“I’m sorry, but we have to work late tonight,” my boss Tom told me at five o’clock, nearly three hours ago. I looked across the conference room table at him, and wondered if he sensed my animosity. Piles of files and paperwork were scattered around the large table. For the last six and a half hours, we had been reviewing a proposed purchase agreement for our largest tax client. Trust me, it was a lousy way to spend a Friday night.

Around 5:30 that night, I had to call my fiancée, Kirstin, to cancel our plans for the night. At that point, I knew I wasn’t getting home any time soon. I expected her to be upset because she had planned a nice quiet evening at my place. Well, she was even more upset than I had expected. I didn’t want to cancel, but as Tom had made it very clear, this had to be done tonight, so that our client could make a decision by tomorrow morning or the deal would be blown.

My legs were stiff and my back was a little sore from sitting down, hunched over paperwork. I got up to stretch, realizing that I hadn’t gotten up from the chair in the last hour. I rubbed my sore eyes which felt strained from the many straight hours of reading fine print.

Noticing my movement, Tom took his reading glasses off and looked up at me. He was about ten years older than me, but the many wrinkles and gray hair that the business world had given him made him seem even older. He had been a good mentor to me. A partner at the firm, Tom had always looked out for me when promotions and raises were determined. “Mark, how you holding up?” he asked me.

“I’m fine,” I said. “My relationship with my fiancée on the other hand, not too good.”

“Didn’t take tonight’s cancellation too well, eh?”

I shook my head. “She’s probably complaining to her roommate about me right now.” I paused to sigh. “Tonight, we were gonna celebrate our 2nd anniversary of when you introduced us.”

Tom showed a pained expression on his face. “Ouch. I wish you had told me.”

“Would it have made a difference?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“No,” Tom admitted.

I stared at him for a moment. “I have you to thank for getting Kirstin and me together, but if you keep me here late many more Friday nights, you’re going to break us up.”

“Hold on there,” Tom said, waving his hand in the air. “Look, I’ll let you in on a secret that’s kept my marriage alive. Are you ready?” Tom asked, trying to create some anticipation. Since Kirstin was the daughter of one of our wealthiest tax clients, Tom always maintained a special interest in my relationship with her. I motioned with my right hand for him to tell his secret and Tom announced with a smile, “personal handwritten love letter.” I stared at him, trying to make sure he was serious. “Let me explain,” Tom said, sticking his right index finger in the air. He scooted his chair up to the conference room table. “You’re getting together tomorrow night, right?” I answered his question with a nod. “Write her a love letter and bring it with you tomorrow night. Mention your love and how much you’re looking forward to being together as husband and wife.” Tom sat back in his chair with his arms folded and a wide grin on his face. “Be sure to lay it on real thick.”

“Not bad,” I said, nodding my head and walking toward the door.

“Hey, where are you going?” Tom asked.

“The bathroom,” I said, not looking back.

“Well, hurry up!” Tom yelled from the conference room returning to the tone of voice of a boss. “We have to finish this.”

I walked down the lonely, dark hallway. Tom and I were the only ones on our floor. The desolate surroundings made the office quite depressing. Everyone else apparently had lives on this Friday night. I looked at my watch, which read 8:10 PM. I bitterly shook my head as I entered the restroom. Tom’s idea to write a love letter was pretty good. After using the bathroom, I didn’t want to forget any of the thoughts that I currently had in my mind. I figured the easiest and quickest thing to do was to leave some of my thoughts on my home answering machine.

I walked into a nearby vacant office and plopped down in the chair. I thought for a moment about what I would say as my eyes scanned the desktop. There were stacks of paperwork, a few files, a calculator, and a snow globe with a small house and a little stick figure farmer inside the globe. I picked up the snow globe, turned it upside-down, and shook it violently. Snowflakes fluttered everywhere. As I put it down, the small snowflakes rained down over the house and the farmer, which made me smile.

