From my third-row seat in the press room at the county sheriff’s office, I stretched my neck to see Detective Luz Margolis at the lectern.
Camera shutters clicked as she spoke. “Dental records leave no doubt: the body recently recovered from Lake Herring is missing tech entrepreneur Rachel Framer. The medical examiner estimates she’s been dead approximately three weeks.”
I crept up the driveway of Sara Wyatt, aka Suspect 4B, who confronted me with a hideous scowl.
“Who dares disturb me?” Sara cackled and waved her broom toward the gap in the thick black curtain blocking off her garage. “Seek you treats on this dreariest of days? Then don’t be tricked by the
Having sent her stepdaughter Jo Bright on a goodwill tour of the far realms, Queen Regality consulted her hand mirror again. “With Jo gone, I’m now the fairest in the land, right?” The mirror replied: “Not to embarrass you, but alas! Queen, those fairer would fill my glass.” After briefly considering tours for all those women too…
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At the same two-seater table where I’d fallen in love with him three years ago, Brad pleaded with me over his turkey-tomato wrap. “Julia, I know you broke up with me because I never put your feelings first. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Though relishing his burst of humility, I hesitated.
“All right, Ms. Fessenbender, I found a forgotten login this morning and pulled your password from the keystrokes: WH!$k3r5.” I presented my session summary to petite, gray-haired Florence Fessenbender. “Oh, and you forgot that you fed Whiskers today. Albacore Supreme for a lovely Persian.”
Florence smiled. “Thank you, Vesta.” Rummaging through her purse…
On August 19, as I planned my lemonade stand crawl for National Lemonade Day tomorrow, a perplexing pronouncement pinged my PDA: “Hue Splatman has given Mayor Butterbloggs six hours to surrender Adver City before he detonates a network of non-yellow paint bombs.”
I gasped. “Suffering citrus, how will we paint the town yellow? Lemon Fest will be ruined!”
With my publisher’s demand for a retraction—practically a resignation in this journalistic environment—hanging over me, I approached the production booth. Through the window, I watched Clint Bell at the microphone bringing his show to commercial break.
“You’re deep in The Bell Hole, live on Eastville’s ZAP-95 FM. We’ll be back after these
The seconds ticked by on my cellphone while I waited outside Brad’s apartment. At precisely at 10:38, I rang the doorbell. This time I’d get it right.
Brad poked his head through the jamb, eyes droopy from sleep. “What do you want, Julia? I thought you broke up with me.”
“I need my photo back.”
“For first place in the Camp Conniption popsicle stick sculpture competition, we have two winners!” Camp Director Naomi Addison addressed the auditorium of middle school girls. “Our judges gave both Melissa Logan and Zinnia Zunk a perfect ten.”
The girls clapped as Zinnia and I came up on stage to accept our ribbons.
On the evening of June 20, the president sat alone in the Oval Office, reviewing intelligence reports. The peace talks in Paris were going well—at least enough to silence the protesters at home. His reelection committee had hit a minor snag, but they were managing it. As long as he could distract the public…
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Tax auditor Wanda Leechwell scowled at me over the stacks of receipts on her desk. “Mr. Montes, I appreciate that you were able to substantiate the amount listed under ‘Other Expenses’ on your return. But I fail to see how any of these purchases have a legitimate business purpose.”
I squirmed in my chair,
Entering the sprawling bullpen at Inter-Consolidated Global, I noticed a sprig of colorful balloons sprouting from my cubicle. Clearly someone else knew what today was.
Tina Vallejo, the cute, freckled brunette who issued my ID badge last May, taped up the last of the glistening neon streamers over my workstation. “Happy birthday, Doug!”
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