So I know a lot of y'all (like us) are stuck in social isolation, so I'm gonna try to up my post frequency, at least temporarily.
Here's a non-starter, something I attempted as a short story that just didn't fly. It's also a potential beginning and/or scene from a sequel to Murder in a Box and Pitter, Patter, Murder.
Sandrine was surprised to find Melanie Whittle at her parents’ front door. She watched her adjust her suit lapels on the security camera, then hit the intercom button. “Yes?” Sandrine slurred.
“I’m looking for Sandrine Runds,” Melanie’s grey eyes swept the eaves until she spotted the camera, “Is she home?”
Sandrine ducked as if Melanie could see her through the screen. “Do you know she’s wanted in Canada for fraud?”
“Everyone in Cobblestone Keep knows that. Sandrine, is that you?”
“Maybe, depends on what you want.”
“I need your help.”
Sandrine cleared her throat, “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I. Am. A. Fraud.”
“My mom is missing, Sandrine. All we have is this,” she took a cloth-bound book out of her leather bag and held it up for the camera.
“Okay, you can come in,” Sandrine pushed a button, “but I can’t accept any payment, or make promises, or allude to spirits or the supernatural, nor am I allowed to use the name ‘Charon’ to refer to myself.”
“Good grief,” Melanie pulled the door open. She looked much as Sandrine remembered her, the same black hair pulled up into a tortoiseshell clip, the same plain black oxfords; only the dark shadows under her eyes were new. “Who told you that you couldn’t do those things?” Melanie stepped inside.
“My parents’ lawyer.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll have to be careful about how I say this, then,” Melanie held out the book.
Sandrine ran her fingers over the delicate stitching on the cover. “The evil eye,” she closed her hand around it. Energy surged through her in a burst of blue and darkness tickled at the back of her mind. Sandrine ignored it and flipped open the cover, “What language is this?”
“We were assuming it was Gaelic, but Google Translate seems to think it’s nonsense.”
“Oh, nonsense. I speak that language,” Sandrine closed the book and flipped it over, “I think you’re holding it upside down, anyway. See,” she flipped open a page, her voice deepening, “it says ‘a curse beyond the man who reads this tome and fails the three quests.’”
“You mean ‘be on.’”
“No, I mean ‘beyond,’ that’s what it says,” Sandrine flipped the pages, “I haven’t seen you for a while, how’s your mom?”
“Sandrine,” Melanie put a hand on her arm, “Let’s go sit down.”
The two women sat in the living room in front of a sand garden that doubled as a coffee table. Sandrine picked up a small wooden rake and drew swirls in the sand.
“What do you think ‘a curse beyond’ means?” Melanie slid the book back into her bag.
“Oh, I don’t know. It could be a lot of things. A curse beyond the grave. A curse beyond the veil. A curse beyond the rainbow,” Sandrine set the rake down, “If happy little curses fly beyond the rainbow, why can’t I?”
Melanie’s pale skin turned even paler, “How did you know about the veil?”
“I don’t. Remember, I’m not a psychic, nor am I allowed to advertise myself as one.”
“There was a veil found in my mother’s bed. It wasn’t anything she owned, at least nothing the family knew about.”
“Black,” Sandrine whispered, “with red roses.”
“There was a rose pattern in the lace, and yes, it was black.”
“Your mother’s alive. She’s been taken as a bride,” Sandrine’s face reassembled itself into hard lines, “There is a man in a striped suit. His name starts with a J or that letter is somehow important to him. He has facial hair. I hear a voice say, ‘He’s a handsome devil.’ He’s older, he may have grandchildren. Something about a violin case. He either has a violin or carries the case with something else in it or has a gun, shaped like a violin.”
“Oh my gosh, I know him. You’re talking about George Florez. You know, the guy whose teeth look twenty and gums look eighty,” Melanie pulled her phone out of her bag, “I need to text Detective Jefferson.”
Sandrine blinked at Melanie, a glazed expression on her face, “Tell him you dreamed about it.”