I picked up the phone and quickly dialed the number. The snow in the globe began to settle as I could hear the phone ring in my right ear. I lived alone so I was waiting for my answering machine to click on. Then, the most unbelievable thing happened. Someone picked up the phone and said “hello.”

I sat straight up in my chair and immediately looked down at the phone display to see if I dialed the correct number. I quickly determined that I had. “Hello,” the male voice repeated.

I was momentarily stunned as I felt my heartbeat quicken. “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number. I was trying to reach…” I said before reading out my home phone number.

“You have the right number. Who are you looking for?” the male voice asked. The voice sounded very familiar. My mind was racing and my mouth suddenly became dry. I was speechless, wondering what was going on. Was someone in my house? “Hello! Who are you looking for?” the voice asked again, sounding agitated.

I stammered the only thing I could think of. I asked for myself. “I’m looking for Mark Davidson.”

The response was almost too difficult to believe. It was only one word. The voice responded, “Speaking.” My eyes widened as I tried to recover from the sense of shock. There wasn’t a hint of fear or laughter in the voice. It was said in a matter of fact way.

I quickly gathered myself and recited my address before asking, “Is this the address of this phone number?”

“Who is this?” the voice asked in an angry tone. A sharp chill went up my spine. I realized that I had recognized the voice. It sounded exactly like my voice. In a state of shock, I hastily hung up the phone as if it were a hot plate burning my hand. My heart beat rapidly and my head tilted up toward the ceiling. I slumped back in my chair, moved my head back down, and stared at the phone, trying to comprehend what just happened.

When My World Got Turned Upside Down is a part of the book Murder in a Country Town and other stories. To purchase this book at Amazon.com, click here.

“Are you Robert Douglas, the private eye?” the elderly woman asked with a terrified look on her pale face. I answered her with a nod. Her cold, clammy hands grabbed mine as she said, “Someone is trying to kill me.”

Stunned, I was silent for a moment as I stared at her. The woman’s hands were shaking. Still a little startled myself, I asked the woman to sit down. As a precaution, I drew the blinds on the large window of my ground floor office and then locked my front door. I walked back to my desk and pulled out one of my standard form papers. “Your name, ma’am?”

“Margaret Wilson,” the woman responded, clutching her purse in her lap like a security blanket.

“Ms. Wilson,” I said, looking her straight in the eye. “Who’s trying to kill you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” I muttered, scratching my head. “Well, uh, why would anyone want to kill you?”

“I don’t know,” Margaret said, her eyes widened.

“What makes you think that someone wants to kill you?”

Margaret thought about her answer for a moment before saying, “I just have a feeling.”

I groaned out loud and said to myself, “Not another one of these cases.” I looked at her and said, “You don’t know why someone would kill you. And you don’t know who is trying to kill you. You don’t even have a reason to believe your life is in danger.”

“You’ve got to believe me. I need your help.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think there's anything to help you with,” I said rising.

Margaret jumped up and grabbed my hand again. “Please. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars an hour.”

I slowly sat back down. “What do you want me to do?”

“Be at my house tomorrow,” the woman said, handing me a card with her phone number and address. “I must go. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eleven.” She began walking toward the door before suddenly stopping. “I don’t want anybody at the house to know that you’re a private eye. So tell anyone who asks you that you’re a nephew of a friend of mine.”

“Okay,” I said, looking down at the card which read: Wilson Paintings, 253 Fairway Road, (803) 555-7439. Still looking down, I said, “I’m going to need to know more…” I stopped abruptly when I looked up and realized that she was gone. I walked over to the window and opened the blinds just in time to see her get in the driver’s seat of a black Mercedes and speed away.

The next morning I pulled my sputtering, brown car up to 253 Fairway Road. My old car appeared woefully out of place in the upscale neighborhood. I waved sarcastically to a jogger whose mouth dropped at the sight of my vehicle. Being fifty years old, I had stopped being self-conscious a long time ago.

