The other day I had the good fortune to meet up with my old
friend, Jerry. He and first met about five years ago when I started
facilitating a writer’s workshop. He was intrigued with the idea of putting
some of his ideas and stories together. Jerry always delivered great work with
the group. I have no doubt his efforts will be in print soon.
While catching up over a quick meal, we got to talking about
wives and families. I mentioned that at times my darling wife will start a
conversation in the middle. She doesn’t say, ‘did you hear about Betty?’ but
jumps in as if I already know not only who she is talking about, but what the
latest situation may be.
Jerry’s eyes went wide. ‘My wife does the same thing!’
We compared notes and came to the conclusion. Our spouses
think we are psychic, so we automatically known what they are thinking about.
If that were the case, we’re both grateful that it doesn’t work the other way,
or we could be in deep trouble.
Perhaps a little more research is in order. But the concept
could be worth looking into for a story.
You just never know where those ideas come from.
Hey, if I am a psychic
spouse, does that mean some of these thoughts were originally my wife’s?
While he may not have psychic powers, Jefferson Chene does
have the ability to unravel the knots in a twisted murder investigation. Here’s an excerpt from “Your Turn to Die”.
In this scene on the first day of the investigation, Chene
and Detective Donna Spears are going to interview the victim’s widow.
Donna and I drove to the Grosse Pointe Park address for Morrissey. The
house was a miniature castle, probably built in the late thirties. It was three
stories high, with a gabled roof and lots of leaded glass windows. The block
was tree-lined, with oaks and maples towering beyond the rooflines. We parked
at the curb and studied the dwelling for a moment before exiting the car.
“Check out the garage, boss. I’d swear that’s a classic Camaro ragtop in
there. Right next to the Jaguar.”
The two-car garage was separate from the house, set back toward the rear
of the lot, at least fifty yards from the street. “How old are Morrissey's
kids?”
Donna checked her notebook. “Dale, a boy, is sixteen. Janice is fourteen.”
“All they need is Scruffy the dog to complete the All-American family
portrait.”
As I spoke the side door of the house banged open and a gangly boy
stepped out and turned toward the garage. Behind him bounced a large, furry
dog.
“I didn’t know you were psychic,” Donna said as she opened her door.
We went up the front steps and knocked discreetly. I was expecting a relative
or maybe a neighbor to respond. But I recognized the woman framed in the
doorway from the publicity photos I’d studied a few hours ago.
“Mrs. Morrissey, I’m Sergeant Chene and this is Detective Spears with the
Michigan State Police. We're part of the team conducting the investigation into
your husband's death. I know this is difficult, but if we could ask you some
questions---”
She frowned in annoyance. “I was expecting someone hours ago. The
governor assured me this was being taken care of. I also spoke with a man named
Cantrell. I don’t appreciate being kept waiting.”
“My apologies.” I didn’t think it was necessary to explain where we’d
been.
She fluttered a hand at me. “Come in.”
Mrs. Morrissey ushered us into a formal living room and gestured toward a
pair of stiff upholstered chairs. I pocketed my sunglasses inside the sport
coat I had slipped on when getting out of the car. Donna tucked hers into the V
neck of her blouse. When we approached the house, she had switched on the
digital recorder tucked into her jacket pocket. This was Donna’s first
interview with a victim’s family. I wanted to see how well she’d follow my lead
and what observations she made.
As the widow settled herself onto one end of the sofa, I let my eyes
sweep over the room. There was a plush area rug by the sofa in a soft rose
color. Beyond the rug hardwood floors gleamed with multiple layers of wax. Pale
gray marble surrounded the fireplace hearth and the two columns that supported
the mantel. The plaster walls had been recently painted an eggshell white, then
touched up with a sponge to set an unusual pattern, accenting the color of the
carpet. Other than the sofa and two upholstered chairs, there was only a teak
coffee table, strategically placed in the center of the room.
Above the mantel was a family portrait, probably done in this very room
by a professional photographer. The parents were on the couch, flanked by the
two kids. Both children favored his wife. According to the details I’d reviewed
earlier, Colleen Morrissey was thirty-eight, the high school sweetheart of the
victim. She had worked with him during the early years, slaving together to get
the business up and running. Morrissey had named the company Vagabond
Enterprises. Once it began to flourish, she stayed home to raise the kids.
While Donna made some comforting comments to put the widow at ease, I took a
good look at her.
Colleen was about five four and if she weighed more than a hundred and
ten pounds, I'm the greatest detective since Holmes. Auburn hair with some
blonde highlights fell to her shoulders, curling gently behind her ears. Her
green eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She was wearing skinny jeans and a
sleeveless white silk blouse that was so sheer, it left little to the
imagination. I could see the pattern of a lacy bra that scooped up her breasts
and put them on display. Her feet were in expensive sandals, little more than
ornate straps of leather around the heel and across top of her foot. The toes
were exposed, with bright red polish on the nails.
Buy links
Music this week comes from Norah
Jones.
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