“I thought something was wrong when I noticed the logos on the mini surfboards in your entry,” I told Joanna. “Bart must’ve seen them, too, and flipped out.”
Joanna sighed and pushed a stray curl behind her ear. “Thanks to your sharp eyes, the police took a closer look at Dean’s surfboard orders. They found records showing that he was to be the exclusive dealer for the new Hurley surfboard. I guess Bart didn’t like that.” She shook her head. “I’m glad to see him go, but I still can’t believe he’d do something like that.”
“How could you know Bart had been arguing with Dean about who’d carry the new boards?” I asked. “That other surfer guy said he talked to Dean on Saturday, too, but Bart gave himself away when he lied and said he saw the mini display Saturday morning. You didn’t bring it in until after the shop closed. He must’ve gotten mad and pushed Dean into the boards, and then they fell on him. He even forgot to glue the surfboards down in his display! And that’s what he told us he’d asked Dean about. Pretty compelling evidence that he was really upset.”
Joanna gave us both a hug and herded us closer to the display table as the main judge called everyone in.
“We have a sad occasion this year with the death of our colleague and business owner, Dean,” the judge said. “We’d like to first announce that the contest is being renamed in honor of our friend from Big Wave Dave’s.” He held up his hand as everyone clapped. “Entry ten from Barnacle Bart’s has been disqualified, and taken into evidence by police.”
He continued as the clapping faded. “The Third Place winner this year is Fishy Phil’s Surf and Turf. Second Place goes to the Mini Tiki Bar, and First Place goes to Big Wave Dave’s Surf Shop. Congratulations, all!”
Joanna gave a trembling smile and wiped a tear from her eye. “Dean would’ve been so thrilled, thank you everyone. This is an honor.”
“Now for the door prizes!” The judge rattled off several names and the prizes they won. But he got the biggest cheer and a squeal when Carm heard her name announced as the winner of a miniature building kit. She held the box tightly and flashed a big smile. “I won, I won! Bec, you’re gonna help me, aren’t you? You’ll help me build it?”
“I guess I’ll have to, or you’ll never leave me alone. It’ll have to wait until we get home though. What should we do the rest of the day?”
“I know! Let’s collect seashells. I’m going to make a miniature beach and seashell shop. We need to find lots of tiny ones.” She was still holding onto her prize.
I smiled, not surprised that my cousin was so thrilled with her newest mini project. “You’ll need your hands free if you want to pick up shells. Let’s go back to Joanna’s house and drop off your prize. We probably need to slather on more sunscreen, too. Maybe I can even get a teensy bit of a tan. The new meds seem to be making a difference. I almost feel like a normal person again.”
My cousin laughed. “Normal? Bec, you’ll never be normal.”
“Ha, ha, you should talk. We are cousins, after all. Come on. We’ve got seashells to find.”
--The End--
Christine (C.A.) Verstraete is a collector and writer who loves to create with words and in miniature. She’s author of the YA book, GIRL Z: My Life as a Teenage Zombie and a book on miniatures, In Miniature Style II. Her latest, Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter, comes out in the summer of 2016. She also enjoys writing short fiction. See some of her collection and learn more at her website http://cverstraete.com.
Visit the real-life miniature Big Wave Dave’s Surf Shop at http://bit.ly/joannaslan.
A Simple Case of Stalking: A Jonathan Boykin Short Story
By Randy Rawls
Editor’s Note: Jonathan Boykin’s French is better than his golf swing. Oooh-la-la, the trouble it gets him into!
Chapter 1
Golf is best played early in the day during the summer in South Florida. The afternoon is reserved for possible monsoon rains. Thus, there I stood on the practice tee addressing the ball, wiggling to set my feet, then lifting my club into my backswing. With a grunt, I drove through the ball, sending it zipping through space. It flew straight and true for about fifty yards, then swerved to the right in a classic arc. A perfect slice—if there is such a phenomenon. I groaned, locked in, and analyzed my follow-through. At least I'd overcome my hook.
"Jonathan, got a minute?"
