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JUDGING GUIDELINES: Read EACH Story and give EACH story a rating of 1 - 5, with 5 being the highest score. Send your votes to sleuthsink95@gmail.com by Sunday, April 6th. Winners will be announced at the April Meeting.
FYI Each story is written from the attached prompt. No two will be alike.
Who Stole the Cookie Recipe?
Cookie
unlocked her bakery door at 4:00 a.m. sharp, as she’d done for the past twenty
years. Flipping the light switch, she let out a startled cry. It looked like a
cyclone had hit the kitchen.
She
fished her cell phone from her purse and dialed 911.
“911.
What is your emergency?”
“This
is Cookie Samborini with Cookie’s Confections. Someone ransacked my business.”
“Was
anything taken?”
“I
don’t know. I’m just inside the kitchen door. I don’t want to risk destroying
evidence.”
“I’ll
send an officer.”
She
was surprised by how quickly the officer arrived.
“Cookie
Samborini?”
“Yes.”
“Detective
Bumble. I understand there’s a problem.”
“Someone
ransacked my bakery.” She pointed to the mess. “I haven’t touched anything
except the doorknob and the light switch.”
“Good.”
He looked around. “Anything missing?”
“I
can’t tell. A lot’s been destroyed. This feels personal.”
“It
looks personal. Any idea who could’ve done this?”
“No.
I make sweets, nothing controversial.”
“I’m
going to take pictures and dust for prints. If you’ll wait here, we’ll walk
through and document losses and damages afterward.”
Wracking
her brain, she couldn’t think of a single person who could’ve done this.
Lost
in her thoughts, she was startled when officer Bumble touched her sleeve.
“Let’s
make that list.”
Walking
to her office, next to the kitchen, she picked up a notepad and pen from her
desk. Everything looked normal except one desk drawer was slightly ajar.
Suspicion
rose. “Did you dust for prints over here?”
“No.
Do you believe it’s been tampered with?”
“Yes.
I keep it locked. It was pried open.”
He
photographed the drawer and surrounding area and dusted for finger prints.
Once
finished, he opened the drawer. A recipe box lay on its side, contents
haphazardly scattered. Dusting each card, he handed them to her for organizing.
Once
the last card was in the box, she peered in the drawer. “One’s missing.”
“Are
you sure?”
Anger
surged. “My chocolate chip cookie recipe is gone. I ship those cookies worldwide.”
“Do
you have it memorized?”
“Yes.”
“How
much is it worth?”
“Priceless.”
Jotting
notes, he nodded. “Let’s see what else is missing.”
Chaos
reigned with flour on the floor, sugar inside the cash register, and honey coating
the counters. There was no sign of forced entry. All doors and windows were
locked. The safe was untouched. The only thing missing was Cookie’s recipe.
“This
may be an inside job,” Detective Bumble said.
“Maybe.”
“Who
else has a key to the bakery?”
“Janice
and Marvin. They’ve been with me for years.”
“I’d
like to stay and make some observations.”
“Sure.”
Cookie
brewed coffee, posted a closed notice, and convinced her supplier to make an
emergency delivery. She was sweeping when Janice arrived.
“What
happened?” The woman’s lips twitched.
Cookie
replied, “We were ransacked.”
“Really?”
Janice giggled.
When
Janice left the room, the detective asked Cookie, “She always so jolly?”
“She’s
never happy.”
“I’d
like to talk to her.”
“Sure.”
Janice
returned to the kitchen, all smiles. “Where should I start?”
“Detective
Bumble would like to talk to you.”
Her
smile withered. “Why? I wasn’t here during the burglary.”
“Who
said it was burglary?” asked the detective.
Janice
stammered, “I assume it’s a burglary. Just look at the mess.”
“Please
step over here. I have a few questions.”
“I
need to help Cookie. It’s going to take hours to get the sugar out of the
register.”
“How
did you know about that?” asked Cookie.
Janice’s
lips flattened. “You told me.”
“I
didn’t.”
