The Sound of Footseps Walking Away

 The war between Sam and Kelly was all-consuming destroying everything it came in contact with. Kelly  was insure what started the conflict.  She had made a delicious dinner. She dressed the table with her favorite vintage tablecloth, good china and silverware. She lit candles for ambiance.  Everything looked perfect, but yet, before they finished the meal the dining room would become a war zone.

Special dishes shattered against the wall like mortars. Gravy and candle wax stained the vintage tablecloth. Chairs knocked to the floor.  The meal flung on the floor. Kelly assesses the damages.  She then realized that as traumatized as she is by the sudden explosion of anger and hate that her sons, were even more scarred. Two more casualties in a war that she couldn’t explain. The boys fled the room at the first sign of engagement.

Kelly raced to her sanctuary, the sewing room.  She slammed the door and locked Sam and his assault out.  With her back against the door, she cowered, covering her ears. She slid herself to the floor, barricading herself even more in her favorite foxhole.

After some time, Kelly realized that quiet returned to the house, a temporary cease fire in place. Listening, she could hear heavy steps approaching the door.  It wasn’t the knock on the door she dreaded but the sound of the footsteps walking away. Peace will not be brokered here tonight.footsteps walking away.

Fall 2014 Story Starter #1

As I look for my husband among the Blackjack tables, I realize that I am being followed.  Specifically, by a tall thin man wearing a University of Michigan sweatshirt, jeans, and a black fedora. Aware, but unconcerned yet, I continue scouring the tables for Steve.

The Blackjack tables are full. I am worrying. I am worrying about the time, Betsey, our babysitter needs to get home.  I’m worried about the fact that I CANNOT find Steve. He promised he would stay at the Blackjack tables if I wanted to walk around. 

My awareness of the man in the sweatshirt following me is quickly moving into the concerned zone. The man in the sweatshirt continues to pace me from one aisle over and I am nearing the end of my aisle. I am definitely concerned. As I near the end of the aisle, I slow my brisk walk to a stroll. So does Sweatshirt Man. Damn.

I stop between the final table and the next to stall for time and “look” for my cell phone in my purse. Thankfully, Sweatshirt Man isn’t in the next aisle over. I blow out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.   Sweatshirt Man takes this opportunity to grab my by my elbow. How did he get over here?

“Please come with me quietly and we’ll meet your husband, Steve, in the parking lot.  Don’t worry. Betsey is on her way home.  Alice is sound asleep in her crib and being watched over.  It’s best to let sleeping babies lie. We wouldn’t want Alice to be woke at this hour do we?” Sweatshirt Man whispers in my ear.

They say you see stars before the lights go out and that is exactly the last thing I remember before waking up in a small cell, grey cement walls surrounding me and a single bulb above my head intermittently blinking on and off.  All I could do was lie on my back and stare at the bulb and then marvel at the dots repeatedly created before my eyes.  It was better than thinking.

Slowly I sat up and took stock of my surroundings.  I half expected to be tied up but no, I was not.  I got up off the floor of the cell thinking that jails should at least have one bed.

And then it struck me.  This wasn't a jail, was it?

Panic seized me in the name of Alice.  Was she still at home safe?  Who was watching her if Betsey was on her way home?  And who told her she could go home before Steve or I arrived?  And where was Steve?  Sweatshirt Man had said we'd see him in the parking lot.  Did we?  

I don't remember.

No Forwarding Address

Jerry comes around the corner.  He is dragging a large, black trash bag. He struggles with the burden. He strains while the over-filled bag drags and catches on the gravel of the driveway.

 Finally, he reaches the trunk of the Pontiac. He rests his hands on the trunk for a moment; breathing hard. His breath comes out and mixes with the cold, crisp morning.

He reaches into his pocket, scrabbles the Pontiac keys out. It’s finally over, he thinks as he punches his key into the trunk’s keyhole. Jerry wrestles the heavy bag into the trunk, adjusts it, and slams the trunk firmly shut. 

Jerry slowly looks around.  Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he strides forward, opens the driver’ side door, slides in, again slams the door shut, and stabs the key into the ignition.  FREEDOM, he whispers to himself with a sigh of relief as he turns the ignition key.

The Pontiac stereo comes alive. “Highway to Hell” blasts from the speakers as Jerry pulls out of the driveway and leaves town.

