she was joking. You’ve always been so solid in the face of every catastrophe.”
“Perhaps I’m the one who should be sorry to cause you trouble.”
“You are no trouble. And I’m here for as long as it takes.”
…
Time heals all wounds. Well, most of them anyway.
With life again in the house, people coming and going, the sounds of children running around and being nuisances as only children could, a new life was created, a new normal. Janine was not gone. There were photos of her everywhere, things that were hers everywhere, and it was like she was still there.
A year passed, the anniversary of her death, and the whole that had been created by her departure was not as large as it had been, and the subject of whether or not I would ever find someone else, not to replace Janine, but to be a companion, a friend, someone who might make life a little less lonely was actually discussed at the table.
I thought it was too soon. They thought it was time I considered it. After all, they knew that their mother would be happy for me if I found someone who could be, as David put it, a special friend.
I was sitting at what might have been called my favourite spot at the Golden Bell Cafe, overlooking the town’s botanical gardens.
It was a time of reflection, the gardens were the place where I’d proposed to Janine, and she had accepted, and it subsequently became a place we made time to be together.
When I’d finished the coffee and cake, I would take a walk there, the excuse being I had to walk off the calories.
It was also an excellent spot to see comings and goings, and being the small town it was, I knew most of those going by. Usually, it was the same people, but this morning there was a new face.
And to be honest, I knew I was going to see her again, and the thought of it did not upset me. It might have once, but I was in a better place now than I was.
This was not a coincidental meeting. I had long suspected David had discovered that Margaret had been an old girlfriend and knowing him he would have checked her out and had thought if I saw someone familiar from the past, it might be beneficial
It had his sticky fingers all over the plot. David always meant well, especially when trying to help his siblings, sometimes with hilarious results, and they were used to his interceding.
When our eyes met, she smiled. She, too, had benefited from time passing and had almost become her old self again, at least physically.
When she reached the cafe, she joined me at the table.
“It is nice to see you again, Margaret.”
“And I you, but I have to be honest with you.”
“David came to see you and ask if you’d try and brighten up an old fossil like me?”
“He didn’t call you an old fossil, but I believe he believed he had the best of intentions, but not the history.”
“No. But he means well. And if you want me to be honest, I’m glad to see you. Life is too short for both of us to hold onto the past. Whatever happened then did for a reason, and probably with the intention that it might be possible to have a second chance later on. Maybe this is our later on. I know Janine would be upset with me if she knew how sad I’ve been since she passed, and perhaps at some point, she might give me a sign.”
“I don’t deserve a second chance, James. I should not have done what I did. I loved you, you know that.”
“Then perhaps we will take it one step at a time. Today. Coffee, cake, and a walk in the park.”
“One day at a time is fine,” she said, with what looked like teary eyes.
I had no idea what she was expecting, perhaps for me to be my usual bad-tempered self when I saw her, but it didn’t seem right, and enough time had passed before seeing any other women
At my age, it was going to be impossible, which is why Margaret was ideal. I still had feelings for her, probably always did, and just suppressed them while I was with Janine, but now seeing her across the table, those feelings were being given a workout.
I put my hand on hers, and she looked up. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. “Then you pick what you want us to do tomorrow. Where are you staying?”
“The guest house.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll come and get you. I have a big empty house and you can stay with me. There’s a lovely room with your name on it. Now that’s settled…”
I think I knew at that moment, when I’d looked into those teary eyes that whatever we had those many years before had not gone away but just lay dormant, waiting for the chance to re-emerge and take both of us by surprise.
Even so, there was a measured reluctance to go that next step, not until I got a sign from Janine that she was happy for me.
And when I got to a point where I thought it would never happen, it did.
We went to the cafe and the usual walk. We talked about the usual things and what we were going to do, but I sensed she was getting frustrated that I was still hesitant.
It had been over a year since Janine had passed, and everyone had thought enough time had passed that I had a perfect opportunity to be happy again.
We got home and she went upstairs to her room. We were not sharing the room or the bed, not yet, and that might have added to the frustration because there was no reason not to.
I noticed a letter on the sideboard near the front door and picked it up. It was addressed to me in Janine’s writing.
A letter from the grave.
I held it with a shaking hand. All I could think of was that it would be advice, or just one last word, her penchant for always having the last word.
I opened the envelope and there were several sheets, handwritten. It was dated after we had that argument when I dropped on to see Margaret when she was in a coma in the hospital.
It was a rather odd time to write a letter to be delivered a year after her death.
…
Dear James
This might feel a little creepy, and I’m guessing that thought has passed through your mind.
It is not. It’s an apology because I admonished you for no reason other than my jealousy running wild, but perhaps underlying that, it was my insecurity.