Her house was an impressive, gated mansion. I marveled at the beautiful estate as I drove the car to the front gate. I pushed a button next to the speaker.

“May I help you?” a voice from the speaker asked.

“I’m Robert Douglas. I’m here to see Margaret Wilson.”

There was a momentary pause. “Yes, Ms. Wilson is expecting you. Pull your car up to the end of the driveway.” The gates opened. I cautiously drove into the estate as the gates closed behind me.

As I drove up the long driveway, I admired the perfectly trimmed lawn, swimming pool, small greenhouse, tennis court, and large pond. As I brought the car to a halt at the end of the driveway, Margaret and a man in his sixties greeted me. The man was slender and dressed in black slacks with a white-collared shirt. His short hair was almost entirely gray. The man appeared meticulously neat and maintained a serious expression on his face.

“I’m so glad that you could make it,” Margaret said, walking over to me. The man also walked over to me but at a more deliberate pace. “This is James, our butler and a very dear friend of mine.”

“Your coat and hat sir?” James said, holding out his right hand.” I was a little startled at first. No one had ever asked for my coat or hat before. That is, unless they wanted to borrow it. “Sir?” James said, breaking my trance. I slowly handed him my coat and hat. James immediately tried to brush some dust off my coat as he headed back toward the house.

I took a step toward the house, but Margaret grabbed my arm. She had quite a grip for a woman her age. She waited a moment for James to be out of earshot before saying softly, “Remember when I told you someone is trying to kill me.” I nodded my head slowly. “Well, now I’m sure of it. It’s going to happen tomorrow night.”

“How do you know that? And what makes you so sure?”

Margaret looked around before saying, “Let’s go into my room. It’s safer there.”

I followed Margaret through the front door and up the stairs to her large bedroom. The house was as nice on the inside as it was on the outside. The rooms were lavishly furnished and the walls were decorated with beautiful artwork. The house was pristinely clean and not even a cushion appeared to be out of place. When we entered her bedroom, there was a young, pretty woman dusting.

“I was just straightening up your room, Miss Wilson,” the woman said. Although her stature was on the smaller side, the woman appeared taller than she actually was because she stood with her chest stuck out like a proud peacock. The woman who couldn’t have been older than thirty had put too much make-up on her otherwise pretty face.

“That’s okay,” Margaret said. “But Cathy, I will be using this room now.”

“Yes ma’am,” Cathy said before slowly exiting the room.

Margaret closed the door behind her and walked across the room to sit on her bed. She motioned for me to sit next to her before whispering, “Someone is trying to kill me.”

I began to get frustrated. “You’ve told me that before. But who is trying to kill you?”

“I don’t know,” Margaret said, reaching into her purse. “That’s what I’m paying you for.” She counted out $300 in twenty dollar bills. “You’ll stay for three hours today.”

“Okay,” I said, taking the money. “But, I’m still not sure what you want me to do.”

“Find out who’s trying to kill me,” Margaret said as if it were obvious.

Someone is Trying to Kill Me is a part of the book Murder in a Country Town and other stories. To purchase this book at Amazon.com, click here.

I stood in the hallway, looking in Tyler’s room. It hadn’t changed a bit over the last month: the same posters on the wall, the pillows arranged on the bed in the exact same pattern, his board games neatly stacked in the corner. I sighed deeply and clutched my stomach as I stared in the room. I’ve had a hole in my heart, ever since someone murdered my eight-year-old son. Words cannot describe how much I miss him. I have been a detective in the homicide division for fifteen years. So, feelings of anger joined my deep sorrow because I had yet to bring Tyler’s murderer to justice.

“Dad,” a voice said, followed by a tug on my arm. It was my eleven-year-old daughter, Ashley. “I finished talking to Uncle Roger. Can we go for ice cream now?”

I closed Tyler’s door and turned toward Ashley. “Yes, of course honey,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “Put your shoes on and sit in the car. I’ll see if Uncle Roger would like to join us.”