Sweat
formed on Janice’s brow. “You must’ve.”
“She
didn’t mention sugar,” the detective said.
“Are
you accusing me? I don’t need a stupid chocolate chip cookie recipe.”
Nodding,
Detective Bumble pulled out his handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for theft and
property destruction.” He explained her rights as he cuffed her.
“Why?”
Cookie cried.
Janice
glared. “I work like a dog for peanuts.”
Cookie’s
spine stiffened. “You’re well paid. Why steal my recipe and destroy supplies?”
“I’ve
made thousands of those cookies. I deserve the money.”
“It
pays your salary.” Cookie sighed. “You’re fired.”
“She
won’t need a job for a while. Just a lawyer,” the detective said before escorting
Janice away.
Mavin
came in and helped clean. They were leaving when the phone rang.
“It’s
Detective Bumble. We obtained a search warrant for Janice’s house and found
your recipe. It’s evidence, but we’ll return it to you after the trial.”
“Thanks.”
“My
pleasure. I’ll be by tomorrow for a chocolate chip cookie.”
“I’ll
have a fresh batch.”
1st PLACE 2. Prompt: A puzzle maker vanishes, leaving behind an intricate locked box said to contain all his greatest designs and secrets. Can you solve the puzzle and find the key?
The Puzzle-Maker’s Bequest
Violet fiddled her key into the lock of the antique wood-framed door of the shop. Finally, after much jiggling, the lock gave way, and the hinges squeaked as the door opened.
“Ollie!” Violet yelled into the darkness as she stepped across the threshold. She stopped for a moment, looking around, but she saw no lights and heard no sounds.
“Well, that’s strange,” she thought to herself. “Uncle Ollie?” she said again, although this time it sounded more like a question.
Carefully, in the darkness, she moved to the right of the door and fumbled for the light switch. Hanging from the ceiling, four old lights with dusty glass globes bathed the store's interior in pale yellow light. Wooden toys, board games in boxes, and various books filled the shelves along the walls.
Nothing looked out of place, though she knew Uncle Ollie would not have just closed up shop on a Tuesday without telling her. They both looked forward to Tuesday afternoons when Violet would stop by. She had no classes at the college and would bring homemade soup for them both. Uncle Ollie would always close up shop early so they could have “a proper visit,” as he called it. They would talk of books, and he would show her his latest carved puzzle boxes. So, where was Ollie?
Violet began to look around the store for some clues when she noticed a box wrapped in brown paper. On the brown paper, in Uncle Ollie’s messy handwriting, was written simply “for Violet.” Confused by her uncle’s absence and the strange package, she began to tear the paper away. Underneath was a plain wooden box. Opening the lid, the felt-lined box contained only four simple items: a candle, a book of matches, an old worn pocket watch, and a page torn from a book.
“Puzzles, always puzzles,” she said out loud in exasperation. Reaching into the box, she set the candle upright on the counter and pulled out an old watch. Placing the watch to her ear, she listened. Nothing. She began to wind the watch but discovered the knob was spinning freely. “Broken.”
Violet took out the torn page to look at next. She was not sure what book this had been torn from, but she quickly saw the part intended for her. Halfway down the page was an underlined section.
… patience and time, will reveal all.
Violet laid the three items – four, including the matches – on the counter. Why was he leaving her clues, and why wasn’t he waiting for her today? She knew the answers were in the clues, so no sense in wasting time.
The first was easy: the candle and the matches. So, she struck one of the matches and lit the candle. She waited, but nothing.
Next, she looked again at the old pocket timepiece. Nothing was etched on it, it was old, brass, and beginning to corrode. She opened the back cover, but the mechanisms were frozen from age. Nothing there. Flipping it back over, she noticed the time. The watch had stopped at 4:21- Four-twenty-one in the morning or afternoon, she wondered. “Four two, one…could those numbers mean something? Four hundred and twenty-one? Four plus two plus one would equal seven.”
