The summer of 1925
“It’s really quite simple, once you think about it.”
“it can’t be that simple, even the police ruled it a suicide,” I leaned on the counter and ordered. “Two red hots and a root beer,” I glanced behind me at Mr. Barnaby. His shoulders had stiffened from being crammed into the crowd of hollering teenagers. I grinned. “You want a soda pop, boss?”
His wrinkled face pinched into a scowl. “Too much sugar.” What a flat tire.
“Make that two root beers”
We made our way to the Coney Island boardwalk. The sound of waves crashing and thrilled screams filled the air. “I don’t know why you insisted on coming here. It’s terribly noisy.” He huffed as he eased onto a wooden bench, holding onto his walking stick.
“It’s summer. We live in Coney Island,” Ladies were prancing around in tiny bathing suits, showing off their curves and exposed knees. “What could be better than this?” I raised my root beer in an unmet cheers.
Mr. Barnaby took a sip and grimaced. “Solving a case, for starters.” He furrowed his thick grey eyebrows and removed his hat, wiping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief.
“Or agreeing he shot himself.”
“You think finding a scribbled message about how cruel the world is and what appears to be a self-inflicted gun shot wound to the temple is enough to prove a man killed himself?”
“Pretty much.” I took a bite of the frankfurter. Definitely needed more mustard.
The detective began to ramble on about his brilliant revelation, how seemingly minor details led him to his remarkable conclusion. I didn’t hear a word of it. I was to busy eyeing the gams of a gorgeous brunette with a sharp bob smiling at me from underneath her parasol.
“Are you listening, Oscar?”
I toss him a distracted nod. “Absolutely, boss”
Meet Detective Barnaby and his assistant, Oscar Fitzgerald.
Write with Heart,
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