Tag Archives: chapter nine part three

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter nine, part three

“What happened exactly, Bet?”  Rafe asked as he drove me to my apartment.  I was still groggy and not up for a conversation, but I gave it the old college try.

“I’m not sure,” was my detailed answer.  “It happened so fast.”  Rafe sighed, but refrained from asking additional questions.

“How long do you think you’ll stay at your parents’?”  was Rafe’s next question.

“Not very long,” I answered, looking out the window.  My shoulder was beginning to hurt again, and I reminded Rafe to stop at the pharmacy so I could fill my prescription.  “I love my parents, but I don’t want to live under their roof again.”

We fell into a silence as he drove to the pharmacy.  Afterwards, we went to my apartment so I could decide what to take with me.  I should call Phillip to tell him that I wasn’t coming to work today—if he hadn’t figured it out—but I couldn’t seem to give a damn.  I was tired of FunLand, and I didn’t care if he fired me.  In fact, I would almost welcome it.  My aching shoulder agreed with me.  Rafe helped me change into a fresh pair of jeans and a black t-shirt before sitting me on the bed.  I watched as he started packing for me.  As I supervised him packing, I told him about my dreams.

“Weird,” Rafe commented, pausing in the packing.  “Do you think they have any significance?”

I shrugged as he folded my shirts before placing them in my suitcase.  I hadn’t given my dreams much thought, but I believed that our subconscious spoke to us in our dreams.  Therefore, there had to be something of use in those dreams, even if I couldn’t immediately identify what it was.  The second dream seemed marginally more straightforward than the first one, so I concentrated on the second one.  Obviously the painting in Lydia’s apartment had affected me, but was there more to it than that?  I would be hard-pressed to recall the details of the painting now even though I had liked it at the time, so I was inclined to believe that there was something to the painting—more than meets the eye.  What had the note said?  Something like almost there.  No, that wasn’t quite it.  Getting warmer.  That’s what it said.  What did that mean?

It meant that Lydia had expected someone to think of the painting—based on her first clue?  What was it?  Remembering a date.  What date?  Date?  Painting?  How did the two of them go together?  I frowned.  When else had Lydia talked about painting?  It was something she did in her spare time, but not something she talked much about.  She had a superstitious feeling that she’d jinx it if she talked about it too much.  But I distinctly remembered her telling me something about a painting she had done.  Recently.  What was it for?  I frowned and concentrated hard, but it was just at the edge of my consciousness.  I knew better than to try to force it, so I pushed it out of my mind.  It would come to me sooner or later.

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Parental Deception; chapter nine, part three

“Mrrrrrreow!” Onyx leaps into the air, and I catch her effortlessly. I cradle her to my chest and nuzzle her fur. She purrs happily, waving her front paws in the air. Jet dances around me, excited that his human is home. He bats at my legs, careful to keep his claws retracted. I ruffle the fur on his head, and he snuffles happily as if he’s a dog. I carry Onyx into the kitchen as she continues to fling her paws about. She’s being so goofy, I can’t help but laugh. Jet is literally nipping at my heels, and I admonish him to move away so I don’t step on him. He doesn’t listen, of course, because he’s a cat, and I use my empty stepping so I don’t accidentally squish him. I pull out the bag of Temptations and give them each four. I’m trying to curb their snacking, but I admit my heart’s not in it. I heat up some of the Thanksgiving leftovers, including a piece of the sweet potato pie. I grab a Diet Coke so when everything is ready, I can take my booty to the living room. As I’m eating, I start a new post about lies and deceptions. I don’t want to write specifically about George Tsai, but his deception galls me.

The sign of a good con man is that he knows intuitively his marks’ weaknesses. It’s the one ‘compliment’ I can give the president-elect—he has an uncanny knack for giving the people what they want. Not all people, of course, but enough to be elected—but that’s not the post I want to write, so I’m going to put it aside for now with great difficulty.

Recently, I had a man come into y life who purported to be someone I used to know. I didn’t quite believe him, but, I wanted to so very much.

My phone rings, startling me. I’m not expecting a call, but when I glance at the screen, I recognize the number. I can’t quite place it, but at least it’s not a telemarketer. I answer just because curiosity will kill me one day.

“Hello?” I say cautiously, ready to click the phone off if I’ve been tricked, and, indeed, it is an advertiser.

“How come you didn’t tell me?” A distraught female voice greets my ear. I yank my phone away because she’s hurting my ear.

“Mrs. Tsai? Is that you?” I think I can place the voice, but I’m not sure because it’s at high volume.

“You knew he was dead when you talked to me. That’s how you found me!” She’s continuing her monologue without paying any attention to me, but I get the gist of it. She’s pissed because I didn’t tell her that her husband was dead when we last talked, and I don’t blame her. I would be angry with me, too, if I were her. However, I don’t feel that bad because her husband offered a whopper of a lie to me and my sisters without any remorse. While she hadn’t approved of it, she went along with it. Was it her job to tell me and my sisters? No. It sure as hell would have been nice, though.

“I’m sorry,” I say, although it’s begrudging. “I didn’t think it was y place to tell you. How did you find out?”

“The Minneapolis police called me,” she says, bursting into tears. “Oh my god! How can he be dead? I just talked to him last night!”

“It seems he was going to have it out with someone he thought had scammed him,” I inform her, telling her everything I know. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

“What? No! I—wait. Is this from when he lived in Minnesota? We weren’t together at that time.” Mrs. Tsai is still crying, but at least I can understand what she’s saying. “George was secretive about his time in Minnesota. He always said it was a mistake and that he didn’t want to talk about it. I should have made him!” She bursts into tears again, and I wait for her to regain her calm. Every time she tries to catch her breath, she starts crying again.

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