While her mind continued to work out the meaning of 4:21, she noticed that the candle looked different. Where the wick was burning, she could see a piece of metal starting to appear. She waited impatiently as the candle burned. “Of course…patience,” she said out loud, smiling and proud of herself. As she waited, the top of a key began to emerge. Violet blew out the candle and pulled the rest of the key from the soft wax. Across the top of the key were the words First National Bank, and down one side was written “Do Not Duplicate.”
“A safety deposit box key! That bank is just down the road, but how will I know what box? There is no number on the key. Of course, she thought, 421 – patience and time reveal all.”
Violet locked the shop quickly and headed for the bank. The clerk escorted her to the back, where she located number 421. The key worked! Carefully, she pulled out a small box and a yellowed newspaper clipping. The clipping was from August 6, 1962, and was headlined “Spector Diamond Missing - Police Baffled.”
Violet looked at the small wooden box. “No, it couldn’t be. Could it?” she stammered out loud.
3rd Place 3 Prompt: Exploring a cave as a scout, you stumble upon a native burial site and ancient petroglyphs depicting strange rituals. Days later, town residents start sleepwalking into the hills.
Lisa parked in front of her father’s house. She sat in her car a bit to let the dust cloud from the dirt road to settle some before lifting her door up. After a couple of minutes, he cautiously opened his front door, a rifle in one hand and the collar of his dog in the other.
“Dad!”
she said.
He
nodded and leaned the rifle against the porch. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I
thought we should talk.”
“What’s
done is done. Not really your fault, but I told you to keep them scouts out of
that cave.”
“You
don’t look well,” she said.
“Do
any of us look well?”
“I
brought some things for Bobby. Bottled water and oatmeal bars he likes.”
Her
dad led the dog over to the edge of the porch and let go. The dog ran, barking
excitedly. He seemed to want to say something that caused a lot of emotion to
run across his face.
Instead
he said, “Don’t spend too much time with Bobby. You’re still young enough that…
whatever it was about those drawings in the cave or whatever, you could still…
catch it.”
He
snatched the rifle up and led her down an old deer path through the woods.
Ahead of them Lisa could hear barking, it’s tone getting higher, more excited.
Then
there was the sound. The droning, low mumbling of people. Not really
talking, but making a sound somewhere between a hum and a moan. Then there was the smell.
Unwashed sweat and mud, mixed with human excrement.
In
an open field were a hundred young people. What had started with Lisa leading a
scout outing of teens to a cave to see ancient petroglyphs, had grown to a
third of the town’s children.
They
stumbled about, their faces turned upwards, generally moving in a huge circle,
making the moaning noise. Unresponsive; their arms hanging limp.
They’d
been like this over a month.
The
town had erected stanchions with flashing lights in a circle, which seemed to
keep them in this now muddy depression. There were older people standing about.
Watching; some crying.
Nearby,
a woman Lisa didn’t know was shouting, “Carol!”
Lisa
felt her father behind her. “I put that hunter orange ball cap on him to keep
track of him,” he said. “I got him out of town before they shot him. Damn town
cops shot four or five that first day.”
“I’ll
try,” she said. She stepped forward cautiously.
She
moved in the direction they did and tried to slide into the group near Bobby.
The stench was all but overwhelming. She finally got close and walked beside
him, close enough to see his eyes and hear his moaning hum. His pupils were
white now. He was pale and his skin looked thin. He was malnourished and
dehydrated… dying.
Hot
tears came to her face but she tried to hold it together to get him to take
something.
“Bobby
you have to try and eat something!” she said, her own voice hitching as she
spoke. “Bobby you’ll stand out here and die if you don’t!” He took a few sips
of the water, but anything else she gave him just ran down his face.
Then
as they made a lap around the field, the woman she’d seen earlier pulled a
large handgun from her purse and ran into the crowd.
“Carol!”
she screamed and put the gun to a young girl’s head and pulled the trigger.
Lisa
jumped and screamed as she saw the girl collapse. Then the woman put the gun to
own head. The concussion from the shot, even as far as it was, seemed to slap
Lisa in the face.
