Greetings,
Before I get onto today's topic, I'd like to apologize for not keeping my promise to write two blogs a month. I honestly planned to write one after Easter but the week rapidly disappeared with all the scheduled activities this household had going on, including a birthday. Before I knew it April 1st had arrived.
Also, I'd like to announce the recent release of my fifth mystery novel on Amazon. If you like amateur sleuth mysteries in the style of Agatha Christie, you'll enjoy this one. It's about a missing college student and a jewel heist. I always toss in a bit of humor and romance. The book will be available for Amazon Europe too. This week I plan to have the book formatted for e-book distribution.
Now, on to today's topic. I don't know about you, but I love Spring. It's wonderful to have the windows open and listen to all the birds singing away. This morning 10 robins landed on a tree outside our balcony window and nibbled away at berries left on the branches from last year. It's nice to know they have some sort of nourishment before the ground thaws enough so they can catch worms.
Writers, like Robins, frequently find themselves nibbling away at stories they've put on the back burner, hoping someday they'll feel polished enough to share with the world. But many of us have trouble deciding when the information should be released. As I mentioned in Topic 25, I entered a writing competition. It was with Neoverse. Well, I didn't end up winning anything, but I was being considered as a finalist. Of course, I felt bad when I didn't win. Especially, since I shared with so many people I had entered a contest. However, once I read that I was competing against thousands and thousands of entries across the U.S. and Canada and I landed in the top 5% category, I pulled my head out of the sand.
I really feel this story should be shared, especially since it's so relevant to what's going on in the world today. So I've decided not to wait for another contest and share THE SCARF, a fiction story, with you.
THE SCARF
One end of the chocolate-and-eggshell-blue speckled scarf fluttered in the gentle breeze high above the driver side of a Ford Focus partially raised up over a piece of south lane curbing on Emerson Avenue; the other remained contentedly wrapped around the occupant’s delicate cream-colored neck resting on the car’s windowsill.
What an evening for a traffic jam, Abigail Mc Pherson thought, stomping on her brakes for the third time in five minutes; everyone’s heading out of town to celebrate the Fourth of July, including her.
It took ten more minutes of stops and starts before Abigail’s car got within range of what she believed to be the cause of the traffic buildup, a black Ford. Curious, like most other drivers who had passed by already, the woman’s gray steely eyes tried to discover what hid behind the thick circle of men in blue buzzing around the Ford. Darn! She couldn’t see the driver, too many cops. But wait. There seems to be loose fabric floating above their heads. Is it a scarf? Yes. The driver must be a woman. But what’s her problem?
Abigail took a second look at the scarf. It seemed familiar. Too familiar. Nausea swept over her. “No!” she gulped. Her young hands trembled. “It can’t be.” She inhaled deeply as she stretched out her hand to turn on the Honda’s emergency flashers. The car ahead of her noticed her intentions and made space available. Two seconds later Abigail’s car door slammed and she darted to the other side of Emerson Avenue.
As she stumbled along now, drawing ever nearer to the police hovering like mountain lions, she began to question her actions. Could she cope with more bad news today? She didn’t think so. Over lunch at work her best friend shared she’d been recently diagnosed with breast cancer. Shocked to the core, Abigail barely managed to squeak out a ”Sorry”.
A clean-shaven policeman, newly graduated from Minnesota’s Westport Police Academy tried to deter her from advancing further. “Stop, Miss. I need to see your credentials.” She gave him an icy stare. He didn’t let up. “Only emergency crew and news reporters are allowed beyond this yellow tape. Are you either of those?”
“No,” she stammered, “but I’m concerned about the victim’s condition.”
Officer Pete Johnson adjusted the visor of his dark-blue cap to shield his eyes from the
glaring sun. The woman seemed genuinely upset. He softened. “Sorry, but I’m not allowed to let you go any closer. Tomorrow’s paper will have all the details. You’ll have to wait till then.”
The twenty-something woman attempted a feeble smile, remembering politeness is better than a hot temper. “I understand. But couldn’t you at least share what happened?”
The newbie cop swiftly digested her request. What harm could it do? “A woman was shot.”
