Voyage of Love and Deceit

“There’ll be about a hundred twenty people in these large lifeboats. With so many crew injured and passengers having to help, it should slow the number of boats reaching the beach at one time and make it easier to keep the evacuation manageable. Okay?”

         “No, it’s not okay. Why did you volunteer me to assist the officer ashore, Michael?”

         “The officer needs help and you can do this.” Michael said and started toward the stern where lifeboats were boarding. When she hesitated, he barked, “Come on. You’ll be fine. Relax.”

         “Relax?” Janet grabbed his jacket’s sleeve and yanked on it. He turned back to face her. “Don’t tell me to relax!” She yelled. “My father and Robert used to tell me that. I don’t have experience or know what to do. If I make a mistake, people could die!”

Mistake

As the main speaker at the Association of Drug Rehabilitation Centers Gala Dinner, US Senate candidate Richard Babcock rose from his chair to climb the stage steps. When his legs wobbled he reached for the side of the chair, glanced at the stage, dropped his speech, sat down, and collapsed forward onto his dinner plate.

“We have the toxicology report from the State’s Crime Lab.” Detective Mike McDonald said weeks later. He handed consultant Tanisha Davis a copy. “I was right. Somebody got to him. Now all we have to do is figure out who among the 14,000 attendees or 2,500 people at dinner did it.”

The Cry of Wounded Heart

“Dispatch, this is Seven with a possible 10-54 on E 500N, at Big Four Ditch.” A County Sheriff deputy radioed at three twenty-seven in the morning.

The crunch of gravel from the vehicle’s tires permeated the quiet humid night as the deputy slowed and stopped the car. Even the crickets were hushed. Illuminated by the car’s headlights, a young woman sat nude bound to a guardrail.

“Dispatch. There’s… a… um... We have another girl.” The Deputy dropped his head to the steering wheel. When he looked back up, her dead eyes stared at him.

Without a breeze to rustle the nearby tall bluestem grass, the mist rising from the cool creek water draped like lace around the girl.

The Mystery Writers Murders

“Mother, I want a moment.” Ethan said.

Dressed in an elegant charcoal gray skirt with black blouse and pearl necklace, Grace responded with a nod and a slight smile. There was no hint of sorrow about her husband’s heart attack and sudden death.

Judge Henry Jones son approached the coffin flanked by a horticulture of floral displays. Ethan stood for a moment, shook his head, and turned away.

“Your father was a good man. We’ll miss him.” The mortician said as he passed Ethan to close the casket.

“He wasn’t your father. I’m glad the son-of-a-bitch is dead.” Ethan replied.

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