But
the people moving and moaning in the field did not react at all. They stumbled
over the new corpses. Some fell.
“Lisa!”
she heard her dad call. But she ignored him. She reached for and took her
brother’s hand. And the low moaning hum was all she could hear. The sun seemed
brighter than before, and in her bones she felt the earth send tiny sparks of
magnetism up through her feet and throughout her body.
She
kicked off her shoes to walk barefoot in the sloshing mud, to feel the current,
and then lifted her head. Her whole body was vibrating and… it felt good. She
dropped the bag with the bottles and fruit bars.
A
low moan rose from her chest through her throat, and she let it.
4. Train of Clues
Tom carried the
last of the moving boxes up the steps, through the open doorway of the huge
Victorian home that once belonged to his great grandfather. He bumped the door
closed with his hip and continued into the kitchen. His cell phone buzzed on
the counter. His mothers face filled the screen. Tom grabbed it and swiped the
green button. “Hi Mom, I just finished unloading the truck. I was about to call
you.”
“Hi hon, glad you
arrived safely. Is the house all that you remembered? You were around 12 or 13
years old the last time you were there.”
“I think it’s even
bigger than I remembered. I appreciate Great Granddad leaving it to me. I’m not
certain I can afford to heat it though. Two full stories plus an attic and a
basement!”
“I know it’s huge.
His wishes were very specific though. He was proud of you becoming a doctor
like him and he left enough money to keep the house going.”
“I’m a medical
examiner. I work on dead people. He doctored alive people. Not even close to
the same but it’s nice he was proud of me.”
“Still a doctor,
no point splitting hairs. We’ll talk again soon, I have to go for now. Love
you!”
“Bye Mom, love you
too.”
A strange noise
erupted from the basement. Tom eased the door open and found a light switch.
Tom walked downstairs to investigate the “clack, clack, chugga, chugga...” wth
is that noise? I hope it’s not a sign the water pipes are going to burst.
Tom walked toward
the noise source. There was a very large table covered by a miniature town and
a model train clanked and chugged along. Hmptf pretty cool, how’d it come on
though? Tom found a set of switches, but they had no effect on the train.
It kept going, then the whistle blew. It was loud and shrill for an enclosed
space. Tom covered his ears. He searched and found the breaker box and flipped
several electric breakers. The train didn’t stop. There was a note taped inside
the door of the breaker box. It had Tom’s name on it and read:
“Tom, you can’t turn the train off.
It’s haunted.
It will help you
if you allow it.
If you ignore it
or try to remove it there will be problems.
Just don’t. I’m
proud of you. Live well. GGD”
Tom stared at the note and train in turn. Disbelief in
“unscientific things” warred with utter faith in his great granddad. The train shuddered
to a stop in front of the apothecary with a hiss and a clunk. The whistle blew
again. The tiny sign on the apothecary bore a caduceus on one side and skull
with crossed bones on the other side. He peered at it. Ironic.
His cell vibrated with an incoming message. He glanced at
the screen and muttered “okay ghost, I gotta go to work. This’ll take some
getting used too. Maybe I’ve become crazy.” Tom raced up the stairs and arrived
twenty minutes later at the city morgue.
Detective Lynn Moon awaited Tom. The petite brunette wasted
no time on small talk. “Dr. Swanson, the young man on your exam table is the
third victim in three months. I’m seeing a pattern and need your help. I hope
you’re up to the task. Your predecessor was not.”
“I’ll do my best. What pattern?”
“Each month a young male with dark hair has been found dead
in the downtown area. So far the causes of death are undetermined.”
“I’ll take that challenge and call you when I know
something.”
Three hours later, Tom considered the possibilities while he
stitched the Y incision on the torso of his subject. He didn’t want to tell
Detective Moon he had no idea why the teen died. No signs of illness or trauma
were detected. He’d tested for all the normal substances people overdose on and
found none. Tom was flummoxed. He stored the body, locked the office and
returned home.
