I just keep getting faster! First 1000 was two and a half years coming, second 1000 was just under a year, and now this one is ten months. What are you going to do with me?
This is a piece from my cozy mystery -- it's not the start, but not far in. It's where our detective, Abby, who is not a detective but rather a pet store owner, first hears of the murder accusation against a customer she only met the night before. It's complicated, but she and all her employees spent the evening at the customer's house, setting up a fish tank. He can afford the specialized service, as he is a very rich fellow.
***
The morning had flown by in a rush of sales, and Abby breathed a sigh of relief as she sank into her chair and pulled her lunch out of its bag. She had taken over the register while Dominic went to lunch, and he had brought her back her usual fare. With the wrapper peeled back, she took a bite, but her happy noises at the inclusion of grapes and apples in that bite were drowned out by Dorian's insistent repetition of “good boy” – a request for his share. She got up and handed the bird a bite of apple, which he took in his beak and then grabbed with one foot and began chewing happily. Taking another bite, Abby turned back toward her desk and jumped at the sight of a bowling ball in a grey pin-striped suit, standing in her doorway.
Recovering, she nodded, still chewing, and held up a finger to tell the man it would be a moment, set down the sandwich and reached for a napkin. She swiped the napkin around her mouth, sneaking in a surreptitious fingernail to check for bread stuck between her front teeth.
“Sorry, you caught me there. What can I do for you?”
“Are you Abby Davis?” He was eye-to-eye with her, which made him short, and instead of his width translating into extra height as it did with some people, his shortness actually translated into extra width. Abby had the feeling that he was about to serve some kind of papers on her, but she couldn't imagine why, and anyway she could hardly pretend to be somebody else in her own store, or sneak out the back way. Besides, he was taking up the only doorway.
“Yes?” It was both an answer and a question.
He held out a hand. “I'm Jonathan Phillips, representing Mr. Stuart Green.”
Abby had met his handshake automatically, but at this she quickly pulled her hand back. Her brain raced to think what Mr. Green could possibly be suing her for. Had the tank sprung a leak overnight and ruined his daughter's high-priced carpet? Was she allergic to fish? Everything had seemed fine and friendly when she left his house last night, and it was only lunchtime today -- how much could have gone wrong in twelve hours? She realized the lawyer was still talking.
“...of course, I'll arrange for compensation on Mr. Green's behalf.” He was beaming at her with a hopeful expression, which totally confused her.
“I'm sorry, could you start over? I was a bit distracted,” she said lamely. “Umm ... low blood sugar.” She reached for the iced tea and took a long pull on the straw. He could assume it was loaded with sugar if he wished.
“I was saying, ma'am, that Mr. Stuart Green asked me rather urgently to contact you and request that you send someone to care for his fish in his ...absence. He should be back home by Monday. I'm to give you the key to his house, and he says he completely trusts your judgment in the matter. And of course, I am to arrange for compensation for whomever you choose.” There was that hopeful expression again, and this was where she had come in the first time.
“His absence? Where is he going? And what about his daughter?”
“The daughter will be cared for by relatives -- her Aunt Sarah, I believe,” said (what was his name again?) Phillips. “And, well, for the rest, I'm sure you've heard the news.” He looked vaguely around her office, and it wasn't until he asked, “You have heard the news?” that Abby realized he was looking for, and failing to find, a television.
“We've been very busy today,” she said. “I haven't even turned on my computer. What's happened?”
“Mr. Green has been arrested,” said Phillips, “for the murder of his ex-wife.”
Abby stared at him, and stepped backward to sink down into her chair. Stuart Green couldn't have killed his ex-wife! Could he? She recalled the few comments he had made about his daughter's mother last night in the course of showing her about his house, and there hadn't seemed to be any unusual amount of rage in him. Some animosity was natural, in dealing with divorce and custody issues, and he had been piqued about the pony, but he hadn't seemed like a man who was likely to kill his ex-wife the next morning.
The lawyer was still standing there in her doorway. Belatedly, she waved in the direction of the other chair and asked him to sit. He sat.
“I don't understand,” she ventured. “How could he possibly have killed his ex-wife?”
“Mr. Green will, naturally, be found innocent of this crime,” Phillips reeled off automatically. “The police will be forced to release him once the evidence is all collected and the real perpetrator taken into custody.”
Abby wished she had a television in the store now. Phillips had clearly been practicing this line all morning, and there must be more to the story that she was missing. She wanted to reach across and throttle him, but he wound down on his own.
“How was she killed?” She clenched her teeth and waited for another canned response from the lawyer, but this was apparently one of those questions he was programmed to answer in a more personal tone.
“Mrs. Green was … hit in the head with a blunt object.” Phillips hesitated, then went ahead and answered the question he obviously knew came next. “In a hallway of Mr. Green's house.”
Abby winced. That meant she had dropped off the little girl already, which probably meant Stephanie had seen her mother die. But that led to the next conclusion, which was --
“Did his daughter see him kill her?”
“It was in the middle of the night, and she was apparently asleep,” said Phillips. “The police are questioning her, but it seems that she didn't see anything.”
That was good. Abby quizzed the lawyer further, but he either didn't know or wasn't giving up any more information on his client. She got the key for Green's house from him, wrote his number down on an open spot on her desk calendar (still last month) that she managed to locate under her forgotten sandwich, and he went on his way.