I turned and saw Aaron Dunniker, a rich plaintiff attorney who happened to be my golfing partner. Not my social partner, mind you. We only associated on the golf course. Not surprising since our incomes were so different. I got along on my policeman's retirement and the money from investments made when I was younger. He...well, just say his was far higher—maybe in the major six figures higher.
Beside him stood a man I'd seen around the course, but never met, Thomas Blinski, III. I figured the III was automatic because of his prestige as a top defense attorney. It might even be on his birth certificate. He and Dunniker fit together like Secretariat and Ron Turcotte when they won the Triple Crown.
"Jonathan, have you met Thomas? He's a member of the club here."
"Not formally," I said, recovering from my follow-through. Ever wonder why rich people always use the formal version of their names—Thomas, not Tom? I stuck out my hand. "Nice to meet you, Thomas. I'm Jonathan Boykin. What do you shoot?"
Okay, so did I, but not because of my financial status. I reverted to the long version because of the memo writers during my days on the force. I simply got tired of them addressing me as John—J-o-h-n. Since I couldn't get it through their heads that I was Jon—J-o-n—I changed back to Jonathan. Not the same thing at all.
Thomas looked downrange where my ball had disappeared, a smile tickling his lips. "Maybe we can team up sometime. I can match you slice for slice." He chuckled as he shook my hand.
"Oh, that's not typical," I said. "Usually, my hook takes precedence."
"Excuse me," Aaron said, cutting in, "but you and I have a tee time in thirty minutes, Jonathan, and I haven't begun to warm up. I can see you're well into your game." He grinned, using his hand to track the flight of the ball of my last swing. "Enough of that, though. Thomas has a problem he needs to discuss with you. Why don't you drift off and talk, and I'll finish your bucket of balls."
I looked at Thomas, and he shrugged.
"He's right," he said. "I would like to talk to you. Maybe we could sit over there." He pointed to a bench under a palm tree.
"Sure," I said, my curiosity piqued. "Lead the way."
After we'd settled in the shade, Thomas said, "I need help. Aaron told me about how you assisted him with a situation. He also assured me you are discreet, can keep your mouth shut, and above all, are tactful in your inquiries. Can I depend on that?"
His description was accurate on two out of three, but it had been a long time, perhaps forever, since anyone called me tactful. Instead of correcting him though, I said, "That all depends on the circumstances. I am legal, staunchly legal. If I see a crime, I report it. But, even more than that, I'm retired. What I did for Aaron was for a golfing buddy."
"Of course. I understand that. We've just met, so you don't owe me anything. However, I have a problem that calls for someone like you. I'd like to hire you to look into it."
"Hire me? I'm not for hire. Did you miss the part about my being retired?"
"No, but I'm desperate. Please hear me out before rejecting me." He took a deep breath. "Someone is stalking my wife. She's nervous about leaving the house. She tries to hide it, but I see her looking up and down the street before backing out of the garage. It's like she expects someone to be there. When I asked her what was wrong, she tried to deny it. When I persevered, she admitted seeing someone staring at her too often in too many places. In my mind, that's stalking. I need a bodyguard for her, someone who will protect her and uncover the stalker."
"That's easy," I said. "Stalking is a crime. Call the police."
"Jonathan. First, you know how the police react to stalker claims. They are l
ow priority—when they have any priority at all. Second, I'm a defense attorney. You were a cop. What did you think of defense attorneys when you were on the force? Would you have expended extra effort to protect one?"
I lowered my head and rubbed my forehead, understanding what he meant. Defense attorneys were low, very low, on my totem pole of respect. I'd have done the minimum to investigate any complaint one lodged.
"Your reaction answers my question," he said. "That's why I need someone like you. Someone who will expend the extra effort for my wife. Plus, there is another reason, a semi-professional reason. Call it pride if you want to. I call it common sense. I—"
"Whoa. Slow down. Give me a minute to digest this. I'm sure it's good."
"Scoff, if you please. But, for someone on my side of the street, it's very real. Every day, very real."
"Tell me. Maybe it will be the final straw that convinces me I should give up my daily game to squire around your wife." I grinned. "Now that I've mastered both a hook and a slice, the next step has to be straight down the fairway."