Tom fixed a cup of coffee and dug into the box of medical
books. He was determined to find an answer. The train whistled downstairs. It
sounded urgent. The book Tom held was titled “Arcane Poisons of the Past.” Tom
raced to the morgue to run a more detailed toxicology panel.
Hours later he called Detective Moon. “Your victim died of Aconitine
poisoning.”
2nd PLACE 5. Prompt: An abandon car is found in the woods containing a screaming man trapped in the trunk. He has amnesia and can’t remember how he got there or who put him there.
The Queen of Spades
The autumn air, crisp and fresh, scented
with decaying leaves, nipped at Ashley’s nose and cheeks. Behind her, Jeff
puffed slightly, his camera bouncing against his chest. She navigated the
winding trail, deep in the heart of Blackwood Forest, a place notorious for its
dense foliage and whispered legends of those who vanished within.
They were hoping to capture the
fiery reds and golds of the season. But instead, they found something extremely
wrong.
As they got deeper into the woods a
hoarse scream broke through the nature around them and echoed through the trees.
Curiosity led them off the path, through tangled undergrowth, until they
stumbled into a small clearing.
A car, sleek, black, and pristine
sat there hidden, no dust, no vines claiming it. It was as if someone had
parked it moments ago and vanished into the trees.
“Why would anyone leave this here?”
Jeff murmured, raising his camera.
Ashley’s unease deepened. It wasn’t
just abandoned—it was left on purpose.
As they approached, the sound grew
louder, and then she saw it: the trunk wasn’t fully closed. A sliver of
darkness yawned beneath the latch.
“Jeff, wait,” she whispered.
But he was already moving, drawn by
the same morbid curiosity now twisting in her gut. He reached out and lifted
the trunk.
A man lay inside; bloody, bound,
gagged, and shaking. His clothes were tattered, but not old—like he had been left
there recently. His wide, terrified eyes locked onto Ashley’s.
They moved fast, untying the knots,
helping him sit up. He flinched at their touch, his gaze darting around, wild
and searching.
"Are you alright? Can you tell
us your name?" Ashley asked, voice soft but urgent.
The man swallowed hard, his voice
horse, “I… I… I don’t know.”
His panic deepened as he grasped at
empty memories, but nothing came. No name. No past. Just the forest and the
car.
They got him to his feet,
half-carrying him back toward the trail. He moved stiffly, as if he wasn’t sure
how to walk, every step uncertain. Ashley couldn’t shake the feeling that they
were being watched, unseen eyes peering through the trees.
When they reached their car Jeff
called 911. The police arrived, sirens cutting through the unnatural stillness,
the man barely reacted. They took him to the hospital. Ashley and Jeff gave
their statements.
Days turned into weeks. The mystery
deepened.
The car was stolen and wiped of
fingerprints. No personal items. Nothing to explain why a brand-new car was
left in the middle of Blackwood Forest, carrying a man with no memory.
The media dubbed him The Trunk
Man. Theories ran wild—was he in witness protection? A failed experiment? A
kidnapping gone wrong? But he remained a blank slate, unable to recover
anything from before the moment he awoke in the trunk, in the woods.
And then Ashley remembered, a
single playing card had been lying on the ground near the car that day. The Queen
of Spades. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was trash.
But now…
She called the lead detective. He
was skeptical but promised to look into it.
Days later, he called her back. His
voice was different this time. Tense.
"Ms. Riley, that card—it
wasn’t random. We ran it through forensics, and there was a trace of a rare dye
on it. The kind used in specialized printing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It led us to an underground
gambling syndicate. Ruthless. High-stakes games with consequences. Their
signature? The Queen of Spades.”
Ashley’s pulse quickened. “So, you
think—”
“We think your Trunk Man was
involved. Either as a player or something worse. And the amnesia? It might not
be an accident. It might be a message.”
A warning.
The police reopened the case, and
piece by piece, the truth surfaced. The man had once been a high-stakes player who
either knew too much or had crossed the wrong people. They had wiped his past,
left him in the woods, and ensured he wouldn’t remember who he was or what he
had seen.