“It’s okay. He knows I’m over here,” Melanie typed a message on her phone, “Contacting you was his idea.”
Here's a non-starter, something I attempted as a short story that just didn't fly. It's also a potential beginning and/or scene from a sequel to Murder in a Box and Pitter, Patter, Murder.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m looking for Sandrine Runds,” Melanie’s grey eyes swept the eaves until she spotted the camera, “Is she home?”
Sandrine ducked as if Melanie could see her through the screen. “Do you know she’s wanted in Canada for fraud?”
“Everyone in Cobblestone Keep knows that. Sandrine, is that you?”
“Maybe, depends on what you want.”
“I need your help.”
Sandrine cleared her throat, “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I. Am. A. Fraud.”
“My mom is missing, Sandrine. All we have is this,” she took a cloth-bound book out of her leather bag and held it up for the camera.
“Okay, you can come in,” Sandrine pushed a button, “but I can’t accept any payment, or make promises, or allude to spirits or the supernatural, nor am I allowed to use the name ‘Charon’ to refer to myself.”
“Good grief,” Melanie pulled the door open. She looked much as Sandrine remembered her, the same black hair pulled up into a tortoiseshell clip, the same plain black oxfords; only the dark shadows under her eyes were new. “Who told you that you couldn’t do those things?” Melanie stepped inside.
“My parents’ lawyer.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll have to be careful about how I say this, then,” Melanie held out the book.
Sandrine ran her fingers over the delicate stitching on the cover. “The evil eye,” she closed her hand around it. Energy surged through her in a burst of blue and darkness tickled at the back of her mind. Sandrine ignored it and flipped open the cover, “What language is this?”
“We were assuming it was Gaelic, but Google Translate seems to think it’s nonsense.”
“Oh, nonsense. I speak that language,” Sandrine closed the book and flipped it over, “I think you’re holding it upside down, anyway. See,” she flipped open a page, her voice deepening, “it says ‘a curse beyond the man who reads this tome and fails the three quests.’”
“You mean ‘be on.’”
“No, I mean ‘beyond,’ that’s what it says,” Sandrine flipped the pages, “I haven’t seen you for a while, how’s your mom?”
“Sandrine,” Melanie put a hand on her arm, “Let’s go sit down.”
The two women sat in the living room in front of a sand garden that doubled as a coffee table. Sandrine picked up a small wooden rake and drew swirls in the sand.
“What do you think ‘a curse beyond’ means?” Melanie slid the book back into her bag.
“Oh, I don’t know. It could be a lot of things. A curse beyond the grave. A curse beyond the veil. A curse beyond the rainbow,” Sandrine set the rake down, “If happy little curses fly beyond the rainbow, why can’t I?”
Melanie’s pale skin turned even paler, “How did you know about the veil?”
“I don’t. Remember, I’m not a psychic, nor am I allowed to advertise myself as one.”
“There was a veil found in my mother’s bed. It wasn’t anything she owned, at least nothing the family knew about.”
“Black,” Sandrine whispered, “with red roses.”
“There was a rose pattern in the lace, and yes, it was black.”
“Your mother’s alive. She’s been taken as a bride,” Sandrine’s face reassembled itself into hard lines, “There is a man in a striped suit. His name starts with a J or that letter is somehow important to him. He has facial hair. I hear a voice say, ‘He’s a handsome devil.’ He’s older, he may have grandchildren. Something about a violin case. He either has a violin or carries the case with something else in it or has a gun, shaped like a violin.”
“Oh my gosh, I know him. You’re talking about George Florez. You know, the guy whose teeth look twenty and gums look eighty,” Melanie pulled her phone out of her bag, “I need to text Detective Jefferson.”
Sandrine blinked at Melanie, a glazed expression on her face, “Tell him you dreamed about it.”
“It’s okay. He knows I’m over here,” Melanie typed a message on her phone, “Contacting you was his idea.”