Open House
A Mystery Novel
by
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Marie Pearson tied strings of four white and purple balloons together before attaching them to the arrow-shaped “HOUSE FOR SALE” sign nailed to the bark of the masterful oak standing at the corner of Plymouth and Short Street. Assured they’d hold in the soft breeze she returned to her dark blue Lexus. After backing from the curb, she turned down Short Street for number sixty-nine, a beige with white trim colonial adorned with maroon shutters. This where she, the homeowner’s chosen Realtor, would spend the afternoon hosting an open house. The driver who was observing her from inside a shiny-clean deep grey Mercedes parked a hundred feet up on Plymouth Street slowly pulled away. The sun reflecting off the Mercedes chrome flashed across Marie’s rearview mirror causing her momentary glance. Smiling hopefully that perhaps this car carrying a prospective buyer en-route to the same house. Although it early, she thought. Nothing worse, she pondered, than spending four hours on a Sunday afternoon alone, and if no shows, the desire to close it up early. That though would go against the seller agreement, and, as proven in the past, that one solid buyer could show in the final hour. She was excited as always at the potential of a high commission which would help pay half of the first year tuition at Smith where her daughter was enrolled for next fall. Little did she know then that her life insurance policy would provide far too soon. .
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The motel manager momentarily surveyed the young man up and down. “Passing through or here on business perhaps?”
The man remained motionless, but for his hand scribbling over the credit card slip.
Raising his head for an eye to eye, “I suppose you could say that. Spent some time looking at property for sale around Smithson County, I believe it’s called? Sound right?”
“That’s it,” complied the manager, studying the credit receipt through the smoke screen made by the cigarette between his lips. “Mr. Woodson. You wouldn’t be interested in becoming a motel owner?” He gave the young man a sly grin.
“No, no. Grew up in a place similar to the smaller towns around here. Just thought I’d check out the market. Know one thing, some pretty sassy babes selling Real Estate around here.” He gave the manager a wink, turned and butting his suitcase against the screen edged outside.
Walking toward his car, he spoke to himself. “Sassy and sweet tasting too!” He laughed aloud. Inside the car he removed the business card from the visor. He pressed it on his nostrils inhaling deeply. Then licked it with his tongue.
“Marie, honey, there’s nothing like the taste of perfume in the morning. ‘Midnight Passion,’ I believe she called it.”
About the Author
Fran Silver lives in a country setting in southeast Massachusetts. He enjoys walking through the woods, and sitting near the cranberry bogs, contemplating a new story, creating a new character.