“Oh my God!” Abigail’s eyes jumped beyond the policeman now. She saw a snow-white head leaning out the car window with part of the billowing scarf still attached to the neck. “How… how badly is she hurt?” When no reply came, a high-pitched wail escaped her quivering lips.
Officer Johnson scanned the crowd. Someone else had to have heard the piercing noise besides him. Hopefully, they won’t realize he’s partially to blame. He didn’t need a complaint filed against him this early in his career.
Focus on the police work, Johnson, he told himself. You help people no matter what the cost. He swiftly set aside his concern for his reputation and allowed compassion to take over. He touched Abigail’s arm. It felt frail. “Are you all right, Miss?”
The woman’s mouth didn’t open.
Sergeant Alice Brandon moved in. She had been keeping close tabs on her department’s newest rookie since they arrived on the scene. “Everything okay here, Johnson?”
Johnson stepped aside to make way for his boss. “I... I’m not sure, Ma’am.”
Sergeant Brandon studied the badly shaken woman dressed in a two-piece business suit similar in color to the scarf. “What’s going on, Miss? We can’t help unless you tell us what’s troubling you.”
Forced to speak despite her mental anguish, Abigail raised her head and said, “Why... Why was the woman shot?”
Sergeant Brandon couldn’t believe what she heard. She gave the rookie a sharp look, before returning her attention to the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Abigail Mc Pherson,” she stated through tears.
“Do you know the woman in the car?”
She sighed heavily. “Yes. She’s my grandmother. Why would someone kill a sweet, elderly woman?”
“I don’t know,” Sergeant Brandon honestly replied, “but I intend to find out.” She hated this part of the job the most. Watching someone grieve over the death of a loved one and
not knowing how to comfort them. “We’re looking into the possibility that your grandmother was killed by a stray bullet meant for a rival gang member. There’s been a surge of gang-related activity in this part of town over the last two years.”
Abigail retrieved a Kleenex from her suit jacket and attempted to wipe her nose. “My father suggested that she move closer to us last year, but Grandma Ida adamantly refused. She loved this neighborhood. She said if the neighborhood was good enough to be born in it was certainly good enough to die in.” She sucked in her breath.
“Grandma Ida sounds like one determined woman.”
“She was.”
Before the middle-aged policewoman could add anything else, the Westport ambulance came to a screeching halt in front of them and paramedics flew into action. A tall female in her early-thirties swung the back of the emergency vehicle open while the forty-year-old-dark-skinned male driver approached Sergeant Brandon. “Did you call this in?”
The sergeant shifted her black well-worn oxford shoes to get a better view of the emergency medical technician addressing her. She had worked with him before. “Yeah, Chuck,” she replied tiredly, wondering when the gang revelries would end.
“What morgue should we use? St. John’s or Fairfax?”
The policewoman decided to let the victim’s relative make the decision. “Which hospital is handier for your family, Abigail?”
Ida’s granddaughter sucked in air. “Fairfax.”
Chuck returned to his partner and helped hoist the gurney on to the ground and over to the Ford. Before opening the left front door to gain access to Ida’s body, Jessica gently lifted the elderly woman’s small head, removed the long flowing scarf from around her neck, and handed it to Officer Johnson who had donned rubber gloves.
Johnson placed the scarf in a bag along with all the other non-car related items he had collected. Then the EMT crew lifted the elderly woman’s body out of the car and wheeled it back to the ambulance.
Overcome by emotion, Abigail left Sergeant Brandon behind and rushed to the gurney holding her deceased grandmother. “Please, let me say good-bye,” she begged.
Brandon nodded her approval.
Officer Johnson finally returned to his supervisor’s side and handed off the sealed bag which she immediately scrutinized. The scarf troubled her. Perhaps the young woman could help. “Abigail.”
“Yes?”
“Was your grandmother a follower of Islam?”
“A what?”
Brandon repeated herself. “A follower of Islam? A Muslim?”
