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Asking for help

With the recent boil outbreak in town, Oliver’s boss had let him work from home and Stephanie called in sick. She hadn’t really come down with the festering illness, but it seemed a timely excuse for her continuing investigation. She couldn’t explain why the thoughts of the murder had overcome her; after all, she never knew Mr. Evans. Her only explanation was that the packages and evidence had shaken her, and perhaps that this puzzle made her feel important for once in her life. The only issue was that she was stuck. She had a few pieces of evidence, though none were incriminating. She had hunches; however that isn’t something you can take to the police. She had Aydar on her side, but the two of them could only do so much. Maybe it was time for her to ask others for help, time for her to reach out instead of waiting for opportunities to come to her. What she really needed was Dorothy’s camera. With the lack of evidence at the police station, she needed something tangible, something she...
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Connections

It was all starting to come together. Rose. The rose etching on the watch, hammer, diary, photos: almost everything tied to the murder. Now, the hard part was figuring out which Rose. Rose Pittus? Or Dorothy Rose? Both lived in the Foxberry, and to be honest, both were pretty shady figures. Mr. Salimov, from one floor down, had recently sent Stephanie a note, after which they met for the first time. Apparently he’d thought she sent him the watch so he was just as confused as Stephanie when she revealed she hadn’t. Little by little, pieces started coming together. With her collection, Aydar’s testament, and the remains of the police’s evidence, she had managed to piece together a story. They both believed that Rose, Pittus that is, wasn’t guilty. Dorothy Rose was a photographer, after all. She could have taken the two photos of Stephanie, as well as the picture of Mr. Evans that Stephanie Lovett had found in the parking lot and turned in to the police. They couldn’t be sure, though. Unf...
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Blog 6

The trumpets of elephants and bouncy circus show tunes could be heard throughout the town, permeating The Foxberry and finding their way into Stephanie’s apartment. When they started early this morning, they woke the majority of the residents, but Stephanie was already awake. The box’s contents, Aydar's note, the hammer, and new diary were strewn on the floor in front of her, as well as her own notes about possible connections between the objects. She had employed her critical thinking skills, still dusty due to infrequent use after high school, and created a chart titled, “Know, Think, Wonder.” Know: Someone took photos of me. There was a diary in the wall of Mr. Evan’s previous apartment. Mr. Evans is dead. Think: Whoever took the photos wanted me to find the diary and hammer. They are connected to Evan’s death. Wonder: Who took the photos? Why was the diary in the wall? Who killed Evans? The curiosity and frustration with what little progress she had made overcame her, an...
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If these walls could talk...

Stephanie pulled the box from its hiding place, spilling the contents across the floor and revealing the stud finder, photos, and mysterious note to Oliver. He reluctantly picked up one of the photos of his wife and turned it over to find a date, location, and rose printed on the back. “What does this have to do with the hammer?” “The same rose marks! Look.” She pointed out the logo on the hammer they’d found at the power plant, and sure enough, the rose was identical to those on the photos. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.” Stephanie shook her head. “Not with the other stuff: the stud finder, the note. Read it,” she insisted. He did so. “Good luck? With what?” “You know this used to be Mr. Evans’ apartment, right?” “So what? People move into other people’s apartments all the time.” She ignored him. “I think there’s something in the walls.” “Or someone wants us to hang a picture.” “No.” She removed herself from the couch and sat next to Oliver on the floor. Her tone fell to a whisper. “Mr. ...
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Carpe Vitae

“I just don’t understand Stephanie,” Oliver snapped. “For God’s sake, it’s been a week! Where is animal control? Where is that goddamn power company’s apology? I’ve been listening to those horrible creatures all week, and nothing! It’s driving me insane. Up to my knees in rain and frogs…” Stephanie nodded, pretending to listen to Oliver’s rant. Secretly, she hadn’t minded the frogs. The constant background noise had provided company in the time she spent alone, contemplating the mysterious package delivered over a week ago. She’d discreetly asked Bea about the sender, trading anecdotes about the church infants for mailroom gossip. Someone else in the building, an Aydar Salimov, had received a package at the same time. It certainly didn’t seem like just a coincidence, judging by the lack of mail in Bea’s mailroom. She’d also mentioned holiday mail being lighter than usual. “Wouldn’t you agree, darling?” She nodded again before drifting back into her own mind. Should she reach ou...
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Doors

Stephanie had just drifted to sleep when a sharp knock roused her. “Oliver, the door?” she slurred. No answer. Not home. She drearily shambled to the door, hoping it wasn’t the police with more questions about Mr. Evans. Looking through the peephole, she was surprised to see Bea MacArthur with a package in her arms. Maybe a late wedding gift? Her brows furrowed, and she unlocked the door. After signing for the box, she returned inside and opened the box with her keys, not bothering to track down the ever-moving scissors. Still half-asleep, she fished out a note: To Stephanie: Good luck.  A line formed between her eyebrows, and she glanced around before delving deeper into the box’s contents. She pulled out two photos: one of her driving and one of her walking. They were each labelled with her name, the date, and a location. A knot developed in Stephanie’s throat. Her breathing became rapid. Eventually, her curiosity overcame her feeling of impending doom, forcing her to examine t...
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Sundays

One of the things Stephanie loved most about living in the Foxberry was her Sunday morning stroll to church. She walked alone, listening to the birds softly singing and the leaves crunching beneath her toes. It was calming, meditative if you will. This morning, everyone stared. Her ear-to-ear smile made her stand out like a parrot among ravens. What was there to be so excited about on such a dreary Sunday morning? Other than the pizza specials, of course. Eyes followed her as she walked down Effugium Boulevard, but Stephanie brushed it off, attributing their gazes to her bright red hair or height. She was early, entering an almost-empty sanctuary. She exchanged soft smiles with the minister as he rehearsed today’s sermon. Stephanie shrugged off her coat and made her way downstairs to the nursery. “Hi Olivia,” she said as she stepped into the room. Olivia turned around, Lysol and paper towels in gloved hands. “Stephanie! I’m so glad you’ll be joining us this morning,” Olivia said. “The ...
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