Thursday, June 21, 2012


Originally posted at a much earlier date, but I didn't record it. Oops!

Write on Edge asked me to write this week with no restrictions, but to put effort into developing a weakness that I may feel my writing has. This week I chose authenticity. Sometimes, I feel that I write with a flat, unconvincing voice. So, here is my shot at a little authenticity. Also, I thought I would try my hand at a little mystery as well. Feeback is most appreciated! The formatting is being persnickety. Please ignore any weird formatting.
   "The weapon was recovered,” the woman officer said over the phone. She had told me her name, but I had let it evaporate, unable to absorb one more piece of information.
   The officer paused. Papers shuffled, the computer’s keyboard tapped. “ A Colt 1911. Most likely stolen.”
   Most likely,
my brain repeated.
   The gun had been found behind a trash can in a women’s restroom at the Harbor Point Marina. A toddler had found it. Why would Sarah leave it in such an obvious place? And where children could find it? The gun had been emptied leaving the threat minimal, but it didn‘t make sense.
   And the Harbor Point Marina? That is where Eddie and I had our first date. I wondered if Sarah knew, a poetic gesture signaling the end of where it had all began.
   A Friday night, late in the autumn when people were less interested in a mid-western amusement park built on the shores of a man-made lake. That first night had been quiet. The rides were emptied. Eddie joked that he had paid everyone to stay away. He wanted me all to himself, he said as we hovered above the ground in the Ferris wheel. The first clue. But when you are seventeen, in love for the first time, you ignore those warning signal pings.
   “Can you trace it? I returned to the conversation. My active participation was a requirement to avoid suspicion. Although, as the wife of a murdered man I had more than enough motive to kill him. Suspicion would never entirely unwrap itself from me.
   The officer coughed. Her voice was hoarse. The beginnings of a cold. “No serial number. These guns are common. Any pawn shop will have an assortment of these and are unlikely to be of any help.” Again, another pause.
   “Annie, the night Eddie was discovered, the first officers on the scene found something . An unique necklace; strings of black, Tahitian pearls and yellow emeralds. Expensive. Few places sell these. They are easy to track.
    Robert Cavanaugh bought one for his wife, Sarah. Your sister. Robert doesn‘t know where she is. Would your sister have seen your husband that night?”
    I could not answer. Years of experience with on-the-spot lying to cover up and I had nothing. All I knew was that three weeks ago my pawn shop gun disappeared and then Eddie was dead.

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