But someone had slipped up. Left a clue.
The Queen of Spades.
As the clues came together slowly his
memories returned, he testified, and the gambling ring fell. Ashley and Jeff’s
discovery had pulled the thread that unraveled everything.
But even after it was over, Ashley
couldn’t shake one final thought.
Had they really saved him?
Or had they just delivered him back
into the game?
HONORABLE MENTION 6. PROMPT: A new mounted fish trophy arrives at the taxidermist shop where you work. But hidden inside the fish is a waterproof bag stuffed with uncut diamonds. Who does it belong to?
FISH TALE
I had only worked at the
shop three months when the most remarkable thing happened. To begin, I never
pictured myself anywhere near a taxidermist business, much less employed in
such a place. But, I needed a job and the owner’s wife wanted time off, so
there I stood, manning the front counter.
One fateful morning, a Mrs.
Pecheur waltzed in carrying a mounted fish. The fish appeared well-preserved.
She explained that it was her husband’s—now deceased, God rest his soul—and she wondered
if we might sell it for her. She confided that she hated that fish constantly staring
at her. I could certainly sympathize. The paperwork signed, I then promised to
speak with the owner Mr. Fischbein regarding her request. Delighted, she departed.
Two days later, Fischbein eased
open the workroom door, and motioned for me to come with him. Fixating on the
back wall, I strode through the shop, avoiding eye contact with his assistant or any animal lying about. At his desk then,
he turned to me.
“What do you know of this
specimen?”
“Only that a Mrs. Pecheur brought
it in Monday, and asked if we could sell it for her. It was her husband’s—he
passed recently—and she doesn’t like it looking at her.”
Fischbein gazed at me. “Did
she say anything else?”
“No, not at all.”
“Her name sounds familiar. I
believe we have done other work for a Pecheur.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Yes, of course. At any
rate, I have inspected this piece, and made an interesting discovery.” He
turned aside, retrieved a small bag, and waved it in front of my face.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It looks like a bag of
rocks, sir.”
“You could say…but it may tell
a bigger tale. Please return to the front counter, and let me know if she
returns.”
_____
“Mother, what document did
you find?”
“One I’ve never seen before,
buried in your father’s papers. Michael, it refers to a stash of diamonds…in a
fish.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Come take a look. Please! I
just left your father’s mounted fish at the taxidermist’s. I asked them to sell
it.”
“You did what? I’m on my
way.”
_____
He strolled into the shop and toured the perimeter,
feigning interest in all manner of preserved animals. There were no mounted
fish anywhere, including on the wall behind the front counter. Where is the
damn thing? Several minutes later, a young woman appeared.
“How may I help you?”
“I’d like to see a specimen you have.”
“Can you describe it?”
“It’s a large fish, already mounted.”
“Your name?”
“Michael Pecheur.”
The young woman stared at him in an unnatural way, setting
him on edge. “Please wait.” She hightailed it to the workshop, leaving him
alone with only dead animals for company.
Shortly, a man emerged. Michael smiled. The other man
did not.
“Mr. Pecheur? What sort of fish interests you?”
“The one my mother brought in the other day. Have you
sold it, yet?”
“No, no, we haven’t sold it. But, that one…it’s not
for sale.”
“I’m not here to buy. I’m here to reclaim it. It was
my father’s; he left it to me in his will.”
“Where is the document showing that?”
Michael pulled out a copy of the will and spread it on
the counter. “Here.”
The taxidermist’s face fell, then recovering, he asked,
“Your father’s name?”
“Robert John Pecheur.”
Without a word, Fischbein disappeared into the
workroom. Shortly, he returned bearing a large mounted fish, a Pangasius, its
mouth gaping open, staring at all assembled.
“Here is your fish.”
“It’s been cut open.”
“It was in bad condition. We’re repairing it.”
Michael stared at Fischbein. “I doubt that. And what
did you find inside?”
“All contents found inside specimens are the property
of this shop. That is in the agreement.”