Summer Story Starter - Darling Darla

The message on his voice mail is scratchy but Harold hears the words, “I miss you,” and decides to investigate.  Harold double-checks his call log on his cell phone but that is no help.  Voice mails don’t show up as missed called.
That is definitely Darla’s voice he heard.  He is sure of it.  Harold had not seen Darla for years. Not since she'd run off the night they were supposed to get married.  And to make matters worse, she took Steve, Harold's former best friend, with her that night.

How dare she call me up and whisper, “I miss you.”  It’s not as if I’ve been waiting to hear from the likes of her.  What if she needs help?  Darla always did attract trouble…And she expects me to rescue her!  The nerve….
And what about Steve?  Where is Steve?

Grumbling and stomping, Harold makes his way to his home office.  He listens to the voicemail one more time.  “I miss you,” whispered so low, he can barely hear it. 

“Yep, that’s Darla. DANG IT!”  Harold slams his fist down on his desk, takes a deep breath, and visibly collects himself.  He hits the button to return the call; “Harold Jones, Private Investigator.  How can I help you?”

"Bless your heart, sweet Harold," Darla's voice has gone Southern since the last time he'd talked with her.  "I just knew you'd call me back.  Why, I jus' told Jesse you would."

Harold's ears were ringing.  She's gone Southern and must think everyone is deaf, she is nearly yelling into the phone. Jesse?  So, she's hooked another sorry soul.  Steve must be yesterday's news.

"Harold?  Harry?  Harry-love?  You still there?"

"Yes, Darla, I haven't hung up yet," he answered.  

"Oh, sweet Jesus, Harry-love, I do need your help," her voice drips like honey.  Where, how, when had this all happened? “Now I know you must have all sorts of questions for me," she continued, not letting him get a word in edge-wise, "but hear me out first.  Or, at least, let me confess."

"Confess?"

"Harry-dear, I mean Harry-love," Darla hurriedly corrects herself, for whatever reason.  "Might could you be a dear.  I believe I killed Steve and you're the only one I could think of to figure this whole sorry mess out."

"Steve's dead?"  Harold collapses into his recliner.  He experiences a wave of sorrow for his old friend.  

"Well . . . maybe."

"What do you mean, maybe?  Is he dead or isn't he?"

Dropping the southern accent she spits out, "If I knew for sure I wouldn't have to call you, would I?"  She gave a deep sigh and once again the accent.  "Harry, be a dear and ask the policeman, ah, detective  -- I have his number here -- and see if you can't straight this little misunderstanding out."

"Well, before I call the police why don't you tell me your side?" Harold tries to sound as patient as he possibly could with his eyes rolling. 

"Oh, fine.  It seems that . . . I may have . . . misplaced Steve and now the police are asking me all sorts of silly questions.  As if I had something to do with it!"

“Darla, first I want to hear about how you MAY have misplaced Steve.” Harold sighs a long suffering sigh.

Dropping the southern act again, Darla blurts out in one long stream; “Fine, it’s really simple.  Steve was drinking and decided that a midnight boat ride through the swamp would be romantic.  I disagreed, all those bugs and dripping moss, and critters that scream in the night, and all. Anyway, Steve was half in the bag when he dragged me into the airboat, how is it my fault that he fell in while he was shining gators.  I didn’t want to be there to begin with, so I left him.  He’s a smart guy; he should have been able to find his own way home. It’s not my fault that some ignorant ran over that big gator on the highway.  And it’s not my fault they found Steve’s wallet inside the gator.  How do I know how it got in there?” She finishes with a wail.

Wait, what? Darla can pilot an airboat? Steve is missing and his wallet was found inside a big gator? 

Harold tries to process all the new information. Why is he getting sucked in by Darla again? No, this has to stop.  I haven't heard from Darla in years and yet, who does she call when she's in trouble with the law?  Yeah, then she thinks of me.  This is where I tell her off.  Never call me again!  The nerve!  Yeah, notice she didn't call on Steve to help her out.  Oh, that's right, because she misplaced Steve in the stomach of an alligator! Hmm, that could have been me.

"Fine, give me the detective's name."

"Thank you, Harry-love.  I always knew I could count on you.  I was always telling Steve that I could count on you  . . . unlike him --"

"What's the detective's name, Darla?" He was not getting sucked in again.
"Well, if you want to be that way about it!" she snarls.  "His name is Jesse McKenna."  She quickly rattles off the phone number.  "Be sure to tell him that I wasn't anywhere near when that gator got hold of Steve, you tell him --"

"I thought you just said you were with Steve when he fell in."