This is a piece from my cozy mystery -- it's not the start, but not far in. It's where our detective, Abby, who is not a detective but rather a pet store owner, first hears of the murder accusation against a customer she only met the night before. It's complicated, but she and all her employees spent the evening at the customer's house, setting up a fish tank. He can afford the specialized service, as he is a very rich fellow.
***
The morning had flown by in a rush of sales, and Abby breathed a sigh of relief as she sank into her chair and pulled her lunch out of its bag. She had taken over the register while Dominic went to lunch, and he had brought her back her usual fare. With the wrapper peeled back, she took a bite, but her happy noises at the inclusion of grapes and apples in that bite were drowned out by Dorian's insistent repetition of “good boy” – a request for his share. She got up and handed the bird a bite of apple, which he took in his beak and then grabbed with one foot and began chewing happily. Taking another bite, Abby turned back toward her desk and jumped at the sight of a bowling ball in a grey pin-striped suit, standing in her doorway.
Recovering, she nodded, still chewing, and held up a finger to tell the man it would be a moment, set down the sandwich and reached for a napkin. She swiped the napkin around her mouth, sneaking in a surreptitious fingernail to check for bread stuck between her front teeth.
“Sorry, you caught me there. What can I do for you?”
“Are you Abby Davis?” He was eye-to-eye with her, which made him short, and instead of his width translating into extra height as it did with some people, his shortness actually translated into extra width. Abby had the feeling that he was about to serve some kind of papers on her, but she couldn't imagine why, and anyway she could hardly pretend to be somebody else in her own store, or sneak out the back way. Besides, he was taking up the only doorway.
“Yes?” It was both an answer and a question.
He held out a hand. “I'm Jonathan Phillips, representing Mr. Stuart Green.”
Abby had met his handshake automatically, but at this she quickly pulled her hand back. Her brain raced to think what Mr. Green could possibly be suing her for. Had the tank sprung a leak overnight and ruined his daughter's high-priced carpet? Was she allergic to fish? Everything had seemed fine and friendly when she left his house last night, and it was only lunchtime today -- how much could have gone wrong in twelve hours? She realized the lawyer was still talking.
“...of course, I'll arrange for compensation on Mr. Green's behalf.” He was beaming at her with a hopeful expression, which totally confused her.
“I'm sorry, could you start over? I was a bit distracted,” she said lamely. “Umm ... low blood sugar.” She reached for the iced tea and took a long pull on the straw. He could assume it was loaded with sugar if he wished.
“I was saying, ma'am, that Mr. Stuart Green asked me rather urgently to contact you and request that you send someone to care for his fish in his ...absence. He should be back home by Monday. I'm to give you the key to his house, and he says he completely trusts your judgment in the matter. And of course, I am to arrange for compensation for whomever you choose.” There was that hopeful expression again, and this was where she had come in the first time.
“His absence? Where is he going? And what about his daughter?”
“The daughter will be cared for by relatives -- her Aunt Sarah, I believe,” said (what was his name again?) Phillips. “And, well, for the rest, I'm sure you've heard the news.” He looked vaguely around her office, and it wasn't until he asked, “You have heard the news?” that Abby realized he was looking for, and failing to find, a television.
“We've been very busy today,” she said. “I haven't even turned on my computer. What's happened?”
“Mr. Green has been arrested,” said Phillips, “for the murder of his ex-wife.”
Abby stared at him, and stepped backward to sink down into her chair. Stuart Green couldn't have killed his ex-wife! Could he? She recalled the few comments he had made about his daughter's mother last night in the course of showing her about his house, and there hadn't seemed to be any unusual amount of rage in him. Some animosity was natural, in dealing with divorce and custody issues, and he had been piqued about the pony, but he hadn't seemed like a man who was likely to kill his ex-wife the next morning.
The lawyer was still standing there in her doorway. Belatedly, she waved in the direction of the other chair and asked him to sit. He sat.
“I don't understand,” she ventured. “How could he possibly have killed his ex-wife?”
“Mr. Green will, naturally, be found innocent of this crime,” Phillips reeled off automatically. “The police will be forced to release him once the evidence is all collected and the real perpetrator taken into custody.”
Abby wished she had a television in the store now. Phillips had clearly been practicing this line all morning, and there must be more to the story that she was missing. She wanted to reach across and throttle him, but he wound down on his own.
“How was she killed?” She clenched her teeth and waited for another canned response from the lawyer, but this was apparently one of those questions he was programmed to answer in a more personal tone.
“Mrs. Green was … hit in the head with a blunt object.” Phillips hesitated, then went ahead and answered the question he obviously knew came next. “In a hallway of Mr. Green's house.”
Abby winced. That meant she had dropped off the little girl already, which probably meant Stephanie had seen her mother die. But that led to the next conclusion, which was --
“Did his daughter see him kill her?”
“It was in the middle of the night, and she was apparently asleep,” said Phillips. “The police are questioning her, but it seems that she didn't see anything.”
That was good. Abby quizzed the lawyer further, but he either didn't know or wasn't giving up any more information on his client. She got the key for Green's house from him, wrote his number down on an open spot on her desk calendar (still last month) that she managed to locate under her forgotten sandwich, and he went on his way.
