Monday, August 26, 2013

Beach Tale: "When We Were Middle Aged and Foolish", Final Installment


        This is the eighth—and final—installment of my serialized short mystery, “When We Were Middle Aged and Foolish.”   If you missed the first installments, click here to be taken to the page of what’s been posted so far.
          For those of you returning, a quick reminder when last we left our middle-aged amateur sleuths, they’d found their killer.  Or more accurately, the killer had found them…

          When We Were Middle Aged and Foolish
Installment Eight of Eight

          Nothing would please me more than to report justice has been served and that Scott Hunter has been sent up the river for life without possibility of parole; that his twin-brother J.J. sailed with him for his knowledge of the murder; that Monica Lyn cleaned up in the divorce; and that I, as the hero of the day, returned to my quiet life as a cotton merchant in Memphis, Tennessee. But things didn’t turn out quite that way.
          Scott escaped and was tracked as far as Nova Scotia, where he just plain disappeared. He could be dead. Should be dead. Probably was dead. But there is the slim chance he is still alive and will some day track me down and finish the job of slicing me to pieces.

         J.J. was convicted of running a Ponzi scheme, the likes of which shook the small seaside town of Sagucci Bay to its core. But he had a good lawyer, and I’d lay even money he’d be out on parole in less than ten years.
          Monica Lyn is scheduled for her third cosmetic surgery next week, but her beautiful face will never be the same. And it’s not just physical pain she’s suffering through, there’s financial anguish, too. All those riches she and J.J. had enjoyed throughout their marital life went to payoff investors. No more McMansion on the hill. No more worldly travels. Not even any more ME! bath salts. She’s moved in with her parents in their tiny house on Fisher Street.
          As for me, I still have nightmares where Scott busts through my front door and slashes up more than my arm. The images haunt me during the waking hours, too. No longer able to keep my mind on task, I was fired from my job. I’m now working as a hostess at the Pig ‘N Whistle until I am able to close that horrific chapter and move on with my life. It’s going to take time, though.
          Right now, I can’t go five minutes without looking down at my arm. Every time I do, my finger traces the pink scar that runs from my wrist to my elbow, a forever reminder of when I’d been middle aged and foolish.  And brave.

THE END 

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