Astounded, Michael retorted, “Listen, Fischbein,
whatever was inside that fish belongs to me. Now, produce it, or I’m calling my
lawyer.”
Fischbein dropped a small bag of uncut diamonds onto
the counter. “That could prove very interesting. You see, RJ Fischbein, the man
who sired me, left for Viet Nam, then returned home to your mother,
having assumed a new name. I’d say, we can both lay claim to these rocks. If we
want to.”
Overcome, Michael stared at his half-brother.
Fischbein added, “Know this, our father smuggled these
uncut diamonds out of Viet Nam. They’re really too hot to touch, wouldn’t you
say?”
It was another beautiful early November
evening in my garden, gathering the few fresh radishes and lettuce needed for
my dinner salad. Earlier today, I found a large rock with a painted symbol like
the ones my first husband Sam, God rest his soul, and I discovered years before
while spelunking. It was the second one I found, a poignant reminder of our
adventurous past. I assumed the first one, a painted crow, had washed down the
hill during the recent rains. From what I recalled from conversations with Sam
years ago, the crow symbolized death. This second one gave me pause since it,
too, an owl symbolized death. As I meandered to the kitchen, I spotted another
large rock, about ten inches in diameter, near the garden edge closest to the
door. This one, unmistakable as a death symbol, a round death symbol, and the
symbol for a woman, frightened me. This most recent discovery is not my first
time on high alert for danger. After Sam's disappearance and one-time visit
warning me to be careful two years earlier, I’ve always been alert to risk, or
so I believed. Living in a rural area made it easier because strangers
typically stood out. This appearance was generally accurate, except during
hunting season, with everyone in camo and carrying weapons. I checked all the
windows and door locks, prepared our dinner, and waited for my new husband,
James, to arrive home from his Polk County sheriff's job. As we ate dinner, I
divulged my findings and what I believed their meaning to be. I prepared to
explain my fears further, but James immediately understood the implications. We
planned our next moves to protect me and us from harm. James believed that our
first step was checking our property for signs of trespassers and checking our
cameras for intruders. Next, James would verify all alarms on the property are
still enabled. Before we started searching our property, we began our list of
who might want me dead. We had no issues with any of our neighbors or family. I
trust James with my life, from the moment we met after the disappearance of
Sam, my late husband, he’d been one of the few people who never believed I
caused Sam's disappearance. We once again checked the house was all locked up
and retired for the evening. It will be a long day tomorrow, up at first light
to begin checking our land for clues.
We began searching at the outer perimeter
of our land and James immediately noticed evidence of multiple entries by
someone- the boot tracks were the same coming and going multiple times. He
motioned me behind him, and we proceeded towards our home, following the
tracks. James suddenly stopped and motioned me down and to stay. He moved ahead
to a camoflagued figure on the ground. It wasn't evident if they were crouched
to hunt or lying down resting. As James approached with his gun drawn, he took
a step back and motioned me forward. The figure was a man with a crossbow arrow
in his chest. At first glance it appeared to be a terrible hunting accident.
His backpack, next to him, would tell another story. James phoned into his
deputies, requesting the coroner and reported our discovery. As the deputies
searched his pockets and backpack, it soon became evident, this man was not an
ordinary deer hunter. Normal things like a large knife, black trash bags, and a
9mm Glock were in his backpack. Beneath these items were zip ties, syringes,
and vials of ketamine. The bandana in his jacket seemed perfectly normal for
hunting, but not the large bottle of ether or the stun gun. After explaining
the warning rocks and ruled out as a suspect, I began in earnest to seek who
this unknown person was and why he wanted me dead. Law enforcement could not
identify him, he had no fingerprints, dental records, or identification on him.
The next method used is testing for a familial DNA match. With all the dead
ends, I don't expect to ever know who he was and why he wanted to kill me. The
other mystery is who killed him and who placed the rocks- this man or someone
else. I would soon find a suitable answer to this when I returned home one
evening to find a large rock with a beautiful hand painted cardinal on it. I
believe it’s my late husband, Sam, still protecting me.
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