I was ecstatic. So… there I was
drinking a cup of coffee and reading my story, relishing the moment. My headline! GEORGIE PORGIE
PUDDING AND DIE by me, Susan Weston. Word for word just the way I’d written it.
Not one word changed.
I’d been first on the murder scene the night before. Got
there before the cops, so I got a pretty good look at the body. Turned out to
be a guy I knew from the neighborhood. Pretty gruesome, too. Not a sight I’m
likely to forget.
So like I said, I was drinking my
coffee and reading my story and Okay, gloating a little bit. It made me feel
good that for once my story got printed and not those other guys. This was it.
I knew it. My big chance. Things were going to change now. No more fluff pieces
for me. Nope, now the boss would have to assign me to some good stories.
That's when everything went haywire. The phone rang. Nothing unusual in that. My phone
often rings, although not that early in the morning. Of course I answered.
The voice on the other end sent goosebumps
up my arm, down my spine, and chills down to my toes. It still does. Just
thinking about it.
I could hardly hear the caller.
His raspy voice faded out, and I only caught a couple of words. Something about
liking my story and strawberries. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking
about. I figured it was a crank call. Reporters got them all the time. But
something about that call bothered me. Nagged at me.
My life hasn’t been the same
since. To find out what happened, you’re going to have to read my book, Ring
Around the Rosy available from Amazon. http://amzn.to/PjLvDp
Excerpt:
Susan propped the News Gazette on
the counter and focused on the headline. ‘Georgie
Porgie, Pudding and Die’ by Susan Weston, it blared at her. Her headline.
Her story. She’d done it. Finally got her headline. She drummed her hands on
the counter and did a little dance step. She swore if her grin got any wider
her face would crack. .”Susan Weston, journalist!” she shouted. God, she wanted
to shout it from the rooftops.
The phone rang, startling her.
“Who the heck is calling at this hour? “ She grabbed the phone. “Hello.” Bella
rubbed against her legs, waiting to be fed. “Hello?” Susan grabbed the box of
kitty food, filled the bowl, and set it on the floor.
“Hello,” she repeated, ready to
hang up if no one answered this time.
The evil, raspy voice on the
other end sent goose-bumps up her spine. “Who is this?” she whispered.
The voice mumbled something she
could barely hear.
“Strawberries? What are you
talking about?”
“Just for you,” the garbled voice
continued.
“I can’t hear you. Who is this?”
What kind of sick joke is this?
She caught the words, “loved your
headline,” more garbled words, and “Watch for Jack be nimble.” Then the phone
line went dead.
Susan grabbed the counter to steady
herself. Her hand trembled, and she stared at the phone. She dropped the
receiver back into its cradle as if it was on fire. But she couldn’t stop the
trembling. Her stomach churned. Nausea filled her throat. What was wrong with
her? Just someone playing a sick joke. This wasn’t her first crank call, why
react like this? Maybe because none of the others had sounded like this.
He said he liked her story. That
shouldn’t bother her. Something about that voice, so harsh, so evil. It gnawed
at her. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Something about it seemed
familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
After pouring a cup of coffee,
she read the story under the headline aloud, trying to keep her mind off the
phone call. “Police are investigating the death of thirty-one year old George
Lucas, whose body was found last night in Lagoon Park near his west side home.”
The sound of her shaky voice surprised her.
What was the matter with
her? “Get a grip, girl.”
Must be the effect of seeing the
lifeless body. The way George Lucas’s eyes stared into space. What was he
thinking when he looked into his killer’s eyes? The distant street lamp didn’t
help. It cast an eerie shadow on the victim. His face frozen in terror, lips
parted in a silent scream, and his head tilted to one side as if it was too
heavy for his neck. The way one hand clutched at his throat and the other
gripped the note, fingers frozen around it, sent icy chills through her, even
now. She shuddered.
Thank God there wasn’t any blood,
since the image would forever be embedded in her mind. Susan rubbed her arms to
warm them.
Picking up the paper, she
continued to read. “The coroner will determine the cause of death, but early
reports indicate that Mr. Lucas was strangled. Lipstick was smeared across the
victim’s mouth, and he clasped the nursery rhyme, ‘Georgie Porgie,’ in his
hand. The teen who discovered the body reported seeing a man carrying a bag and
wearing a gray shirt running from the park moments before. Police have no
suspects at this time.”
Bella brushed against her legs,
jumped on the counter, and snuggled against her.
Susan’s heart pounded. She took a
deep breath and let it out slowly. So much for the thrill of seeing her name on
the front page. The image of the body filled her mind. Her hands trembled while
she held the paper and reread the headline with her name below it. It was
exactly as she had written it — not one word changed, short and to the point.
George Lucas lived in her
neighborhood. She’d seen him a few times in Meliti’s Market talking to old Mrs.
Meliti. Although they never spoke, they had nodded and smiled hello.
Nice-looking guy, about her age. What a shock seeing him dead. Another shiver
shook her body. Seeing a dead body was bad enough, but knowing the victim threw
her for a loop. Made it personal.
Arriving only a few minutes
before the police showed up and ordered her to leave, not that they had to tell
her twice, she had viewed the crime scene and then skedaddled lickety-split.
She knew enough about crime scenes to maintain a distance, knew if she got too
close, she’d compromise the scene, maybe even leave trace evidence of herself
behind. She didn’t need that. But she’d been close enough to read that paper in
his hand, a nursery rhyme. She’d seen every gory detail.
The nursery rhyme letters, cut
out from newspapers and magazines, and bowl of chocolate pudding and the
strawberry pie that had been dumped on the victim’s head would stay in her
memory for a long time. Of course, the police requested that information not be
printed.
Requested, hell. Demanded was
more like it, but Susan understood. Those were facts only the killer knew, and
it prevented crank confessions. Couldn’t give the public too much information.
After waiting behind the crime scene tape long enough to hear the possible
cause of death, she hurried home to write her story before the deadline.
Susan walked around the kitchen.
To sweeten the deal, her colleagues hadn’t shown up until well after they’d
taped off the crime scene, hadn’t seen what she’d seen. So Ernie printed her
story. Her first big byline! Even that
cocky reporter, Dan Hill, hadn’t beat her out this time.
Staring at the large headline,
she sipped her coffee. The words from the phone call rambled around in her
mind.
“Strawberries. The voice on the
phone said something about strawberries. Strawberry Pie dumped over the
victim’s head.” Her voice cracked at the memory.
Only the killer knew about the
pie. Her body shook. Had she been talking to the killer? What else had the
caller said? Jack be nimble. Another nursery rhyme.
Grabbing the counter to steady
herself, she repeated part of the nursery rhyme “Jack be nimble…”
Her mind raced. She pushed away
from the counter and paced the kitchen, trying to remember the rest of the
rhyme.
“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,
Jack jumped over the candlestick. That’s it!”
What the heck did it mean? Was he
going to kill again? Was there a serial killer out there?
She grabbed the phone and dialed
the police department. Maybe it was nothing, but she needed to report it.
Something didn’t sit right.
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