Murder at the Dew Drop Inn
by Cerys Harrison
Danny Flowers' hands trembled as he replaced the derringer in its holster beneath his sports coat. He misjudged the distance as he leaned back on the hood of his grandfather’s Ford V8 and slid off, landing hard on the gravel. He sat in a stupor, staring at a hunting knife laying in the parking lot. The sign hanging over the main door to The Dew Drop Inn illuminated the blade in pulsating red and orange neon. The pale hand clutching the knife had squeezed it erratically at first. Now, the hand was still. After a few moments, Danny reminded himself to breathe. The air he jaggedly drew in was hot, without comfort, without peace.
The stillness of the humid August night settled on his shoulders and he became aware of a fatigue deep in his bones. He desperately wanted to climb into the back seat of the sedan and let the sleep of the dead enshroud him, to sleep for all eternity. But his legs refused to budge. Danny blinked haltingly, his mind swimming in a murky creek of oblivion, slowly rising to the surface of consciousness.
Danny became aware of katydids chirping in syncopation to the rhythmic flashing of the candy colored neon, of the Ford’s grille digging into his back, of his body lifting up from the ground as if he were a marionette operated by an unseen, novice puppeteer. His feet flapped on the gravel as he made his way to the juke joint’s entrance. He yanked open the door.
“Mr. Richards?” he called out to the bartender.
Danny had no need to ask for quiet. The customers, who heard a single crackle ringing in from the parking lot, had arranged themselves in silent, small groups sitting at tables, or leaning against the far walls. Waiting, it occurred to him, like reticent parishioners at a wake, impatient for the preacher’s words to release them from their obligation to acknowledge the departed, to be set free.
“Mr. Richards,” he repeated. “I’d be obliged if you’d place a call to the sheriff.”
Cerys Harrison was born and raised in the home of the Ford Mustang, Dearborn, Michigan. Growing up she was fascinated with New York City and, after graduating from college during a recession, decided to move there, thinking it was more glamorous to be an unemployed actor than an out-of-work librarian. After a successful detour in advertising, Cerys returned to her hometown, libraries, and writing. And an occasional turn on the stage. Visit her online at http://twitter.com/parkerscorners.