I had in the beginning of our relationship wondered if it was going to last, that the moment Margaret came to her senses and saw what she had lost, she would come back and take you away from me.
It was silly, but I could not believe my fortune when she left. Of course, you were very sad but I had no doubt that I could make you happy, happier than you would have been with her.
The truth is, we were meant to be together. All I had to do was put away those fears that I might lose you one day and just get on with it. I can’t say I’m not glad she didn’t come back.
Then, when she did, those fears rose again. When you went to see her, I wanted to stop you, but doing so may have had the opposite effect. I was glad to learn whatever you may have felt for her, that you were not sorry for her or her situation, nor did you want to pick up where you left off.
I guess it was the only part of you I never understood, and I never asked because it might stir up demons that didn’t need to be woken.
I went to see her after you did, and it was spooky to come face to face with your worst fears. She had hardly aged, whereas the rest of us had been worn out by living a hard life.
Sorry, jealousy again.
I told her about us, the highs the lows, everything she would not have experienced, and as far as I could see, didn’t. She was not a mother, she was not a housewife, and she didn’t work crazy jobs to bring in enough money to ensure we could give our children the best life they could have.
As you can imagine, she had no answers.
But as I understand it, she now had no life, and the people she thought she could rely on later in life had abandoned her. Those sorry circumstances led her to where she is now, and for that, I am sorry for her. No one should ever finish up alone and unloved.
So, having duly thought about it, I can see no reason why you should not consider letting her back into your life. She could use a friend, and if nothing else, you would be a very good friend. If it becomes something more, then so be it. You have a lot of love in that heart of yours, James, and it won’t hurt to share some of it with her.
If I know you as I believe I do, you will have thought about it, and think it is too soon, or that it would sully your memory of me. It won’t. You will never forget me. I know you that well, James.
If she did not walk through the door when she did then Jack would have walked away.
From the policewoman’s perspective:
She crossed the street from the corner instead of remaining on the same side of the street as she did every other night. When she reached the other sidewalk, she was about twenty yards from the nearest window of the store.
As she crossed, she got a better view of the three people in the store and noticed the woman, or girl, was acting oddly as if she had something in her hand, and, from time to time looked down beside her.
A yard or two from the window she stopped, took a deep breath, and then moved slowly, getting a better view of the scene with each step.
Then she saw the gun in the girl’s hand, and the two men, the shopkeeper and a customer facing her both with their hands raised.
It was a convenience store robbery in progress.
She reached for her radio, but it wasn’t there. She was off duty. Instead, she withdrew, and called the station on her mobile phone, and reported the robbery. The officer at the end of the phone said a car would be there in five minutes.
In five minutes there could be dead bodies.
She had to do something, and reached into her bag and pulled out a gun. Not her service weapon, but one she carried in case of personal danger.
Guns are dangerous weapons in the hands of professional and amateur alike. You would expect a professional who has trained to use a gun to not have a problem but consider what might happen in exceptional circumstances.
People freeze under pressure. Alternately, some shoot first and ask questions later.
We have an edgy and frightened girl with a loaded gun, one bullet or thirteen in a magazine, it doesn’t matter. It only takes one bullet to kill someone.
Then there’s the trigger pressure, light or heavy, the recoil after the shot and whether it causes the bullet to go into or above the intended target, especially if the person has never used a gun.
The policewoman, with training, will need two hands to take the shot, but in getting into the shop she will need one to open the door, and then be briefly distracted before using that hand to steady the other.
It will take a lifetime, even if it is only a few seconds.
Actions have consequences:
The policewoman crouched below the window shelf line so the girl wouldn’t see her and made it to the door before straightening. She was in dark clothes so the chances were the girl would not see her against the dark street backdrop.
Her hand was on the door handle about to push it inwards when she could feel it being yanked hard from the other side, and the momentum and surprise of it caused her to lose balance and crash into the man who was trying to get out.
What the hell…
A second or two later both were on the floor in a tangled mess, her gun hand caught underneath her, and a glance in the direction of the girl with the gun told her the situation had deteriorated.
The girl had swung the gun around, aimed it at her, and squeezed the trigger twice.
The two bangs in the small room were almost deafening and disorientating.
Behind her, the glass door disintegrated when the bullet hit it.
Neither she nor the man beside her had been hit.
Yet.
She felt a kick in the back and the tickling of glass then broke free as the man she’d run into rolled out of the way.
Quickly on her feet, she saw the girl had gone, and wasted precious seconds getting up off the floor, then out the door to find she had disappeared.
She could hear a siren in the distance. They’d find her.
If the policewoman had not picked that precise moment to enter the shop, maybe the man would have got away.
Maybe.
If he’d been aware of the fact he was allowed to leave.
He was lucky not to be shot.
Yet there were two shots, and we know at least one of them broke the door’s glass panel.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 