A Clear Path to Cross
by Ed Lynskey
genre:
Mystery & Thrillers
description:
This is a collection of 20 stories featuring P.I. Sharon Knowles. All but one of these early short stories appeared in the paper and online pulp venues, including the notable HandHeldCrime, during the Internet bubble of the early twenty-first century. Ed's succinct stories are told in a clear, crisp prose that always cuts to the chase. There are no wasted words in this book, which reveals more of the facets of Sharon Knowles' life as a thoughtful, caring private eye.
chapters
chapter 1:
"Carrot Crazy: A Short Story"
"Carrot Crazy: A Short Story"
chapter 1
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updated 09/01/08
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7165 characters
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Carrot Crazy
“HECTOR IS CRAZY about carrots,” Sharon Knowles was explain-ing to her veterinarian.
A large-shouldered man with swept-back, silver hair, Dr. Ba-bock stroked the purring tabby. “He likes carrots? What do you mean?”
“Well, say I’m grating a carrot to make a salad. Hector hops up on the countertop and rubs her head on the pieces of carrot like they were catnip.”
Dr. Babock did a half-hearted job concealing a smile. “Could be he’s a vegetarian feline.”
Sharon didn’t reply. For the Dr. Babcock’s steep fee, she ex-pected more than mild derision. “Does it mean he lacks some-thing in her diet? He needs a vitamin, maybe?”
Dr. Babock flipped off the light switch to dim the room, and he squinted through a lit device into Hector’s broadening pupils. “I don’t think his carrot yen has any medical basis. Cats are pe-culiar creatures. But that’s why we love ‘em, right?”
The examination room’s lights came back on. Sharon scratched Hector hunching up his back. “She feels thinner through the ribs.”
Dr. Babock consulted the chart. “What . . . two ounces lost since your last visit. Not bad. An older cat’s metabolism is like a human’s. They lose weight, too. But you’ll have Hector for a good while yet.”
At the desk Sharon settled her bill which included a teeth scraping and feline vitamins. The expense left her cringing. She’d had plenty of summer work but lots of deadbeat clients, too. Hot weather diverted their money. She competed with amusement parks, beaches, and ballgames.
Toting the kitty carrier, Sharon backed out the door while waving to the receptionist. The blast of July heat took away her breath. Just then her cell phone bleated. Outside now, she stood beside a brick column and engaged the cell phone.
“Sharon? Captain MacSorley.”
For a second time, Sharon cringed. Captain MacSorley was her ex-boss. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”
“I’m afraid not. Three guesses what I have, and the first two don’t count.”
Sharon wiped the sweat from her forehead and moved into the overhang’s deeper shade. “I’d say a corpse. That’s why you usu-ally call me. You’re pretty flippant about it this time, though.”
“Sorry, I’m in vacation mode. A neighbor reported the victim lived on 546 Roosevelt Lane. She’s a Caucasian female. Late 50s. Found her on the kitchen floor. Can you lend me your set of eyes? Being the summer leaves me shorthanded on homicide detectives.”
“My same hourly rate applies.” Sharon was grateful Bay City always paid its bills on time with checks that weren’t made of rubber, especially after paying her vet bill.
“But of course. I’ll send a uniform to meet you there.”
Sharon found her Honda and got in. Listening to jazz on a lo-cal station, she moved through the light midday traffic. Her air conditioner was malfunctioning, and Hector didn’t like the wind blown in through the open windows, but he was protected in the kitty carrier. Sharon stuck a finger through a slit she’d added to the carrier and felt a sandpapery tongue lick her.
The residence on 546 Roosevelt Lane was a well-kept Cape Cod in a middle-class neighborhood. Tiger lilies bloomed by the white paling fence. A guy materializing in the doorway gestured a hand at her. The uniform hadn’t yet arrived. Sharon reached for the kitty carrier. She dare not leave Hector out in this swelter, not to mention with a killer on the rampage. She went up to the Cape Cod.
“I’m Kincaid.” He was about Sharon’s age, early 30s. “My mom is by the kitchen sink. Mrs. Rust from next door saw her, called the police, and then me. I came straight over about a half hour
ago. Call 911 is out. S-s-she’s dead.”
“Knowles, detective.” Sharon flashed him her expired P.I. li-cense. “Show me the way, please.”
The Cape Cod’s interior proved as neat and clean as the yard. The furniture was used but presentable. A cross-breeze between the screened windows cooled the rooms. Kincaid went first, then sidled aside and ushered Sharon into the smallish kitchen, deco-rative in its paisley curtains and Van Gogh-imprinted canisters on the countertop.
