Signs of Life

This morning I glanced down at the area next to the front porch and there it was--green.  And not a wind-blown burger wrapper either.  Little shoots of green sent up by spring bulbs.  Look at that, the promise of life.  We've had the oddest winter, warm then cold, snow then melting, and gale force winds today and tomorrow, but those little bits of brave greenery make me smile.  Ahhh.


 

I spent most of the afternoon working on a novel manuscript.  I took out pieces that don't belong there and then set about formatting the rest so I can rearrange the scenes so that they're in the correct order.  I'm tempted to set upon the pages with a scissors and cut it apart so I can rearrange the parts that way.  We'll see how things go.


Then I hauled the slicer upstairs and got all of yesterday's loaves sliced.  But first I sawed of a piece and toasted it.  It's good toasted.  Toast is important.  I was thinking of Durwood while slicing the bread.  I thought he had lost his mind when he used some of his sales contest winning points to get the slicer.  When will I ever use it, I thought.  I thought the same about the microwave oven that came too, and now I can't imagine life without a microwave, can you?  I don't use the slicer very often but it sure is handy.

25 February--Barbara Malcolm, Three Cheers for Murder. 

Archibald drove them to a very well-to-do part of the city and pulled into the driveway of a large Colonial home with 6 white pillars across the front, a brick driveway and steps up to the enormous, black walnut door surmounted by a brass, lions head knocker.  Very pretentious!  The windows are all 6-paned glass with black shutters.  Archibald searched in vain for the doorbell and finally rapped the door knocker.  They heard the thuds reverberating inside.  Just as they were thinking that no one was home, the door opened, and they were greeted by Dwayne Neal.  He’s just over 6 feet tall, dark hair cut in the latest style, fairly slender, not very muscular.  He’s wearing a powder blue V-neck tennis sweater with the sleeves pushed up, khaki slacks and deck shoes without socks.  He carried in his right hand a half-empty cocktail glass.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Archibald stepped forward, displaying his wallet with his badge, “Mr. Neal, I’m Det. Alan Archibald of the Ashville Police Department.  I want to express my sorrow at the loss of your wife and wonder when a good time would be to talk to you.”

“No time like the present,” responds Dwayne, opening the door wider and inviting them inside with a wave of his glass.

As they entered the spacious foyer Det. Archibald introduced Cecilia.  “Mr. Neal, this is a friend of mine, Cecilia Robbins.  I hope you don’t mind her presence.”

“Not at all,” replied Dwayne, “and you can call me Dwayne.”

“All right, Dwayne.  Is there somewhere we can talk?”

With that request, Dwayne turned and led Archibald and Cecilia across the foyer toward the back of the house.  Cecilia’s eager eyes looked into rooms as they passed.  To the right the large living room, decorated in ivory, white, and pale salmon, looked like a photo in some expensive decorating magazine.  Seldom used and stiff.  On the left the formal dining room with its dark wood furniture and crystal chandelier gleaming gave the impression of stiff and stilted conversations.  Through an open doorway opposite the hall Cecilia glimpsed the white and steel kitchen, again seeming like a photo in a magazine, not a comfortable place where cooking and conversation thrived.  The room Dwayne led them to, the family room, was decorated in soft, dark greens and rusts.  This room with its comfortable chairs grouped for conversations held the first glimpse of warmth Cecilia had seen since entering the house.  The back wall of the room was comprised totally of windows and sliding glass doors giving a view of a deck, pool, and pool house.  The extensive gardens looked professionally designed and tended, and unused.

Turning her gaze to their host, Cecilia noticed the professional looking bar, obviously a focal point of the room, and refused the offer of a drink, as did Det. Archibald.  Shrugging, Dwayne sat in an overstuffed chair and gestured for them to find seats.  Muting the sound of the huge television he’d obviously been watching, he looked at Archibald and said, “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“Mr. Neal, I’d like to express my sympathy at the loss of your wife.”

Dwayne shrugged off the sympathy and took a drink.

“I need to know where you were last night when your wife, Kimberly, was killed.”

There was a long pause while the newly widowed husband gazed at the flickering images on the silent television.

“Mr. Neal?”

“Oh, I was with a friend.”

“A friend.   Would you care to give me the name of your friend and when you were with him?”

“A name?  No, that’s not a good idea.”  He automatically picked up his drink, noticed it was empty, got up and went to the bar to refill the glass.  “Sure, you won’t have a drink?  I’ve got soda and juices if you’d like.”

“I’ll have some juice,” replied Cecilia getting up from her seat and walking to the bar.  “What do you have?”  The next few moments were taken up with a discussion of the types of juice available, finding the perfect glass, filling it with ice, and making sure it’s what she wanted.  Cecilia noticed that the small task of fixing her a drink had consumed Dwayne’s entire being.  She felt that he was focused on anything but the matter at hand.  Out of grief?  Avoiding guilt?  Nervous?

After being reassured that her juice is fine, Dwayne efficiently fixed himself another stiff drink.  Rattling the ice into the glass and pouring straight bourbon with a liberal hand.  Returning to his seat in front of the television and putting his feet on the ottoman, he returned his gaze to the flickering images on the silent screen.

Sighing, Archibald stretched forward, picked up the remote, and turned off the set.  “Mr. Neal, I’m sure this is a hard time for you, but we need to talk.  Or would you be more willing downtown?”

Dragging his eyes from the now dark screen, Dwayne blankly looked at the detective.  “Detective Archibald?  Is that right?”  Archibald nodded.  Dwayne took a drink and let out a long breath, “What else can I tell you?  I wasn’t with Kimmy at the club.  I was with a friend until 1 AM.  That’s all I know.”

“Mr. Neal, we need to check with your friend that you were indeed with him.  I can’t take your word for it.  Someone snuck into that locker room and murdered your wife last night.  Was it you?  Did you creep up behind her and slip a knife into her spine?  Did you?”

It sure got windy today but the snow they were threatening us with scooted to the south of us so, whew.  Snow and wind are a bad combination.
--Barbara