Once a Mystery, Always a Mystery

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
An innocent woman is framed for murder.

Submitted: October 30, 2015

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Submitted: October 30, 2015

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Once a Mystery, Always a Mystery

By Joseph Logsdon

Clifford had been shot not once, not twice, but three times. He was on the floor, dead and lifeless. The murderer, whoever they were, quickly left the house. Blood was on the floor, on the walls, on just about everything. His face, what remained of it, was almost unrecognizable. Clifford went through his final years alone, with his wife being the only source of comfort. Their relationship, from the very beginning, consisted of very little love, primarily due to his unreasonable anger.

Kathleen slowly pulled into the driveway. She held the gun in her hand, very anxious to use it. The years of constant abuse, from both her husband and her family, made Kathleen very unstable. At the very last second, seemingly for no reason at all, she decided to put the gun down. It wasn’t her time, or rather, it wasn’t her place to commit such an act.

Kathleen walked inside the dusty house. The lights were on, every one of them. Only Clifford, with his serious lack of respect, could’ve forgotten to turn them off. Kathleen slammed the door, clearly angered by what her husband had done, or more specifically, what he didn’t do. She quickly journeyed to the bathroom, the only place where she could be alone. Kathleen looked into the mirror, ashamed of her age, of the fact that she had wasted her youth. Life was killing her, no doubt.

Kathleen ventured to the living room. Her memories, the greater part of them, were filled with pain and heartbreak. The living room held many unpleasant recollections, the most terrifying being the night he first struck her. Needless to say, the moment damaged their relationship. She could still feel the bruise on her face, his breath against her skin.

Kathleen stared down at the floor. What she saw, simply put, was beyond description. Clifford was on the floor, in a pool of blood, hopelessly dead. She screamed, all restraint leaving her. The sight of his eyes, the whiteness of his face, proved to be more than Kathleen could handle. She backed into the corner, confronted with a terrible truth. The sight, that horrible sight, would never leave her mind.

Kathleen struggled to gather her thoughts. He was dead, forever out of her life. His demise, she hoped, would end all the suffering. The murderer, black or white, male or female, had done her a great service. Kathleen screamed again, alarmed by the sound of the phone. The truth of the matter was, it had been listening from the very beginning. Out of fear, or perhaps desperation, she picked it up.

“Hello, can I help you?”

“Kathy, it’s Marie; are you doing okay?”

“Marie? Marie who?”

“You remember, I’m your neighbor,” she chuckled.

“Oh, yes, I remember. What can I do for you?”

“There’s a man, dressed in all black, heading towards your house. I thought you ought to know, in the off chance that he might try something. You sound worried; is anything wrong?”

“I’m just a little tired, nothing to worry about. Thanks for the information; I appreciate it,” she replied.

“You don’t seem very shocked,” Marie stated.

“On nights like this, nothing is shocking,” Kathleen exclaimed, hanging up the phone.

In an attempt to hide the evidence, she grabbed the body and moved it towards the closet. Kathleen knew that with her current reputation, she would likely be blamed for the murder. At all costs, she was determined to prevent that from happening. His weight, by and large, proved to be the most difficult problem. Even as a dead person, he was still giving her trouble. Finally, by sure luck, she managed to drag him into the closet. It was small and dark, more than perfect for hiding something suspicious.

The doorbell suddenly rang. Kathleen quickly dashed towards the entrance, wholly prepared to defend her good name against those who, in their wickedness, would try to demolish it. She opened the door, and out of the darkness, stood an imposing figure. It was a man, roughly forty or fifty years old. He was dressed in all black, with a scar on the top of his head.

“What do you want?”

“I’m Tony Blake, a private investigator. Not two hours ago, I received an anonymous tip, stating that a murder had been committed here. Naturally, being in the business that I’m in, I couldn’t resist the urge to check it out for myself,” Tony announced, shutting the door behind him.

“Excuse me, did I say you could come in?”

“I invited myself in, as I so often do. I see the guilt in your eyes, that feeling of want and desire, the feeling of hopelessness and despair. Sooner or later, you must confess your sins. So, what’s it going to be, the easy way, or the hard way?

“I could tell the truth, save you the trouble of beating it out of me, or, and this is what I prefer, we could forget about the whole thing. You know, I can be pretty nice, provided I get the chance,” Kathleen stated, placing her arm on his shoulder.

“However you might think, this isn’t some kind of game,” Tony exclaimed, quickly removing her arm.

Kathleen swiftly backed away from him. Tears were in her eyes, the type of tears that would make anyone feel sympathy, anyone except Tony Blake. He glared at Kathleen, unconvinced of her legitimacy.

“You’ve gone from innocent, to seductive, to pathetic. Just to make things clear, I have been working for your husband for many years. It was a total secret, unknown to just about everyone who knew or associated with him. There was one thing that he asked me to do: he wanted me to keep an eye on you, just in case you decided to step out on him. Two days ago, I get this strange call from him. He claims that his wife, meaning you, is trying to kill him. Of course, knowing nothing about it, I don’t know what he’s talking about. That is, until I receive this anonymous tip, which, what do you know, leads me straight to you,” he remarked.

Kathleen slowly backed into the corner. She screamed, positive that he was either going to arrest her, molest her, or a combination of the two. In what seemed like an act of fate, Kathleen’s gun, the exact one she tried to kill herself with, suddenly fell out of her pocket. Tony instantly glared at it, astonished by the overwhelming evidence.

“Well, there we have it, I’ve found the murder weapon,” Tony huffed, picking it off the floor.

“I carry a gun, nothing illegal about that, is there?”

“Stop, I repeat, stop trying to fight your way out of this. It would be best for me, for everyone, if you would just come clean. First of all, there’s blood everywhere, not to mention that body in the closet,” he huffed.

“Body? Closet? Why, Mr. Blake, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responded, strangely calm in her behavior.

“Turn around, see for yourself,” Tony suggested.

Kathleen slowly turned around. The closet door was open, having never been shut to begin with. Kathleen gasped, weakened by the sight of her husband’s body.

“Take my advice: the next time you try and hide a body, make sure you shut the door,” Tony chuckled, handcuffing Kathleen.

“I’m innocent, I tell you. Innocent! When I came home, he was already dead, never mind why or how. I don’t care why he died, just so long as he’s dead. I thought about killing him, sunrise to sunset, year after year, each and every single day; had he not been murdered, I can guarantee you, I would’ve done the job myself. That’s how much I hated him, how much I still hate him. I’m guilty, not in body, but in spirit,” she declared.

“It seems like everyone had a reason to hate him. The only family he has, I believe, is his twin brother, Mike. I guess, you going to jail and everything, all of the money will go to him. What a shame, I really didn’t want to do this,” Tony stated, dragging Kathleen away.

The End

 


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