Page 76 of Little Dark Deeds
Iwaved Foley and Whitlockover, tipping my head toward the discovery I made.
“Well, I’ll be,” Foley said.“I can’t believe it.”
“And the card, with your name on it,” Whitlock said.“Eerie.It’s like she knew you’d find it.”
I reached for the card, unfolded it, and read aloud.
To the person reading this note,
If you are not Mrs.Georgiana Germaine of the Case Closed Detective Agency this note is NOT for you.I would ask that you cease reading immediately and see that she gets the note and the accompanying lighter at your earliest convenience.
Now then ...
Georgiana,
If you are reading this, it means I am dead.What a pity, though I’ve lived a long life, a good life, a life with almost no regret.If you were the one to discover my hiding place, you’re a far better detective than I gave you credit for, my dear, and I’m sorry for ever doubting you.
I also must apologize for not handing over the lighter sooner.As I’m sure you’re aware, Tiffany was not a smoker, so it seemed unlikely that the lighter belonged to her.I imagine the killer dropped it at some point.Please note what appears to be dried blood on its side.
When I entered Tiffany’s house on the day she was murdered, I found the lighter on top of the rug in the kitchen.My glasses weren’t on when I picked it up, so I didn’t notice the blood at first.The lighter itself is vintage and unique.I did some research, and it turns out, a similar one by the same maker sold at auction for over a thousand dollars earlier this year.
After I found the lighter, I slipped it into a plastic bag, and I considered looking around the rest of the house.Before I had the chance, Tiffany’s father found me in the kitchen.He told me the police were on their way, and I fisted my hand around the lighter.That’s when an idea came to mind.How challenging would it be to see if I could solve the murder myself?
A challenge I decided to accept.
I bet you’re wondering why I’d do such a thing, but there’s something you don’t know about me.Before I was married, I was a police officer, the first female officer in my city.I had dreams of becoming a detective one day.Back then, women weren’t promoted to those roles, even though I would have run circles around them.
As on officer, I didn’t get to play much with the big boys, either.I was given menial tasks like supervising women and children in custody and investigating domestic abuse.A couple of years into the job, I met my husband.He was shocked to hear I had a job, and even more so when I explained my position.He didn’t want a wife who worked.He wanted a wife who stayed at home with the kids, a wife who had dinner waiting when he came through the door.If I was to marry him, I had to choose—him or the job.I quit my job, but the desire to do detective work never left me.And though we tried, children were never in the cards for us.
In closing, I bet you’re wondering if I was able to identify the killer before my death.I’ll say this much; I have a solid idea, but after meeting you and knowing the personal connection you have to this case, I have a feeling you’d rather solve it yourself.So, I’ll not speak any further on the matter.After all, if I gave away the name of my prime suspect, what mystery would be left to solve?
Farewell, Detective, and best of luck to you,
Queenie
I slid the letter into my pocket, and for a moment, the three of us stood there in shock, as if searching for the right words to say.
“What a cunning, if not clever, woman,” Whitlock said.
“Cunning, yes,” Foley said.“Clever?She got herself killed—and for what—a one-time opportunity to relive a career she wished she hadn’t given up?”
“I disagree,” I said.“I believe she exited this life achieving a dream she never thought possible.”
Foley stepped in front of me and bent down, lifting the plastic bag out of Queenie’s hiding place and dangled it in front of us.We all leaned in, taking a closer look.The front of the lighter was fashioned in black lacquer with a chrome finish on the front, and on the back, cedarwood.And just as Queenie said, there was a spot of what appeared to be dried blood.
“Thoughts?”Foley asked.
“It’s feminine enough to belong to a woman and yet masculine enough to be owned by a man,” I said.
“I agree,” Whitlock said.
Foley turned toward Whitlock.“Would you holler at Silas, see if we can borrow him for a moment?”
“You got it.”
Whitlock left the room, and I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket.“Before you take the lighter into evidence, I’d like to take a few photos of it.”
“Go right ahead.”