A prostrate lady in a housedress lay curled up on her side. A gash across her forehead bled. A full toss salad bowl sat on the countertop above her.
“I’m sure Mom must’ve stumbled and conked her head against the butcher block table.” Kincaid’s finger pointed at its bloodstained edge.
“Your mother was fixing a salad for lunch.” Sharon rested the kitty carrier on the countertop. Hector was meowing to protest his imprisonment. He always had to be the center of attention and loved people.
Averting his face, Kincaid nodded. “Mom was on a strict diet. Doctor’s orders.” His voice trailed off.
“Have you notified her husband or your siblings?”
“She was a widow. I was an only child, too.”
“I see.”
From out the window, she glimpsed a police cruiser prowl up to park along the street. In a matter of seconds, a rap came at the front screen.
“Come in.” called out Sharon. The tall uniform was Berkebile. He exchanged a friendly nod with Sharon and looked at the miserable Kincaid.
Sharon outlined the situation. Berkebile jotted down notes for his report and ventured an opinion. “Maybe she had a heart at-tack and died on the spot.”
“Mom had a history of heart trouble and took meds for it.”
“But if your mother was fixing a toss salad,” said Sharon, “wouldn’t she have spilled it while falling to the floor? Look, the wooden forks are still in the bowl.”
Kincaid shrugged. “I guess so.”
Berkebile scratched behind one ear with the pencil‘s eraser tip. “Maybe she’d just finished fixing it.”
“Maybe, but I want to try something.” Sharon flipped out the door to the kitty carrier. The tabby Hector sauntered out, stretched, and put on a contented expression. The king was now in his element.
“Mr. Kincaid,” said Sharon. “Come over and pet Hector. Go ahead, he won’t bite you.”
Puzzled, Kincaid just did it. His fingertips itched behind Hec-tor’s ears until he caught a whiff of his catnip — carrots. He sniffed Kincaid’s fingers and went crazy, squirming and meow-ing.
“That’s quite enough, you ham.” Sharon returned Hector to the kitty carrier.
“What did that prove?” asked Berkebile.
“It proves Mr. Kincaid handled carrots, the carrots in his mother’s salad,” replied Sharon. “My thinking is he picked up the spilled salad and wooden forks from the floor right after he bludgeoned her to death.”
Motioning with his wrist, Kincaid scoffed. “That’s hardly sci-entific evidence.”
Berkebile smiled. His handcuffs rattled out.
“Perhaps not,” said Sharon. She tugged open a drawer search-ing for a blunt, lethal instrument. “But it suggests this case is a homicide and not a fatal accident or heart attack.”
“That’s some cat you got there,” said Berkebile.
“Yes, he is,” said Sharon.
THE END
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“HECTOR IS CRAZY about carrots,” Sharon Knowles was explain-ing to her veterinarian.
A large-shouldered man with swept-back, silver hair, Dr. Ba-bock stroked the purring tabby. “He likes carrots? What do you mean?”
“Well, say I’m grating a carrot to make a salad. Hector hops up on the countertop and rubs her head on the pieces of carrot like they were catnip.”
Dr. Babock did a half-hearted job concealing a smile. “Could be he’s a vegetarian feline.”
Sharon didn’t reply. For the Dr. Babcock’s steep fee, she ex-pected more than mild derision. “Does it mean he lacks some-thing in her diet? He needs a vitamin, maybe?”
Dr. Babock flipped off the light switch to dim the room, and he squinted through a lit device into Hector’s broadening pupils. “I don’t think his carrot yen has any medical basis. Cats are pe-culiar creatures. But that’s why we love ‘em, right?”
The examination room’s lights came back on. Sharon scratched Hector hunching up his back. “She feels thinner through the ribs.”
Dr. Babock consulted the chart. “What . . . two ounces lost since your last visit. Not bad. An older cat’s metabolism is like a human’s. They lose weight, too. But you’ll have Hector for a good while yet.”
At the desk Sharon settled her bill which included a teeth scraping and feline vitamins. The expense left her cringing. She’d had plenty of summer work but lots of deadbeat clients, too. Hot weather diverted their money. She competed with amusement parks, beaches, and ballgames.
Toting the kitty carrier, Sharon backed out the door while waving to the receptionist. The blast of July heat took away her breath. Just then her cell phone bleated. Outside now, she stood beside a brick column and engaged the cell phone.
“Sharon? Captain MacSorley.”
For a second time, Sharon cringed. Captain MacSorley was her ex-boss. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”
“I’m afraid not. Three guesses what I have, and the first two don’t count.”
Sharon wiped the sweat from her forehead and moved into the overhang’s deeper shade. “I’d say a corpse. That’s why you usu-ally call me. You’re pretty flippant about it this time, though.”