Roger was my older brother, who was visiting from out of town. It was good to have him around because he was family, and the fact that he was a child psychologist made it even better. He was here to help Ashley deal with the trauma of seeing her brother murdered. I also hoped he could uncover something she would remember that would provide a lead in the investigation.

I walked down the hallway and into the study, closing the door behind me. Roger was sitting in the large leather chair behind the desk. “Well, how did it go?”

“Have a seat,” Roger suggested, gesturing toward a nearby chair. I sighed before taking a seat. “Before we talk about Ashley, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You can’t possibly be fine,” Roger said. “A year ago, you find out your son has cancer. You go to specialist after specialist, giving him the best treatment money can buy. You go into debt, so much so that a month ago, you ask me for a loan. Then, your son is murdered and you spend the last thirty days trying to find the assailant. So… how on earth can you be fine?”

I looked at Roger for a moment before saying, “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to admit your physical and emotional limits. I want you to stop investigating Tyler’s death. Leave that to other guys in the department. Psychologically, you could really benefit from a break from this.”

“I’ll take a break when Tyler’s murderer is rotting in a jail cell. Now, I would like to hear…” I stopped in mid sentence as I spotted the picture of Tyler and me on the wall. It was a picture from a fishing trip. We both had big grins on our faces. An overwhelming sense of sadness came over me. I buried my face in my hands and said, “Why? Why would anyone want to kill Tyler? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Roger said, rubbing my shoulder. He had gotten up from his chair behind the desk and was now standing over me. “I know it’s very little consolation, but if Tyler were alive, he would likely be in pain now and be down to his last month to live.”

“We don’t know that. The doctors could have been wrong. There was always hope.”

Roger stopped rubbing my shoulder and said, “You took him to five different specialists. They all said that his condition was terminal, giving him two months to live.”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever time Tyler had left was his,” I said, looking directly at Roger. “Please, tell me how your conversation with Ashley went.”

“It went okay,” Roger said. “The good news is that, under the circumstances, she’s coping well. But, she’s feeling neglected. You have been so consumed with finding Tyler’s killer, you haven’t spent much time with her.”

“Well, I’m going to take her out for some ice cream as soon as we finish talking.” I scratched my head. “Did she talk about what she witnessed at the cliff?”

“Yes, but it was same story she has always said.”

“Well, tell me again.”

“She said she and Tyler took a walk along the cliffs near the lighthouse. She was holding Tyler’s hand, when all of a sudden, someone came from behind them, shoved her to the side, and pushed Tyler off the cliff.”

“Did she say she remembered anything about this person?”.

“Just that he wore a hooded sweatshirt,” Roger said. “And the hood was over his head.”

In the last month, I had made no headway in finding this hooded man. As a detective, my expertise was piecing together evidence, but in this case, there simply was not much evidence. I was also good at extracting evidence by interrogating suspects. I made them see that they were better off talking. My motto: Keeping a potential case out of the courtroom is the best way to ensure justice. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any suspects. All I had was one witness.

“Maybe, I should talk to her,” I said.

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Roger said, shaking his head. “She’s in a fragile stage right now.”

“I understand, but with each day that passes, we become less likely to ever catch the creep who did this. I have to talk to her.” I looked at my watch, knowing my wife, Christine, would be home soon. I pointed at Roger and said, “You stay here. Tell Christine that Ashley and I went out for some ice cream.”

Murder in a Coastal Town is a part of the book Murder in a Coastal Town and other stories. To purchase this book at Amazon.com, click here

I took a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm my nerves. My heart pounded rapidly and my hands shook noticeably as I knocked on the door. Twenty years as a private investigator and meetings like this still give me a lump in my throat. I took off my brown hat and held it in my hand at my side. The porch awning shielded me from the light snowfall on this Sunday morning in December. Brian Flowers called me to his mansion-like home to begin an investigation to find his ten-year-old daughter, who had been missing for the last two days.

