Garwood Village by Robert F. Clifton (romantic novels in english TXT) 📕

“Since we made that transaction prices have gone up Robert. I can take it in trade, but the same type of diamond in a different setting will cost you between seventy five or a hundred dollars more”, said Harry.

“I understand, but when you say same type of diamond, do you mean cut or value?”

“Value?”

“Good, I want an entirely different ring, different cut, different setting and I'll pay the difference. Now help me pick one out”, said Wallace.

Back behind his desk Wallace drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup while he listened as Stiles brought him up to date on new orders that had been issued when he was out. He was surprised that no new cases had been assigned to his unit, but then again major crimes were not a large issue in Nautilus Beach. Most of the time he had his unit investigating cold cases.

When Stiles was finished, Wallace made two telephone calls. One to the Glass Menagerie and the other to Mary Wagner. He heard her answer. “Hello?”

“What are you doing?”, he asked.

“Writing, working”.

“How is it going?”

“Rather well. Why? Don't you think I know what I'm doing?”

“Don't get your ass in the air. Are you free tonight?”

“Yes, why wouldn't I be?”

“How about I pick you up at eight and we go to dinner?”

“Where?”

“The Glass Menagerie”.

“What's the occasion?”

“Does there have to be an occasion?”

“There usually is with you”.

“Well did you ever think that maybe I'd like to thank you for all that you did for me?”

“You don't owe me anything Robert”.

“I know, but instead of us bantering back and forth on the damn telephone are you going to go to dinner with me or not?”

“Yes, damn it, yes!”.

“Good. I'll see you at eight”, he said then hung up the telephone.

That night at dinner he sat and watched Mary as she sat with her head down staring into her drink as she twirled the plastic stirrer round and round in her drink. “Something on your mind?”, Wallace asked.

She looked up at him. “Oh I was just thinking about the time we were here just after we came back from Tobago. That was the night that you dumped me. I'm just wondering if your rotten enough to do it again”.

Wallace shook his head. “So that's what you think of me, rotten”.

“Listen Robert, there's something on your mind, so what ever it is say it and get it over with”, said Mary.

“Hear that song? Isn't it one of your favorites?”

“Yes Dahil Sa iyo”.

“I asked them to play it. Let's dance, the orchestra is waiting for us, said Wallace as he took her hand and walked her to the dance floor. He took her in his arms and they danced. As he held her close he closed his eyes realizing that he was holding the one he wanted.”

Mary looked up at him and said, “I know there's something on your mind Robert, say it”.

Wallace smiled, “Actually, I have a question”, he said.

“Alright, what is it?”

“Where would you like to spend your honey moon?”

Mary stopped in the middle of the dance floor. “Are you serious?”, she asked.

Robert reached into his suit coat pocket and removed the ring and opened the box. “Is this serious enough?”

Other dancers on the floor stopped and applauded the couple.

“You still haven't answered my question”, he said.

Mary smiled and said, Tobago dear, let's go back to Tobago. There's where I fell in love with you”.

“If that's what you want that's where we'll go”.

“Wait a minute. What changed your mind?”, she asked.

“Frank Sinatra”.

“Sinatra?”

“Yep. I heard him sing a song and he made me realize what an asshole I've been. I hope you forgive me”.

“Well maybe. After all, when we're married everyone will think you're my sugar daddy”.

“Touche”.

Chapter Twelve

Manfred Edwards sat relaxed in a lounge chair on the veranda. He occasionally turned a page of the Sound Telegraph, reading only the articles in the newspaper that interested him. Once in a while he would stop, pick up the cup of coffee that rested on a glass top end table, take a sip from it, replace the cup and turn a page again.

When Sharon came out on to the porch he looked at her and said, “Good morning love. Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes, yes I did. I see you made your own coffee”, Sharon answered.

“Well, I made something. I can't tell what it is. I'm still not use to instant coffee in the morning. At least it's Maxwell House. Now, if we had a coffee maker I could have had your coffee all made and ready for you”, he replied.

“Too much of a bother, particularly when I must be at the office in the morning. Speaking of work how did it go yesterday. I never did ask you”.

“Well one thing about geriatrics is it's interesting. My first patient couldn't move his bowels. The second patient couldn't stop moving his. The third patient couldn't remember what she came to see me about and that's how it went most of the day, complaints about taking a shit one way or another and the beginnings of Alzheimer disease. The biggest problem is one toilet for all the patients. One is not enough for those with incontinence and loose bowels.”

“You need a dunny”, said Sharon.

“What the hell is a dunny?”

“A dunny is what you probably call an outhouse. We even have a saying about the dunny. When my number 2's are runny, I hate our outdoor dunny. Nights are a pain, as well as the rain, don't laugh, it ain't very funny”.

“You're right. It ain't funny. Besides I don't suppose the local government would allow me to place a dunny in front of my office”.

“Well, since you are an inconsiderate individual, I'll go and make my own coffee. Would you like another cup?”, she asked.

“No. I'm fine and how can you say that I'm inconsiderate? I left the kettle on didn't I?”

“Oh, good for you. Are you looking for something particular in the paper?', she asked.

“Yes, a cleaning service”.

“For your office, I imagine”.

“Yes”.

