That Pesky Moonlight

OK,  I’ve battened down the hatches so to speak. Groceries are laid by, I’m waiting for the frigid north wind to blow in snow and freezing rain! Will it get here? Meanwhile, here is a continuation of Moonlight Can Be Murder. Remember that I posted the beginning of the first chapter a few days ago. Nettie had arrived in Ednalee, Oklahoma because of her Uncle Javin’s summons. She goes inside his Victorian house but it is dark, cold, and seemingly empty.

Where was Uncle Javin? What should I do now? I gripped my cell phone in my coat pocket. Who should I call? What acquaintances were left in my home town?

     Something brushed against my leg. I jumped and yelped. A small, gray cat gazed up at me with solemn, unblinking eyes and then commenced twining around my ankles.

     Relief flooded me. At last something warm and alive moved in this silent house. Kneeling down, I ran my hand over the cat’s sleek fur.

     “Are you hungry?” I asked softly. “Is your food dish empty?”

     The cat arched her back and turned around to trot toward the laundry room.

     Perhaps Uncle Javin had to leave before he put out food for his pet. Or maybe he lay somewhere in the house, injured or ill. He was, after all, elderly and he lived alone. Feeding the cat seemed to be top priority, then I would search every room until I either found my uncle or knew for certain that he was not here.

     I followed the cat into the small room next to the kitchen.

A washer and dryer lined one wall. An ironing board lay on its side. My breath caught in my throat and I leaned against the door facing until the room stopped spinning. Two legs wearing tan corduroy pants stretched out from under the ironing board.

     My heart in my mouth, I edged farther into the room, not believing what I saw. On the floor, half-hidden by the washer, lay my uncle. One arm was flung out, fist clenched; the other lay under him. An ugly, dark blotch of blood marred his unwrinkled shirt.

     I fell to my knees and gently raised his head. He attempted to smile. Tears filled my eyes. Uncle Javin had been in his early forties when he was taken to prison, a vigorous man with dark, curly hair and twinkly blue eyes. Now his hair was gray and thin. His eyes were the only thing that looked familiar.

     “Nettie,” he whispered. “You came home.”

     He gasped and coughed. I bent closer to hear his next words: “Be careful, Nettie. Don’t trust…” He gulped, struggling to breathe.

     I put my ear next to his lips.

     “Don’t trust who, Uncle Javin?”

     “Rose—Find it, Nettie. Important…” His lips moved but I could hear no further words.

     “Rose? Do you want me to find a rose?”

     Uncle Javin sighed and closed his eyes. I had come home but I was too late. My uncle was gone.

     Lowering Uncle Javin’s head, I sat frozen beside him. Surely, I would wake up soon from this awful nightmare.  I stared at the room, searching for anything that would make sense of the scene before me. Everything appeared to be neat with nothing out of place except the over-turned ironing board, and, of course, my uncle with the hole in his chest. Without being told, I knew that it was a bullet hole or a knife wound. An unknown person had snatched Uncle Javin’s life from him. His letter said strange things were happening. Had attempts been made on his life before today?

     A black object protruded from under the washing machine. I gingerly poked it, and the handle of a gun slid into view. Guns were not my area of expertise and though I owned one, I didn’t like them. But as I picked it up, I knew that it was a revolver. It felt cold and looked deadly and it didn’t take much guess work to ascertain this was probably the thing that had been used to snuff out my uncle’s life. But whose was it? Who had pulled the trigger?

     A scream shattered my thoughts. I jumped up and whirled around just in time to see a bowl hit the floor and break, spattering food. A short, plump, gray-haired woman stared at me with large, frightened eyes. Putting up both hands as if they were a shield, she croaked,

     “Please, please don’t shoot me too.”

     That gun was still in my right hand, pointing in the general vicinity of the woman. Guiltily, I placed it on the floor.

     “No, no,” I said, “I didn’t shoot him. I don’t know who did. He was here just as he is now when I came in.”

     The woman delved into her coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Stay away from me,” she yelled. “I’m calling the police.”

     She backed up until she reached the kitchen, then she whirled and ran as quickly as a person of her ample girth could run, toward the front door.

     I didn’t follow her. Sighing, I looked down at my uncle. I had just found him after forty years and now he was gone. Who had killed him and why? Calling the police sounded like a very good idea to me.

http://www.amazon.com/Blanche-Day-Manos/e/B0090018EI/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

http://pen-l.com/Mystery.html

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