"No, I said -- what I meant was, I didn't see any gator grab Steve.  I was long gone when that happened."

Harold frowns.  "You know exactly what happened that night, don't you?"

"Oh, now you sound like that detective!  Everybody is against me!  I could never hurt a fly, you know that!  When did I ever hurt you that you would turn on me so?" Darla whimpers.

Are you kidding me? He wants to yell.  How about running off with Steve the night of our wedding?  You don't think you ripped my heart out then?

"Never mind," she snaps.  "I don't want your help.  You shred up that name and number that I just gave you.  You hear me?  Don't help me at all!  I don't want it."

"Darla," Harold says calmly, "I'm going to do as you say and not help you.  But I am going to investigate the mysterious death of an old friend.  Thanks for the information.  Someone will be in touch with you." While he can still hear her talking -- yelling in her natural voice -- he clickes his cell phone off.

Heaving a great sigh, Harold lowers himself back into his chair. Darla always did know how to get a rise out of him. He barely settles in, though, when his phone rings. Glancing at the caller ID, he sees that it is the Collier County Sheriff’s Department, but that doesn’t mean that he needs to let on that he is expecting this call.

“Harold Jones, private investigator. How can I help you?”

“Jones, this is Detective Jesse McKenna of the Collier County Sheriff’s Department.”

“I’m sorry? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Yes, we have reason to believe that you may have information that is pertinent to an ongoing investigation to a missing person’s case here in Ochapee, Florida.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Harold replies cautiously. “I haven’t been anywhere near Florida in the past decade or so.”

Noting his hesitation, the detective answers, “Well, that’s not what Darla told me.”

Harold chuckles before agreeing. “Darla always has been a bit of a drama queen. She has a tendency to exaggerate wildly, as I’m sure you quickly realized.”

“Yes, well, I highly doubt that she imagined that wallet turning up in the belly of a gator. There’s no denying that was where it was found, strange as it may seem. The only question left is where is Steve?”

“Like I said, I can’t help you. I wish you the best of luck, though. You’re going to need it where Darla is concerned!”

Harold sits at his desk mulling over the facts. Fact number one: Darla is nothing but trouble. Fact number two: Steve is missing. Fact number three: Darla claims to have left him ALIVE in a swamp. Fact number four: Darla can drive an airboat. Fact number five: Steve’s wallet was found inside a large gator. Fact number six: Detective McKenna thinks that I’ve been in Florida lately. Fact number seven: Darla is mixed up with someone named Jesse and the detective's name is Jesse....

 Harold takes a deep breath. “Detective McKenna, I want to know what happened to Steve in that swamp and I want to know how long you've 'known' Darla.”

“What, what, what do you mean…. How long I’ve ‘known’ Darla?” Detective Jesse McKenna sputters… “My relationship with Darla isn’t part of this investigation.”

Harold quietly hangs up the call and quickly hits the redial. “Can I please speak to the Chief of Police?  I have a missing person to report and I reason to believe that Internal Affairs needs to be involved.”

* * * * *

Darla muses as she is taken into custody. If only they had emptied his pockets before feeding him to the gators; they would have got away with it. A gator and that meddling SOB Harold. He just had to call in Internal Affairs….

The ongoing Internal Affairs investigation later proved that Darla and her new beau Detective Jesse McKenna murdered Steve.  Darla had married Steve shortly after running off with him in the hopes of living off his inheritance.  When she discovered that Steve’s family lost “their money” in a Ponzi scheme gone wrong; she seduced the new detective to help her enact her plan, cover her tracks, and run away to Argentina with her with newly minted false identities. 


 

 

 

Summer Story Starter - Shards of Freedom

Shards of Freedom

If she could have literally jumped out of her skin, Jenny would have.  Instead she jerked upward like a marionette with its strings violently pulled.

The shelves behind her continued to tilt, allowing plate after plate to slide to the floor, each one breaking into mosaic pieces.  The kitchen floor was soon decorated with pieces of terra cotta, flamingo pink, sunshine yellow, turquoise and orange shards from the FiestaWare dishes she’d once loved.