“Why don't you take on mine? They are efficient and the cost is reasonable.”

“I could, I suppose”.

“If you want I'll mention it to them tomorrow”.

“Good”.

Sharon walked out on the veranda carrying a cup of coffee and a slice of toast.

“I see you're going to eat that Vegemite again”, said Doc.

“Certainly, why wouldn't I”?

“Because it's too damn salty”.

“Only because you spread it on too thick. You think it goes on like peanut butter”.

“It looks and smells like motor oil”.

“Well, I like it, so there”.

“What do you want to do today, my love”.

“Are you in the mood to shop at the farmers market?”

“Which one?”

“Peels in Mandurah”.

“I could go for that. Afterward we can have lunch at Redmanna”.

“Oh good. I do have a question however”.

“What is it?”. He asked.

“When are you going to get a drivers license?”

“When they put automobiles in the right lane, where they belong”.

That afternoon Sharon and Doc walked the paver brick lanes where tall leaf trees shaded the many booths belonging to the vendors. They paused to look at fresh vegetables, baked goods, jellies jams and fruits. Sharon did the shopping and Doc carried the packages containing, eggs, grapefruit, a jar of honey, fresh baked bread and dukkah.

Before Sharon bought the dukkah Doc asked her just what it was. “It's a spice dear. Actually it's a Mediterranean spice. One may use it several different ways. On fish, chicken or in soups”, she said.

“What does it taste like?”, he asked.

“It's somewhat salty”.

“It's a wonder that between eating Vegemite and dukkah all of you Australians don't have high blood pressure”.

“Oh hush. Is there anything that you want?”, she asked.

“Maybe a couple of cantaloupes”.

“You mean rockmelons “

“If you say so. Pick two and let's go I'm getting hungry”.

Doc and Sharon were seated at a window table overlooking Mandjar Bay. They both studied the lunch menu and quickly decided on what they wanted. Sharon ordered the Chicken Noodle Salad while Doc decided on the Chilli Mussels. As they both sipped ice tea, Sharon opened her pocketbook and took out an envelope.

“This was in the letter box. I removed it just before we got in the car. It's from Mary Wagner, addressed to both of us.”, Sharon said.

“Really, open it. Let's see what she has to say”, Doc replied.

Sharon carefully unsealed the envelope and removed the square, white, embossed card. “Oh my goodness!”, she exclaimed.

“Something wrong?”

“No. It's an invitation. She and Robert are getting married”.

“It's about time he got off of his ass and took a wife. When is it?, said Doc.

“Saturday, June the fifth at Saint Nathaniel’s Episcopal Church”. Sharon answered.

“That's going to be interesting. Her side of the church will seat newspaper people. His side will seat cops. That reception is going to be one hell raising donnybrook. I'd love to see that”.

“Tears welled in Sharon's eyes. When Doc noticed her crying he said, “Don't tell me that you are going to sit here and cry tears of happiness for Robert and Mary”.

“Naturally, I'm happy for them, but I'm afraid that if you go back, back to the States for the wedding, you will want to stay there instead of coming back here”.

“Let me put your mind to ease. Pick out something nice and suitable for their wedding gift and we'll ship it up to them with our regrets for not attending. And, I'll tell you something love. I knew I was home when I heard the kookaburra sing”.

Sharon smiled reached across the table and took his hand.

Robert Wallace looked at the fifteen homicide investigators that sat in front of him in a classroom at Delaware University. They had come from New Jersey, Maryland, Pennsylvania and New York. Wallace appeared at the University as a lecturer the result of an endowment given to the school for the purpose of educating police officers.

He had just finished lecturing on the importance of using a psychological profiler in cases involving serial killers. Looking at his small group of assembled police officers he said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I now present to you a question. The question is, Who killed Lionel Horton? And please take your time before you answer”.

After five minutes one student raised his hand.

“Yes”, said Wallace.

“Even though Horton was shot and killed by the police, the laws of the State of New Jersey allowed for deadly force. Therefore the State of New Jersey actually killed Horton”.

“Nice try, good answer, no cigar. Anyone else?”, asked Wallace.

Another student raised her hand.

“Yes, your answer please”, said Wallace.

“The act of Horton being armed, taking a hostage and firing at police was and is paramount to suicide. It is my opinion then that Lionel Horton actually instituted and caused his own death', said the woman.

“Your explanation is interesting and certainly plausible, nonetheless I'm afraid that it's not the answer I'm looking for”, Wallace replied. He waited for someone, anyone to raise their hand and when there were no signs of that happening he walked front and center to the group, stopped, smiled and said, “None of you would or could come up with the answer I'm looking for. The correct answer ladies and gentlemen is WE killed Lionel Horton. You, me, all of us. Why? Because we're members of what is called society. Society killed Lionel Horton. Think about it. Lionel Horton's mother was born into a socially lower class. Uneducated, unskilled, and an unwed mother of a son, she turned to prostitution in order to house and feed both of them. As a prostitute she was arrested several times. The usual result was a fine of fifty dollars. When she paid the fine she was then forced to return to the streets to ply her trade in earnest in order to make up for the lost of fifty dollars to the court. She became a repetitive, arrested time after time and fined time after time.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the war in Vietnam just ended. When the communist armies