I thank Randi for dreaming up this invitational, for inviting me, for editing my story, and for prodding and poking me to get it finished and posted. Readers have no idea how much time and effort she puts into these little literary events.
I was checking my Facebook homepage one evening after dinner when I received a PM from Bill Jackson, a neighbor who lived a few houses down on our street. He asked if I had heard that Tyler Robinson had been shot to death earlier in the day!
I live in a quiet gated community where the biggest problem we ever have is someone sneaking through the gate before it closes all the way. Shootings simply don't happen. I immediately asked Bill if he had heard any particulars to the story.
It seems that Tyler's wife, Nancy, had returned home from her job as a math teacher at the local high school to discover her husband's bloody body lying on the kitchen floor. The door had been locked, and there was no sign of forced entry.
I lived on Poplar Street, and Tyler's house was two streets over on Pine. He and Nancy had been a regular couple in our social circle. My wife, Marge, and I were friendly with several other couples that lived in our little community. We usually had a gathering about once a month at one of our homes. The last one had been just over a week ago at Jeff and Elizabeth Baker's home. Tyler had been very much alive that night. After learning everything my neighbor Bill could tell me, I decided to tell my wife about the situation.
"Marge!" I called to my wife as she sat in the living room watching TV. "Did you hear that Nancy Robinson found Tyler dead in their kitchen?"
"No!" replied my wife as she quickly made her way to my side. "What happened?"
"Nancy came home and found him shot to death. Bill says that the Robinsons don't even own a gun. The doors were locked when Nancy got home, and there was no sign of forced entry. Maybe it was a robbery gone bad," I mused.
"Was anything missing?" asked Marge. "If things are gone, that would indicate that they were probably being robbed when Tyler surprised the thieves."
"Yeah, that makes sense," I agreed. "I guess it pays to watch all those crime shows. Bill hasn't heard any details yet. The police are still at the scene."
"We need to always be sure the doors are locked," worried Marge. "There's no reason to think the same thing couldn't happen to us."
"I'll check to be sure my shotgun is close at hand. I'll stash some ammo around the house, since it's a double-barrel and only holds two shells."
"That shotgun is kind of awkward," observed Marge. "Wouldn't it make more sense to get a handgun of some sort?"
"I don't have the time or inclination to practice enough to become accurate with a handgun. With my trusty 12 gauge, all I need is to point it in the right general direction," I reasoned. "There's nothing more terrifying than to find one's self on the wrong end of a shotgun."
"I sure hope you never have to use it," responded Marge with a shudder.
It took almost a week for any reliable information on Tyler's death to filter back to the community. The cops were staying tight lipped about the entire situation.
It somehow became known that police did not believe robbery was a motive in Tyler's death. That fact became more evident once it appeared that everyone in our group was to be thoroughly questioned by the lead detective on the case. He was reputed to have solved several tough cases over the years, although he didn't appear that formidable when I met him for the first time.
I was putting my lawn mower away on a Saturday afternoon when a somewhat overweight guy in a shiny suit walked across my lawn and stepped into my garage.
"Are you Daniel Page? I'd like to ask you a few questions," began the cheap suit as he held up a badge. "I'm Detective Cook, with the Millville Police Department. What can you tell me about Tyler Robinson?"
"For starters, he's deader than last year's dandelions," I replied as I reached in and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator I kept in my garage. "I'd offer you one, but I know that you're a professional and would never drink on the job."
Cook's eyes went to my Bud Light and remained there for several seconds. I began to wonder if there was a picture of a naked woman on it from the way he stared.
"Yeah, I could use one," conceded the detective as he snatched the bottle from my hand. "It's quite a coincidence that Tyler Robinson had five bottles of Bud Light in his refrigerator the afternoon he was shot, don't you think?"
"Yeah, especially considering that he drank Bud Light and usually kept a few cases in the house. That is weird," I responded smoothly before taking a long pull on my beer.
"Okay, Mr. Bud Light, where were you when Tyler Robinson met his untimely end?" demanded Cook in a rather unfriendly manner for a guy drinking one of my beers.
"What time did he die?" I shot back.
"I can't reveal that information!" snapped Cook before chugging the last of his beer.
"Then I can't answer your question!" I snarled in return even as I marveled at Cook's beer drinking talent.
"You don't know where you were March 4th at three PM?" sneered Cook as he reached into my refrigerator and pulled out another Bud Light. "Maybe I should take you down to the station and question you under the heat lamp we have just for guys like you."
"I was attending a meeting with seven coworkers when Tyler bought the ranch," I answered with a slight grin at Cook's obvious gaffe.
"I knew the threat of being interrogated at the station would help refresh your memory," smirked the detective as he plopped his ass down on my work bench.
"Do you own a handgun like the one used to kill him?" was his next question.