Thomas flinched and didn't smile at my levity. Perhaps he didn't appreciate it. I figured self-important defense attorneys like him were not accustomed to someone pulling at his leg. "If the word gets out that I panic at threats, every lowlife I defend and don't get off, will come after me or my family. The harassment will be constant."
He had a point. "Okay, if, and that is only an if, I decide to hire on with you, what exactly do you expect me to accomplish?"
He stared at me. "I would think that would be obvious. First, protect my wife. Second, put a stop to the stalking. If you catch him in the act, I'll press charges and have him arrested. With the corpus delicti in hand, the police will have to act. Then I'll work with the Assistant State Attorney to put the scum away."
I let that float around in my mind for a moment, then decided to play with him. Not often a cop—once a cop, always a cop—gets to play with a defense attorney. "All that sounds good, but I'm still retired. Also, I have no legal standing to do such a thing. It could jeopardize my retirement."
Thomas sighed. "I know, and I'm not asking you to do anything the police can find out of the ordinary. Just be my wife's escort. Anything that happens beyond that is gravy. You do have a carry permit, don't you?"
I assumed he referred to a license to carry a firearm. "Yes, but I don't exercise it. I applied for it when I retired, thinking there might be old friends who'd use the opportunity to even a score. I've never needed it. Guess I wasn't as effective as I thought I'd been. I put the gun away. However, I have kept the license current."
"But you can still pack a weapon. Jonathan, I'll make it worth your while to break out your piece." He hesitated. "Ten thousand. How does that sound?"
Ten grand? He was desperate. I stared at him, long and hard, trying to see if he had thrown up a façade. Nothing. From what I could see, he was on the level. "Why so generous? Is there something beyond stalking?"
"No. Well, not yet. My wife is important to me, though. It hurts to have her afraid to leave the house. She's spooked of every man who looks in her direction, even on a simple trip to the supermarket. I can't bear to see her like this. I'll go fifteen if it'll help you make up your mind."
Yeah, fifteen thousand dollars would definitely influence my judgment. There was a repositioning cruise I'd been looking at. Thirty days on the high seas with minimal stops. My idea of paradise—even better than a choice tee time every day. Still I hesitated, wondering if I should risk it. If the word got around, I'd be accused of crossing over to the dark side. Ex-cops who worked for defense attorneys got even less respect than their clients. Most of my co-workers had moved on from the force, and I seldom saw them, but the new generation was there. Their opinions, while not as important, were still worth considering.
"Twenty thousand. That's my last offer. If that's not enough, I'll have to look elsewhere."
That caught my attention. Still feeling a bit queasy about it, I stuck out my hand. "You have a deal. Half now and half when we put the stalker away."
"Excellent. Come by my house about seven tonight. I'll introduce you to my wife, tell her the arrangements, and you can take it from there."
"You mean she doesn't know you're hiring a shadow for her?"
This time, it was his head that ducked. "No," he mumbled. "In fact, she expressly forbade it."
Ouch, dark clouds on the horizon. I opened my mouth to express my opinion, but heard, "Jonathan. We need to hit the first tee." Looking around, I saw Aaron waving me over.
"Seven tonight," I said. "What's the address?"
He handed me a business card with his home address on it. "If there is any delay, call me." His voice had gone from pleading to boss-to-employee.
I stood, wondering if I'd made a bad deal.
~*~
After my game with Aaron and two of his friends, I headed for the house to clean up. Once again, I'd lost a side bet to him and financed the nineteenth hole. It happened so often I wondered if he cheated, especially since he always served as scorekeeper—by his own insistence.
When I opened my front door, my yellow alley cats, Julius and Caesar, greeted me. Yeah, I had a purpose in giving them those names. I could have chosen King and Queen, except they were both males. They believed they were regal and let me know it every minute of every day. Anyone who has been owned by cats will understand what I mean.