Abigail frowned. What did Grandmother Ida’s beliefs have to do with her death? “Oh?” She thrust her hand towards the bag Sergeant Brandon held. “It’s the scarf, the hijab, isn’t it?” The policewoman nodded. “It was a gift. Grandma and a neighbor lady, originally from Iraq, became inseparable over the years, almost like sisters. They shared everything: sewing techniques, philosophy on raising children and food preparation.”
Brandon couldn’t help noticing how Abigail’s speaking of her grandmother was taking its toll. “It’s a lovely scarf,” she remarked soothingly. “Obviously it meant a great deal to her.”
“It did.”
“Any idea why your grandmother wore it on such an incredibly hot day?”
The young woman’s tears disappeared and were replaced by a tiny smile. “Grandma hated air conditioning. It bothered her head.” She directed her eyes towards the Focus. “That’s why the windows are open. Of course, open windows mess up the hair, and Grandma was a stickler for neatness. Wearing a scarf solved her problem.”
The ambulance pulled away now and Sergeant Brandon promised to keep the Mc Pherson’s informed as the investigation moved forward.
***
Several weeks into the case concerning Ida Mc Pherson’s untimely death, small snippets of information began to flow into Sergeant Brandon’s police station. One call today suggested there was a drug war between two known gangs and the old woman happened to get caught in the crossfire. Even if it was false information, Brandon wasn’t ruling it out. Her team would verify the story.
The policewoman looked up from her notes and found Westport’s police chief, Gary Hanson, approaching her desk. What did he have on his mind? she wondered. “Hello, Chief. What brings you to my turf? If you heard we have donuts to share, that’s a myth. No time to stop by the bakery this morning.”
Chief Hanson, a heavy-set fellow, didn’t find Brandon’s comment amusing. The furrows on his thick forehead grew even deeper. “I didn’t come here for donuts,” he said rather dryly. “I want to know what’s happening with the Mc Pherson case. It’s been almost a month since her death, and the family is seeking answers.”
Picking up on her boss’s irritation, Sergeant Brandon calmly replied, “We’re making some headway with the leads that have come in, Chief, but no home run yet.” She
picked up the note lying on her desk and waved it in front of him. “This new bit of information came in five minutes ago.”
“Good. Get someone on it pronto. How about the neighbors? Anyone offered up reliable information yet?”
Sergeant Brandon shook her head. “Mc Pherson was highly respected. No one had anything negative to say.” She grabbed another paper. “After retiring from her long teaching career, she offered free tutor services to her neighbors, mostly new immigrants.”
Chief Hanson appeared to be appeased by what Brandon had said. He began to step away from her desk. But then bam, his heavy body jerked to a halt, and his mouth slid open. “What about the bullet?”
The sergeant hurriedly dug through the paperwork on her desk again. “According to Wilson, it was a 308.”
“Probably came from an M-24 Remington rifle. I can’t picture a gang member running around with a piece like that. Can you?”
Brandon swiped the palm of her hand across her desk. “No, Sir.”
“Well,” the chief said, “I’ll leave you to your work then.”
When Chief Hanson left the confines of Sergeant Brandon’s desk behind, Officer Johnson replaced him. “Sergeant.”
“Johnson, just the person I wanted to see. I got a call concerning rival gang activity the afternoon Ida Mc Pherson got shot. I want you and Warner to dig a little deeper. Expand your inquiries to the blocks surrounding Emerson Avenue.”
“Okay. We’ll get right on it. But you might want someone to check out information we received on our tip hotline too.”
Brandon tilted her head back slightly. “What have you got?”
“An elderly woman called it in. She lives a block off Emerson, near where we think Ida Mc Pherson was fatally shot. She said she remembers seeing a guy in her alley that day carrying what looked like a rifle over his shoulder. She thought it odd since hunting season isn’t for a couple months yet.”
“She’s the first person to mention a rifle. Do you think she’s a believable witness?” Johnson gazed at the worn oak floor beneath his feet. “She’s still working as a seamstress at a very elite dress shop.”
“Description?”
The young officer scratched his head searching for a reply.
Brandon tapped her pen on the desk. “I’m waiting Johnson.”
