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“The new novel gathered no moss because it was dead in the water like the reflection of the man in the moon.” BJ made a face.
I’m so damn brain dead I can’t even come up with a decent figure of speech.
After having had a couple of phone conversations with Detective Schein she’d collected enough data to shape the nonfiction story. He told her he had arranged for her to interview the boys, now grown men, who made the grisly discovery in the old well.
And that was that.
She still wasn’t able to describe the crime scene using her imagination. The subject matter just didn’t have a true feel to it.
Had Detective Schein successfully planted seeds of doubt in her mind?
“Why would he?”
If I go there, do I truly want to waste time on guessing his motives?
She had better things to do with her time, and one of those things, whether she wanted to or not, was to see the place in person. She hadn’t set a time and date to view the property with the detective. No clue why she’d been reluctant to do so.
“Something about this whole situation is off. What appears to be, is not.”
Warning bells.
Red flags.
A full range of chestnuts to choose from.
BJ paced the spacious den. Stopped short. She looked all around like she was seeing the room for the first time. Every which way she turned there were someone else’s family photos, knickknacks, and other memorabilia. There wasn’t one logical reason for her to be in Sonnier’s house. She never even met the guy.
The hell with this, I’m going home.
She turned off the laptop, an old gray 13-inch piece of crap with one broken hinge and no carrying case, that she had run across online. It not only worked, but more importantly, it was portable. She placed it in a large microfiber pouch with a drawstring that she had purchased at a discount store. Hurried to the bedroom to pack her clothes.
Stashed her belongings in her car.
Cleaned every room in the house before leaving.
Too bone-weary to fix dinner, BJ stopped in at Wild Capers. Beau, her new maître d’, greeted her with a genuine smile. First Amos, now Beau. She hoped she didn’t have to go through the whole damn alphabet. She ordered her signature dish, and a to-go box.
It didn’t take much for her to know Frank had not come home during her absence. No luggage in the hall closet. No laundry in the hamper. No dishes in the sink. Only the familiar silence had greeted her at the door.
* * *
BJ awoke to find a crimson morn. She had never gone to bed before without first closing the mini blinds. The red sky was a sign. The devil’s own luck? Or mischance? Whichever, there was definitely a change on the way.
She has thought about death and dying all of her life. Kneeling before the open trunk in the attic when she was thirteen she glided her fingers across three colorful strips of glass covering the top of an old music box with a twirling ballerina inside belonging to Mama. She recalled thinking she would never live long enough to grow old.
BJ set aside the boondoggle novel to work on the nonfiction book. Settled on The Secret of the Well for the working title.
Lingering over coffee made from her own choice blend (not the stale stuff Sonnier had) she finally made up her mind to make an appointment with Detective Schein to view the well and the farmhouse. Later, if need be, she’d arrange to meet the three men who discovered the body.
She topped off her cup, carried it outside.
A large blackbird landed on the birdbath she didn’t remember standing back up.
“Be gone, Edapo,” she yelled, “and stop interfering with my business.” She pitched the cup at him so fast she missed, but managed to splash coffee on her white shirt.
The ancient raven she’d named after Edgar Allen Poe continued to stare at her. She believed the creature was a rougarou transformed into a bird.
She stormed into the house, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Tread heavily back and forth in the hallway for several minutes until she calmed down.
BJ hunted for the slip of paper with Detective Schein’s cell phone number.