(If you missed yesterday’s Murder Mystery: Part I, and if you care to read it, it’s here.)
It was a pleasant, cloudy (mosquito-infested) Tuesday evening. Hubby and I decided to wait on dinner and head out on our walk. We went east, toward the Atlantic, and as is our way, stopped seemingly every few feet to take a photo or inspect something to see if it would make a good photo. We started strong, waving at a couple neighbors, finding some interesting detritus on the street, killing a couple mosquitoes.
I saw it. The coolest bug I have ever seen. Hubby wandered off to look at some dinner-plate-sized dahlias, while I chased this bug around the leaves of a pumpkin plant.
“What are you taking pictures of?” I kept chasing the bug, and let Hubby deal with the woman, who insisted that he needed to see the flower garden around the back of the house – “it’s my cousin’s house, it’s OK!” and proceeded to give him the grand tour. They came back around to where I was, at which point, she insisted we must AT ONCE admire her Rose of Sharon. So, she took us across the street to see an unspectacular Rose of Sharon, with a few pretty blooms. There was also a bee working on the blooms, so I chased him around for a bit. The lady was still talking.
At some point, she got to the “where do you live?” question, so Hubby told her the name of our street. She repeated it, and then brightened. “Sally Smith* lives on that street! Sally was admitted to the hospital Sunday! She fell and broke her hip!” This is information we already had. “Sally” is our next-door neighbor. Side note: the diesel engines and air brakes of a fire engine are particularly loud when they’re in your driveway on a very early Sunday morning.
Her face brightens with a new thought. “Your street is famous for that murder!” I reply that we haven’t lived there long, so we don’t know the story of the murder. Her face now looks alarmed. She grabs her dog and high-tails it toward her front door. “But you didn’t tell us about the murder!” I say. She yells back: “Google it!” and slams the door.
At this point, I’m pretty sure that the murderers were never caught, and she thinks we’re them. Likely eyeing her dog as our next victim.
* Sally is not the person’s real name. One of us isn’t planning to violate HIPAA today.
** I Googled it!