Now, it didn’t matter, although she did look at the largest piece of earthenware, at least saving that one from breaking.  After all, she wasn’t totally without compassion.

Since Ted had walked out the front door last night after casually informing her he loved someone else, Jenny had spent the better part of six hours packing up what she wanted and breaking the rest.

She’d be heading to her mother’s house in Iowa, taking her carload of treasures and their pup, Sammy.  Ted could deal with the rest.

Tossing her last bag into the trunk, she whistled for Sammy.  She slammed the trunk hard, emphasizing her decision.  “Come on Sammy.  Let’s hit the road.”  She leaned over to clip the leash to Sammy’s collar and, at the same time, spied Ted’s jeep careening around the corner. “Time to go!”

With Sammy safely ensconced in the back seat, Jenny drove her beater to the nearest gas station for a fill up.  As she topped off the tank with a few gallons of fuel, she scanned the horizon, worried about Ted’s reaction once he found the destruction in the house.

“He’s reaping what he sowed,” she muttered under her breath, Sammy’s tail slapping the backseat with a thump, thump, thump.  He then growled lightly, as if he didn’t know what to make of his owner’s anger.  Jenny almost had to laugh.  Almost.

She’d spent the last three years attempting to make a series of shoddy apartments into cheerful, welcoming homes.  It wasn’t an easy task, but she had a good eye, passed along from her bargain-hunting mother.  The only problem had been Ted.  Just when they would get settled in, Ted’s construction jobs would dry up, and he’d announce that it was time to move to greener pastures.  She secretly worried about the reason for the lack of jobs.

And now, how sad, everything from her entire married life could fit into the back of an old beat-up Taurus.  Well, except for those FiestaWare dishes.  Jenny laughed.  It was a bit funny that she was missing those dishes more than Ted, the man she'd vowed to love and honor for the rest of her days.  At least she wouldn’t be around to see what happened when he returned to the empty house.

As she waved to the Welcome to Iowa—Where the Corn Grows Taller and the Sun Shines Brighter sign, it dawned on her that maybe she should call her mother.  What happened last time she showed up unexpectedly still rattled her senses.  Seeing your own mother posing nude for a portrait is something no daughter should have to witness.   

Yes, having an unconventional mother wasn't always fun but it certainly had given her things to talk about.  She pulled into the rest area, put Sammy on his leash and walked him around while she got out her phone.  At least her mother would not be one of those who fell apart or placed blame. 

"Oh, how lovely," her mother said sincerely.

"Um, did you hear the part where I said Ted up and left me?"

"Darren's in town!"  Her mother then squealed.

"Mom," Jenny sighed.  "I really don't want to see my old boyfriend right now."  Perfect, she never liked Ted, loved Darren and she's match-making already. 

"Oh, don't be rude, Jennifer.  He's just devastated and then the shock!  They're coming for dinner," she whispered.  "I'm hoping to get the latest scoop!"

"The latest scoop?  Devastated?  Shock?  What?"

"Oh.  You didn't get my telepathic message?"

Jenny gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes.  "No, mother.  It still doesn't work.  Just tell me over this wireless piece of equipment."

"Well, he showed up to the funeral.  Just walked right in . . .”

"Wait.  Who died?"

"Oh, Jenny darling, please pay attention.  Darren's father died and who knew?"

"Nobody knew he died?  Then how did he have a funeral?"

Her mother gave an exasperated sound.  “Of course, we all knew he died!  But nobody knew about the son."

"What, about Darren?"

"No, dear.  Darren's brother."

"Darren doesn't have a brother," Jenny pointed out.

Her mother laughed.  "No, he has a half-brother near his same age.  Can you believe it?  And I have an in thanks to you.  I’ve invited them to dinner and, oh, I'm going to get the scoop of the town.  Oh, look!  They're here.  Gotta go.  Oh, and by the way, dear, you really need to visit me sometime soon.  I miss you."

"Hello . . . I'll see you in about two hours.  That’s why I’m calling.”

“Wonderful!” 

“But, mother, wait, you invited Darren and his half-brother to dinner?"

"No, silly.  It was awkward enough at the funeral.  No, Darren and his wife.  Oh, she's a sweet, little thing.   Darren is crazy about her and I can see why.  Bye, sweetheart, thanks for calling."

“Mother?  Did you even hear I’ll be there in two . . .”  Click, the phone went dead.  Jenny stared at her cellphone, debating whether or not to call her mother back when Sammy's leash was pulled right out of her hand.

