The Broken Picture

the beginnings of a murder mystery

Slivers of glass still litter the floor, fanned out from the picture's impact point in a painful reminder that he really wasn't coming back this time.  Or at least that's what the b*****d had said.  I can't tell you how many times he'd just upped and left, threatening to never return.  He'd be gone for a few days, a week at most, then he'd come back.  Lord knows I only kept taking him back for the income and the sex.  If it had been about him as a person, this would have ended years ago.

But the thing is, as I stared at his shattered portrait, I realized that eight days had passed, and nothing.  Very uncharacteristic.

I jumped at a sound.  Footsteps, coming up the front sidewalk.  Better late than never I suppose.  A firm knock came at the front door; typical, he never wanted to seem like he needed me.  I stood and answered the door, but it wasn't Greg standing on the front stoop.  In his place was a tubby police officer whose badge read 'Officer Edwin'.

"Excuse me, ma'am, does Greg Shoemake live here?"  Officer Edwin asked.

"Yeah.  He isn't here right now-" I answered.

"Yes, I know he isn't.  Ma'am, this might be difficult for you to swallow, but Greg Shoemake is dead."  My eyes widened.  "We found his body in the river early this morning."

"Dead?"  I breathed.  "How?"

"We aren't sure yet, could you please come to the station with me Mrs...?"

"Houston.  Miss Beverly Houston."  I stammered, grabbing my handbag and accompanying the officer.  Greg dead?  How?  And why wasn't I happy?  B*****d probably deserved it - hell, I know he did.

to be continued...