“Sorry, I’m in vacation mode. A neighbor reported the victim lived on 546 Roosevelt Lane. She’s a Caucasian female. Late 50s. Found her on the kitchen floor. Can you lend me your set of eyes? Being the summer leaves me shorthanded on homicide detectives.”
“My same hourly rate applies.” Sharon was grateful Bay City always paid its bills on time with checks that weren’t made of rubber, especially after paying her vet bill.
“But of course. I’ll send a uniform to meet you there.”
Sharon found her Honda and got in. Listening to jazz on a lo-cal station, she moved through the light midday traffic. Her air conditioner was malfunctioning, and Hector didn’t like the wind blown in through the open windows, but he was protected in the kitty carrier. Sharon stuck a finger through a slit she’d added to the carrier and felt a sandpapery tongue lick her.
The residence on 546 Roosevelt Lane was a well-kept Cape Cod in a middle-class neighborhood. Tiger lilies bloomed by the white paling fence. A guy materializing in the doorway gestured a hand at her. The uniform hadn’t yet arrived. Sharon reached for the kitty carrier. She dare not leave Hector out in this swelter, not to mention with a killer on the rampage. She went up to the Cape Cod.
“I’m Kincaid.” He was about Sharon’s age, early 30s. “My mom is by the kitchen sink. Mrs. Rust from next door saw her, called the police, and then me. I came straight over about a half hour
ago. Call 911 is out. S-s-she’s dead.”
“Knowles, detective.” Sharon flashed him her expired P.I. li-cense. “Show me the way, please.”
The Cape Cod’s interior proved as neat and clean as the yard. The furniture was used but presentable. A cross-breeze between the screened windows cooled the rooms. Kincaid went first, then sidled aside and ushered Sharon into the smallish kitchen, deco-rative in its paisley curtains and Van Gogh-imprinted canisters on the countertop.
A prostrate lady in a housedress lay curled up on her side. A gash across her forehead bled. A full toss salad bowl sat on the countertop above her.
“I’m sure Mom must’ve stumbled and conked her head against the butcher block table.” Kincaid’s finger pointed at its bloodstained edge.
“Your mother was fixing a salad for lunch.” Sharon rested the kitty carrier on the countertop. Hector was meowing to protest his imprisonment. He always had to be the center of attention and loved people.
Averting his face, Kincaid nodded. “Mom was on a strict diet. Doctor’s orders.” His voice trailed off.
“Have you notified her husband or your siblings?”
“She was a widow. I was an only child, too.”
“I see.”
From out the window, she glimpsed a police cruiser prowl up to park along the street. In a matter of seconds, a rap came at the front screen.
“Come in.” called out Sharon. The tall uniform was Berkebile. He exchanged a friendly nod with Sharon and looked at the miserable Kincaid.
Sharon outlined the situation. Berkebile jotted down notes for his report and ventured an opinion. “Maybe she had a heart at-tack and died on the spot.”
“Mom had a history of heart trouble and took meds for it.”
“But if your mother was fixing a toss salad,” said Sharon, “wouldn’t she have spilled it while falling to the floor? Look, the wooden forks are still in the bowl.”
Kincaid shrugged. “I guess so.”
Berkebile scratched behind one ear with the pencil‘s eraser tip. “Maybe she’d just finished fixing it.”
“Maybe, but I want to try something.” Sharon flipped out the door to the kitty carrier. The tabby Hector sauntered out, stretched, and put on a contented expression. The king was now in his element.
“Mr. Kincaid,” said Sharon. “Come over and pet Hector. Go ahead, he won’t bite you.”
Puzzled, Kincaid just did it. His fingertips itched behind Hec-tor’s ears until he caught a whiff of his catnip — carrots. He sniffed Kincaid’s fingers and went crazy, squirming and meow-ing.
“That’s quite enough, you ham.” Sharon returned Hector to the kitty carrier.
“What did that prove?” asked Berkebile.
“It proves Mr. Kincaid handled carrots, the carrots in his mother’s salad,” replied Sharon. “My thinking is he picked up the spilled salad and wooden forks from the floor right after he bludgeoned her to death.”
Motioning with his wrist, Kincaid scoffed. “That’s hardly sci-entific evidence.”
Berkebile smiled. His handcuffs rattled out.
“Perhaps not,” said Sharon. She tugged open a drawer search-ing for a blunt, lethal instrument. “But it suggests this case is a homicide and not a fatal accident or heart attack.”
“That’s some cat you got there,” said Berkebile.
“Yes, he is,” said Sharon.
THE END
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