"Sammy, get back here," she yelled.

The dog ran right up to where a couple of cute youngsters were romping in the open space of the rest stop.  They were petting him when Jenny caught up to him.

"Hi kids," she said.  "Thanks for catching my little guy, but we have to go now."

"Awwwww . . ,” they groaned, pouting.

Jenny loaded Sammy into the back seat—barely enough room for him and his blanket with all of her other stuff taking up space—and they took off on I-80 west once again.  Not a mile into their drive, the phone rang.  She detached it from the charger—that darn thing was always too short to get it to her ear when it was plugged in—and checked the caller ID.  It was Ted.

Oh great, she thought and then to Sammy, "as if I didn't have enough to deal with.  My old boyfriend is married, it looks like I'm having dinner with him and his new wife tonight, and why the heck are they close enough to my mom for that to even happen?  I'm leaving my husband and now he's calling me.  Could this day get any worse?"

"What the hell do you want?" she barked into the phone.

“I want to know why, why would you do this to me?  Why would you destroy my FiestaWare collection like that?  What’d I ever do to you?  You know how long it took me to build that collection?”  Ted’s barking made Jenny’s blood boil.

Well, I never.  I packed everything up, took the dog, up and left him, and he wants to know about some old dishes.  Not me.  Jenny rested her right hand on the lump in the front seat and smiled.  Oh,

Ted would really have a real to howl soon enough.

“You know why,” she said in a much calmer voice.  Ted never did like when she was so rational.  “Does the name Cecelia mean anything to you?  It does me.  And, besides, I know it took you almost as long to collect those old dishes as it was for me to get a clue about what kind of guy you really are and what our marriage vows meant to you.  You didn’t mind breaking those and I didn’t mind breaking some dishes.  You know what Ted?  I don’t need this.  I’m done.  I’m done wondering where you are at night, who you’re with, whether you’ll hold onto a job long enough to put down some roots, and listening to you go on about your precious dishes.  Seriously!  I can’t believe you called me about them.  Lose this number because I’m done taking your calls.”

As she hung up on Ted, flashing red and blue lights caught her attention.  She looked in her rear view mirror.  “Great, just . . . great.”  She pulled the old car onto the highway shoulder, spitting gravel every which way.  “Just what I need now, a ticket.”  She gathered up her license, registration, and proof of insurance.

As the officer made his way up along the driver’s side, Jenny fluffed her hair, took a quick look in the mirror to make sure her make-up wasn’t too smeared, and plastered on her brightest smile. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

“Well, Miss, I clocked you doing 88 miles per hour.  The speed limit is clearly posted at 70,” he added with a long sigh as his eyes roved over the crowded contents of the car, a slight smile creasing his face when he spotted Sammy.  

Jenny nodded solemnly and wondered why he sounded so defeated.  After beginning to write the ticket, he took her driver’s license and stared at it.  Looking back and forth between Jenny and her driver’s license, he finally spoke. 

“You know what?  Darren has told me so much about you, and I had really hoped to meet you someday.  Just not quite like this.”  Then he burst into laughter.

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are or what exactly is so funny about getting a speeding ticket right after my husband has left me . . .”  Jenny’s voice trailed off as she’d said more than she intended to.

It was then that she noticed how familiar his eyes were.  They were the exact shade of grayish-blue as Darren’s and his father’s.  It couldn’t be . . . 

“You’re the half-brother nobody knew about!”  Jenny clamped her hand over her mouth.  A fiery blush rushed up from her neck, flaming her checks a bright red, no doubt matching the color of her hair.

“Guilty.  Most people call me Eric, though,” he replied with a chuckle.  “Well, given the circumstances, I think I can let you off with a warning.  I’d better not see you driving that fast again.” 

Jenny nodded.

Just when she was starting to relax and her cheeks were returning to their normal pale shade, a tap came at the window.  She quickly rolled it down again. 

“I almost forgot,” Eric said.  “See you at your mama’s big shindig.”

Jenny opened her mouth to reply but nothing came out.  What big shindig?  Tonight’s dinner party?  Surely that wasn’t a shindig.  Mom must be planning something really outrageous.  Oh, Gawd . . . Shindig, shindig, no.  Her mother wouldn't! 