I heard the barking, or what I would describe more like yapping, of a dog and then footsteps approaching the front door. The door opened and a middle-aged man appeared. It was Brian Flowers.

BA tall, imposing man with a muscular build. Brian was president of a large advertising firm, founded by his father. The Flowers’ name around town was synonymous with power, wealth, and success.

He had called me six months ago on another job, wanting me to spy on his wife who he had suspected was having an affair. I didn’t find too much out. The best I could do was take a relatively dark photo of his wife having drinks with another man in a hotel room. Unfortunately, the picture was too dark to recognize the man and shortly thereafter, Brian notified me that my services were no longer needed.

“Spider, shut up!” Brian shouted at a yapping black and tan Dachshund. The Dachshund responded by turning tail and running back into the house. “Sorry, it’s my mother’s dog. Barks at anything that moves. He’s harmless though.”

Brian motioned for me to come into the house. He led me into the study, closing the door behind us. He picked up a scrapbook and opened it as he sat beside me on the couch. The anger and suspicion that I remembered from the man was replaced with grief and desperation. I could see it all over his face. He showed me a large picture of his daughter. A darling little girl with an award-winning smile, she had beautiful blond hair that fell down to her shoulders.

“This is Cindy. She’s been missing since Friday.”

“What do you know about how she spent her Friday?”

“The police checked with her teacher, she was at school all day.” As Brian talked, he didn’t look at me. Instead, he stared at Cindy’s picture, which was resting on his lap. “And I talked to Cindy’s best friend, Serena. She said...”

“How old is Serena?”

“She’s ten also,” Brian replied, still looking at the picture of Cindy. “She said she walked home with Cindy Friday afternoon and watched her go into this house. And that’s the last anyone ever saw of her.”

“What time was that?”

“School ends at 2:15. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from the school. So, about 2:30.”

“So, there was no one else in the house at that time?”

“No, there wasn’t,” Brian said, looking up at me. “Linda and I were working. My mother was at the community center all afternoon. And my fifteen year old son, Matthew, was at basketball practice.”

“Did Cindy always come home to an empty house?”

“Well, Linda works part time so she’s home on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Brian explained. “The other days Cindy’s old enough to take care of herself.”

“Apparently not,” I thought to myself.

“She’s a very mature ten year old,” Brian said, reading the expression on my face. “Three months ago, she won Junior Miss America. For the contest, each child must show some talent. She’d come home and practice her magic act.”

“When did someone realize Cindy was missing?”

“I think my mother was the first to come home, then Matthew. I got home from work a little after five o’clock. When Matthew told me that he hadn’t seen her, I called Linda at work. She said she wasn’t with her and I knew something was wrong.”

We quickly discussed my fee, which included a $20,000 bonus if I found Cindy alive. It was all on a one page contract Brian had drawn up. $20,000 was some incentive. Money was certainly no obstacle to Brian when it came to finding his daughter. He gave me his cell phone number and told me to call him if I found out anything important.

Brian gave me a firm handshake and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m counting on you to find my daughter. She means everything to me.” Brian told me that he had to go to a neighborhood watch meeting, but he said I could talk to anyone in the house. He led me upstairs to Alice’s room. Her room, which was very spacious, had several paintings and a small sculpture of Jesus Christ. It was meticulously clean with each pillow lying perfectly in place on the bed. Brian introduced me to his mother as “the gentleman who was going to find Cindy.”

Alice sat in a large armchair near her bed. She appeared to be in her early eighties. Her face was lined with wrinkles and her hair was completely white. She wore thick, gold colored eyeglasses. Less noticeable was a small, white hearing aid in her right ear. She held a cane in one hand and rubbed her dog’s back with the other. I walked over to her to shake her hand. I was surprised. I expected her to be weak and frail, but instead her handshake was quite firm and powerful.

“I have to leave now,” Brian said to his mother. “But, Robert is going to stay and talk to you.” He bent down to hug his mother before exiting the room.

