July's Short Fiction and More
Here’s something I’ve published on yet another part of Substack, as well as a blog. But I’m holding onto other stuff I’ve written, which I could post here, just not yet.
This is a short story I adapted from a short script I wrote (and also blogged), so anyway. Let’s do this, shall we? :)
JUST CALL HER MARLO
”Something Rotten”
Part One
(a serialized story)
It was one of those hot days of summer, when simply thinking made me sweat. But I was playing it cool. I was also playing a game of solitaire with a worn set of cards, waiting for the phone to ring at the Offices of Marlo Wiley, Private Eye. My offices. I’m Marlo. The office is mine.
Summers are slow in this business. I’d suffered a bit of a drought, client-wise, in fact. So when someone knocked at my door, I swept up the playing cards and dropped them into the side drawer of my desk. Pity, as I was finally going to win a round.
“Enter,” I called.
The door eased open, and a young man poked his head inside. Was he afraid to cross the threshold?
“C’mon in,” I added. After a beat, he finally did.
I judged the fellow to be in his late 20s or early 30s, though he acted a bit younger. He shifted from foot to foot with a mildly puzzled expression, as if he’d forgotten the purpose of his visit.
When he finally spoke, he murmured, “Are you the detective?”
“I am,” I said, standing and extending a hand. He grasped my fingers and gave them a brief squeeze before letting go. “Why don’t you have a seat?” I added.
He lowered himself onto one of my guest chairs, a rickety old affair with one leg that was slightly too short, causing it to teeter.
“How can I help you?” I asked.
The young man swallowed and stared at his lap for a moment. He shook his head. “It’s … complicated.”
“Why don’t we start with your name?”
He seemed reluctant to share even that bit of intelligence. A protracted silence followed my question.
Finally, he said, “My name is Hamlet.”
“First or last name?”
“Just Hamlet.”
Well, that was unusual. I don’t usually get clients without the standard number of names.
“Okay,” I said. “Hamlet. Is that like a stage name? Like Elvis or the one who used to call himself Prince?”
“No, not really. People do call me Prince Hamlet.”
Right, I thought. I’m sure they do.
“Well, Mr. Hamlet—“
“Just Hamlet,” the young man said again.
“Right. So, how can I help you, Hamlet?”
Hamlet appeared distressed. A deep furrow formed on his brow as he thought about whatever was on his mind.
“I need you to prove that my uncle killed my father,” he said. His words came out slowly, like a trickle.
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“I have it on good authority. But I still need evidence.”
“What good authority would that be?”
“My father’s ghost appeared to me and said so.”
Oh, boy. This was a nutter. And one I’d rather avoid.
“I tried to explain this to my mom. Not that she listened. She married my uncle right after my father passed away.” He took a breath. “Now she thinks I’m crazy.”
Imagine. But it did seem to suggest dire possibilities.
“Here’s another thing,” he added. “My uncle has turned my two best friends against me.”
I nodded, trying to scrounge up a sympathetic smile. “My apologies, but I don’t handle domestic cases.”
Hamlet raised himself from the chair just high enough to fish a wallet from his back pocket. “I can pay you,” he announced, easing a thick wad of bills from his billfold. He placed the bills on my desk, straightened up the pile, and lined the edges into a neat stack.
Picking up the money, I rifled through the bills, gauging the amount to be roughly $1,000 in hundreds.
“Actually, I might just be able to fit you in,” I said, counting out the money and writing a receipt for the cash. “I’ll do what I can to find hard evidence of who killed your father.”
Hamlet perked up a bit, which in his case changed his expression to one of faint hope. “How soon can you start?”
“What’s the rush?” I asked.
“I’m supposed to go to New England with my two former best friends. My uncle … step-dad, or whatever he is wants to get rid of me.” His eyes widened. “He might even try to have me killed. I don’t trust those guys one bit.”
I imagined Hamlet’s accusations must trouble his uncle, but I couldn’t imagine anyone taking the guy seriously. But what did I know? I had a client and a job to do. And I aimed to do it.
*****
Dwyer Murphy’s new release The Stolen Coast is the subject of the Q&A with him on my blog! Check it out!
BONUS LINKS:
Messenger Bags and Murder by Dorothy Howell. From Mysteryrat’s Maze Podcast.
Tom Mead Presents THE MURDER WHEEL In Conversation With Otto Penzler on Facebook.