“Sorry. I was trying to recall exactly what she said. “A white guy. Mid-fifties. About 5' 11". She said his build’s the same as her favorite daytime soap opera character, Tony, a professional golfer.”
The policewoman mulled over the information. “Does she drive?”
“No,” Johnson hastily reported, “but she said her daughter could bring her tomorrow.”
“Before you leave with Warner, call her back. Find out what time she can arrive. I want to have a sketch artist on hand.”
“Okay.”
“And, Johnson …”
“Yes?”
“Good job.”
At nine the next morning a tall, thin woman in her seventies, impeccably dressed in a lime-colored two-piece suit, swept into precinct 29 with a much younger woman following close on her heels. The older woman wasted no time in finding an available policeman to tell him she was here to see Sergeant Brandon.
Officer Stanley grinned. “Name please?”
“Mary Sweeney.”
He gazed at the short list of names given to him just moments before, and then he punched in the sergeant’s number. “Mary Sweeny is here.”
“Please direct her to my desk.”
Sergeant Brandon made friendly eye contact with Mary the moment she reached her desk. She wanted to make her feel comfortable. Mary responded accordingly. “Thanks for coming, Ms. Sweeney. We’ll try not to keep you too long.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She quickly glanced at the man already seated by the officer’s desk.
Brandon noted her concern and explained as she pointed to an empty chair. “This is Bill, our sketch artist. He’s ready to capture everything you say. All we’d like you to do is reply the best you can to his questions concerning the man’s features.”
As soon as Mary got situated, Bill lifted his drawing materials off his lap and fired questions one after the other. “Pudgy face, long, square? Moles? Any scars? Beard or mustache? Hair style?”
Two hours later, after Mary’s departure, Officer Johnson delivered bad news to his boss. “We got zilch, Sarge. The sketch didn’t match any mug shots.”
“Dam!” Brandon dragged her hand through her dark, short cropped hair, staring intently at a copy of Bill’s sketch resting on her desk as she did so. The drawing showed a bald-headed man with a high forehead, round face and large cauliflower ears. “Something’s got to break,” she spouted to no one in particular.
Not knowing if he should take leave, Officer Johnson prattled on. “That older lady has an uncanny memory, doesn’t she?”
The policewoman dropped her hand to her side. “Time will tell. All right, Johnson, I need you to fax this picture to the local news station and request it run on tomorrow’s news. We’ve already missed today’s deadline.”
It turned out posting the picture wasn’t necessary after all. That same evening Westport police got their break. A distraught woman called 911 begging for help. “My husband’s locked himself in the bathroom and won’t come out. Says he plans to kill himself,” She sobbed, “I’m afraid he will. He’s been hitting the bottle hard since that old lady died on Emerson, and he’s never even met her.”
Sergeant Brandon compared the picture in her hand to the man her fellow officers had just settled in the isolation room. It had to be him. She went over to the nearly-empty coffee machine, filled two cups, and headed towards the room where the man was seated. Hopefully it’s not going to be another long night, she thought.
Officer Johnson opened the door for his boss. “Thanks,” she said, “Call Abigail Mc Pherson. I promised to let her know as soon as we had a suspect in custody.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The door closed behind her now as she strolled into the isolation room. Once she reached the table where the suspect sat, she set the coffee on the table in front of him and sat down.
Lowell Perry greedily drained the two cups of strong coffee in nothing flat.
“Ready to talk?” she asked, eager to get this over with.
Perry placed his hands flat on the table and nodded. “Ever since the army notified me of our son’s death in Iraq, I haven’t been coping well.” He braced his forehead with his hands for a moment. “My wife thinks its depression. I don’t know. Maybe she’s right. Anyway, a few months back I got this crazy notion if I showed those people what it felt like to lose a loved one, I’d feel better. Except it didn’t work. I feel like shit.”
“Well, here’s another newsflash, Lowell. The woman you shot wasn’t a foreigner. She was a Westport native.”
“But, but she was wearing that scarf.”
“The hijab?
“Why would she do that?”
“It was a gift.”
Perry cried, “Oh God!” before his head smacked the table.
Until Next Time
This is Marlene Chabot
Mystery Author and Freelance Writer