There was a momentary silence as Alice and I just looked at each other. “Is this your dog?” I asked, breaking the silence as I sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Why yes,” Alice said with a smile. The Dachshund was chewing on a rawhide bone. “He’s a great companion. Stays with me all the time.”

“Brian tells me you were at the community center Friday afternoon. Did Spider go with you?”

“Heavens no. Dogs aren’t allowed at the center. He stayed here.”

“Does he stay inside or outside when you’re gone?”

“Well, he has a little doggie door so he can be in either place, but he usually prefers the house.”

“When did you get back from the center last Friday?”

“I don’t know. ‘Bout four thirty, I’d guess.”

“And Cindy wasn’t home when you returned?”

“I don’t know. I mean I don’t think so,” Alice said, stumbling over her own words. “I was tired. I didn’t look for Cindy. I just went straight to my room to take a nap.”

“So do you have any idea what happened to Cindy? Any idea where she might be?”

Alice slowly rose from her chair, causing Spider to leap to the ground. Alice slowly walked with her cane toward the bedroom window. “Cindy will be back.” Alice reached down to pick up a necklace, which prominently displayed the cross. Alice held the cross close to her bosom. “God will show Cindy the way home.”

I dropped my head realizing this ordeal must be tough on Alice. “Did you notice Cindy upset or unhappy at all last week? Any indication that she might want to run away from home?”

Alice turned around to face me. The endearing smile was gone from her face. It was replaced by a hostile glare. It startled me. “Cindy was a happy child. She was a Miss America. She didn’t run away. Some evil force took her, probably the devil.” Alice then turned back around to look outside again. She then said in a softer, friendlier tone, “But she’ll find her way home. God will show her the way.”

I decided that I had gotten all of the information that I needed from Alice. She pointed me toward Matthew’s room. I walked down the hallway and opened the second door. A startled boy sat in a chair next to an open window. Wearing a tee shirt and faded blue jeans, he held a lit cigarette in his left hand.

“Hey, you ever heard of knockin’,” the boy said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, entering the room and closing the door behind me. He continued to smoke as I sat on the unmade bed near him. I had to move some of the dirty clothes that were on the bed out of the way in order to sit down. The room, with the floor littered with clothes and sports equipment, was a stark contrast to Alice’s pristine bedroom. “Does your dad know you smoke?” He shook his head as he glared at me, probably still upset with the intrusion. “My name is Robert,” I said, extending my hand for a handshake. “I’m a private invest....”

“What do you want?”

I put down my hand, which was awkwardly hanging out there. “I want to find your sister.”

“Everything is always about her, the golden child. When she was here, she had the spotlight. Now that she’s gone, she still has it.”

“Surely, you want someone to find your sister?”

He looked me straight in the eye for about five seconds before finally saying, “Of course.”

“Good, I just have a few questions for you,” I said, pulling out my notepad again. “When did you get home from school last Friday?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew said before exhaling smoke from his cigarette. “I had basketball practice so I probably got home around five o’clock.”

“When you get home on the weekdays, is Cindy usually there?”

“Usually.”

“So you were surprised when Cindy wasn’t home?”

“No, I wasn’t. I just figured my dad or Linda came home early to take her some place. You know, magic lessons or singing lessons, whatever.”

“Was Cindy unhappy at all before her disappearance?”

“Unhappy? Give me a break. What did she have to be unhappy about? She was perfect. Dad drooled over her. Linda always took her side. Grandma couldn’t stop talking about her. Everybody loved her.”

“What about you?” I asked with raised eyebrows. “Did you love her?”

Matthew glared at me again before jamming what was left of his cigarette into an ashtray that was resting on the windowsill. “I’m going to shoot some hoops. I have a big game tonight. The team is counting on me.”

Murder in a Snow Covered Town is a part of the book Murder in a Snow Covered Town and other stories. To purchase this book at Amazon.com, click here