They demanded to know where I'd been all day, so I dropped into my recliner to brief them. As my butt hit the chair, Julius landed in my lap. He promptly curled into a ball, his purr motor on high. Caesar hesitated, then jumped onto the arm of the chair and assumed his sphinxlike position. They were ready to listen.
I began to tell them about my golf game, but a couple of low growls told me what they thought of that—boring. I switched to my meeting with Blinski. Both showed interest until I admitted it was a simple stalking case. At that point, Caesar gave me a look of contempt, leaped down, and ran into the kitchen. Julius purred louder, letting me know he approved of the simplicity of the situation. He has the higher morals. When I finished, he gave me a That's all? glare and followed his brother. The sounds of a wrestling match soon followed.
I sat a few more minutes, mulling things over, then pushed up to take a shower. That's when I heard a familiar sound—the shoving around of empty food dishes. I swear those twelve-pound cats could eat forty pounds of cat food a day. Well, maybe not all forty, but close enough. I refilled the dishes, then completed my trip through the shower.
Chapter 2
At seven PM, I rang the doorbell at Blinski's house, wondering how big a wasp nest I was walking into. A maid opened the door. Behind her was an attractive lady in torn jeans, white blouse, and sandals.
"May I help you?" the maid said.
"I'm Jonathan Boykin. I have an appointment with Mr. Blinski."
The jeans lady stepped forward. "I'm Ms. Blinkski. He said someone would be coming by. Please come in. He's in his study."
The maid disappeared as Ms. Blinski led me into the house—no, not a house, a mansion. I knew that defending criminals paid well, but had no idea how well. Twenty grand to him was probably the same as a case of Killian's Red Lager to me. That morning's crossword puzzle came to mind. A four-letter word meaning sumptuously furnished. The answer was posh. One of the few times in my life I was glad I took on the daily challenge. Otherwise, I might not have had a word to describe my surroundings.
"Thomas is in here," she said, opening a closed door. "Go right in."
I walked into another posh setting as the door closed behind me.
Thomas, who had had been ensconced in a spa-deep, plush leather chair, rose and stepped toward me. "Glad you came, Jonathan. Here's your check. Hope you don't mind, but I decided to cut the advance payment to eight thousand. When you roll up the stalker, I'll give you the other twelve."
Yeah, I should have protested, but eight thou is still eight thousand big ones. I could see that repositioning crui
se in my near future. "Okay. I can live with that. What's next?"
He nodded toward the door. "I'll get my wife in here, and we'll tell her what we're doing. Don't be surprised if she's hostile, but I'm sure she'll come around and think it's a good idea. Her name is Kimberly, but friends call her Kimmy."
Kimmy? Another of those rich folks names. "Sure. Bring her in. The sooner we start, the sooner we get over the first hurdle. She doesn't throw things, does she?"
He laughed. "Not in here. I nailed everything down." He waved me to a posh chair while walking to a wall filled with shelves, each shelf stocked with leather-bound books. Did I mention everything was posh?
He tapped a volume and the shelves slide aside, revealing a wet bar with an assortment of bottles. I recognized a few of the labels and grinned. If he asked, I was more than willing to have a drink.
"Kimmy likes a scotch on the rocks in the evening. Guess I'd better get it ready." He took down a bottle of Chivas Regal Royal Salute. "Can I pour one for you?"
"Short one," I said, smiling. "Easy on the ice." I would have preferred to say, "Tall one," but I had to drive home.
"Good choice." He busied himself with the drinks, handed me mine, then returned to his chair with the other two. He tapped a button on the arm. "Kimmy. Would you join us, please?"
The chair answered, "In a moment. Fix me a scotch."
"Done. Hurry though, or I'll have to drink it to prevent the ice melting and diluting it."
The chair laughed.
We sat in silence, sipping. Nothing to say until his wife joined us. We had our deal, but it could be upended if Kimmy wasn't willing to have me around.
I took small sips of my drink, savoring a taste that seemed to reach all the way to my toes. Too soon, the ice rattled.
"Another?" my host asked.
I mulled it for several seconds, then groaned. "It hurts down to my flatfeet, but I have to say no. Wouldn't do for an old cop to get pulled over for DUI."
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 83