Jenny’s memories flashed back to her own father's funeral.  What a fiasco that had been.  But didn’t her mother say she likes Darren?  She would not do that to him.  Jenny had flown home alone, Ted making the excuse that he hoped to have a job interview while she was away, to console her devastated mother after her father had keeled over from a massive heart attack.  The only real problem was, she’d walked in their house to find bottles upon bottles of booze throughout. 

"We're having a waakkee!"  Her mother had gleefully stood—with some difficulty—and came to greet her.  "People will be here within the hour.  Grab a glass.  Here, let me pour you some champagne—or do you want something stronger?"

"A wake?" Jenny had stared at her, her mouth hung open.  "What are you thinking?  Dad hated alcohol of any kind.  We always teased that in a former life he was Carrie Nation.  Are you already drunk?"  She had held two bottles up to the light.  Empty.

"Hey, I can finally drink in the open.  Here's to putting the fun back in funeral," her mother giggled, as she expertly popped the cork on a new bottle. 

That little shindig had lasted three days.

***

When Jenny turned her old beater onto her mother’s block, she was shocked.  Cars as far as the eye could see.  Oh, no.  No, no, no!  Another shindig.  Not what she needed right now.

“Oh, come on!  There’s no place to even park,” Jenny groaned, as she pulled the car to the front of her mother’s house, left it right in the middle of the street, threw it in park, and stormed up to the door.

“How could you!  Throwing a part when I’ve just left my husband!  What kind of mother has a rager when her daughter is slinking home with her tail tucked between her legs.  If I had someplace else to go, anywhere else, anywhere, I would have gone there,” Jenny ranted and raved once she’d squeezed inside the front door.

“Honey, you’re here!  I thought you could use some cheering up.  Look at all the people who are here to love and support you.  Didn’t you get my telepathic message?  We’re all here for you, sweetie,” Jenny’s mother cooed, soothing her as she wrapped her daughter in a long hug.  “Look around the room.”

Jenny looked over her mother’s shoulder.  Oh, good gravy, there’s Darren and his—yes—very gorgeous wife.  And, Eric, the brother—how embarrassing—and, how in the world did he get here before her?  And now, Eric is walking over to her and her mother.

“Jenny, it’s against the law to leave your car parked in the street like that,” he said, tilting his head out toward the front of the house.  “Let’s go out there and move it somewhere safe.  What do you say?”

“Uh, sure.  Okay,” Jenny mumbled.  “I’ll be right back, Mom.  Everyone.”

Eric turned to her as soon as they are out of hearing.  “You look like you need a drink, and to regroup.  Let’s take a little drive, and we’ll come back in a bit.  You’re right, your mom means well, but this party looks like it will be going awhile.  I’ll drive.  You relax.”

“Nice of you to offer,” Jenny replied, “but let me just meet you somewhere.  I’ve got Sammy in the car.”

“How about Bishop’s?”  Eric named the one diner that Jenny remembered from a few years back, just hoping she could remember where it was.

“I’ll follow you,” she acquiesced to his suggestion. 

Within a few minutes, they were far from the maddening shindig, had parked their cars, and were seated at a booth toward the back of the restaurant.  Only a smattering of customers throughout the place so Jenny figured they could eat and get out fairly quickly before Sammy got antsy.  But then, she had a second thought.

“Eric, be a dear,” she said, sounding a lot like her own mother, “could you please order me a burger and fries and, oh, a chocolate shake.  I’m going to check on Sammy.”

Jenny hurried out of the restaurant and around to the back of the building where they’d parked their cars in the shade.  She jumped in her car, patted the dog on the head, and left as quickly as she could without raising any attention from passers-by.  She was on her way north out of town within a few minutes, figuring that was about the time Eric would be wondering about her.

Gawd, he was great to look at but she didn’t need another complication in her life.  For once in Jenny’s life, she was heading into the wild-blue yonder, not knowing where she’d end up, but she was free.  She had Sammy, her belongings, and a bit lump in the front seat—the FiestaWare flamingo-pink milk pitcher full to the brim with twenty-dollar bills.  That was the one piece of earthenware she didn’t have the heart to break and it would break Ted’s heart when he discovered it was missing!

Just then Jenny’s cell phone started buzzing.  She checked the caller ID.  Looks like Ted might have discovered the pitcher was not in all those hundreds of shards of clay.

 

The End . . . Or, Is It Just The Beginning?