My goal in life was to become a
topnotch journalist. I loved writing. Always had. Ever since I can remember
that’s all I ever wanted to be. Suddenly, the goal was at hand. Within reach. I
got it. My first big byline! I beat out all the other reporters at the scene
and the paper printed my story. MINE!
So… there I was drinking coffee
and reading my story. My headline! GEORGIE PORGIE PUDDING AND DIE by me, Susan
Weston. Word for word just the way I’d written it. I’d been first on the murder
scene the night before, even before the cops, so I got a pretty good look at
the body. Turned out to be a guy I knew from the neighborhood. Not a sight I’m
likely to forget.
It made me feel good that my story got
printed. This was my big chance. Things were going to change now. No more fluff
pieces for me. And then everything went haywire.
The phone rang. 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. Something about liking my story and strawberries. I
didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Probably a crank call. But
something about it bothered 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.
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