Back home, I couldn’t pry this case out of my head, so I cleared my small dinning room table of old cases to make room for today’s findings. Splaying out the copied sketch and a bunch of photographs depicting the areas of the shop. One of interest was the warded lock in the lonely barron basement. I’ve never in my 11 years of police work recieved a case of this magnitude thus I need a more knowleged source to edificate me on this befuddling mess, the next morning I latched onto a mug of fresh stout coffee and headed for my car.
At my long-time expert locksmith friends place, we sat and shot the breeze, then he examined the case with me. Agreeing that this is odd indeed and a skeleton key from that era for that lock is a shot in the dark. Fruitless still and not making any progress forward, I made another trip to Betty’s bakery to hopefully locate the key. When I broached the door I noticed a sign stating she’s out: odd for a monday I noted.
Around back I gained access using a spare key I retrieved from her birdbath classic, inside I swapped into my radar ears and crept through the shop silently expecting her to jump out at me any minute. Instead I made it to the basement with ease, only to discover the chest was open wide and empty.
How? I ponderd, then rewinding the events of yesterday in my head I noticed a discrepency I failed to note before somehow. Betty was wearing a strange rope necklace with what appeared to be the top-half of a key dangling from it.
I frantically ruturned to my friends place, only to find him with an envelope opener lodged into his kind heart and his flat astir.
Damnit I shouted in disgust, now she stoked my fire I noted as I threw on my feddora and headed for the door. At my car again I let her idle for a moment to warm up against this frosty night.
Taking the same route as normal back to my downtown flat, a strange enormous rock hualer tailgated me close, finnally the driver connected with my bumber. Cuasing my poor Impala to heave forward, I sped up with a chirp and honked at the bloke. Again this time the vehicle crossed lanes beside me… wait thats betty — or was betty i’d presume —
She attempted to lodge me into the guardrail beside me, I quickly realized, giving my old Impala the OL lead-foot kicking her into passing gear… still not enough the tango was still hot on my six. Somehow the truck passed me then crossed back into my lane, braking swiftly.
My Impala squeeled as I shoved the break into the floor-board with both feet — still at a velocity of 80mph — didn’t do much, I slammed into the rear of the truck engaging the air-bag. In a haze I cuaght sight of my blood dripping down the bag, fighting to focus on Betty she exited the truck and reached for the lever controlling the tailgate. With a few creaks a few tons of rocks cascaded down on my windshield shattering it the rest of the way, I felt the car fill with rock.. my air disepating from my body.
It all began flashing before my eyes, from my childhood hapiness to my deceased wife calling my name “c’mon tommy come home.” At last happiness and tranquility, though with me everything on Betty’s bakery was destroyed leaving the mystery unsolved to this very day…
Useful tools for a variety of online purposes
Four guidelines to writing fiction, or any other creative work. Remember writing is a learning journey.
An old bitty fends off some mean loggers who want her priceless pine trees. Seeking revenge on one of her barnyard companions…
Copyright 2021 SvenDefono, all rights reserved.