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- 12/28/2014
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Dinner is Prompt-ly at Eight - 12. The Scarlet Thread
The Scarlet Thread - Prompt 381 – Tag – Uncomfortable situation
The sound of revelers was fading into the background. The poorly sung renditions of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ were over and the smell of pot coming in from the hallway had dissipated considerably. Donnie Malone looked at his single glass of champagne in the cheap plastic disposable cup and sighed. Here he was in an old hotel room on the edges of St. Paul trying hard to push the events of the past year out of his mind. All the sounds and smells kept bringing back his troubles instead of distracting him.
The Tucker Inn at 221B Baker Street was a far cry from the posh mansion where he recently lived. The Duluth home was off limits to him since it was a crime scene. Besides, it wasn’t even his house or his wife’s or anything of his actually.
Donnie sniffed and took a sip. The cheap sparkling wine burned like acid in his mouth. It was as bitter as his heart and mood. It was hard for him to collect his thoughts with the stale smell of must permeating the carpets and draperies in the room. Rot. Cheap, old, and decaying were the smells and sights that filled his senses.
With a painful grunt, Donnie got out of the wing backed chair with broken springs and went into the bathroom. He stripped out of his pants and slipped on some old sweats. Hanging his shirt and tie on a hanger, he placed it on a hook on the back of the door. When he turned, he saw the black and red creep of mildew in the corners around the shower/tub installation. Even the tile had a tired, malevolent cast to it.
Grabbing his book from the side table right outside the bathroom, he climbed into bed. The cut-rate, stiff sheets felt cold and uninviting. He pulled the comforter up over him, but it’s crackling plastic feel seemed to draw the warmth from his body and not protect him from the cold. It was the most uncomforting comforter he’d even experienced.
Donnie picked up his reading glasses from the nightstand and looked at the cover of the book. ‘The Scarlet Thread’ was a knockoff novel by an author named S.A. Pemberton. Not even his choice of a distraction was genuine. The detective’s name was Sheldon Hobbes and the sidekick was a chiropractor by the name of Watkins. He couldn’t remember why he’d chosen that particular book except the cover had been so haunting and dark. It seemed to reflect the events of the past few weeks.
After finding the hidden letter, the police began to question him differently. This time, instead of looking at him like he was crazy, they asked him things to confirm his story. Eventually, his explanations seemed to check out. A cabbie told the police he’d seen the Kevyn Woodsman Malone that Donnie described as his wife. Her mannish dress and bulky build were nothing like the petite flower found crumpled and dead in the library.
The forensic accountants dug into the Woodsman estate’s books and found checks paying off Donnie’s loans and credit card debt. There were a couple of closed caption videos they’d discovered with Donnie and the fake Kevyn walking into stores together. They released Donnie after a week in jail after making him promise not to leave the area.
For a couple of weeks, he’d hunkered down in motels not unlike this one in north St. Paul, but near Duluth. Those places had been almost as uncomfortable as this one on Baker Street. However, since Donnie was on pins and needles the whole time, he didn’t really notice. He spent hours watching home shopping shows on basic cable and reading novels he picked up at the dollar store. Without an income or any prospects, he had to be careful with his limited funds. The fun money the fake Kevyn had given him was rapidly being depleted.
Finally, the police allowed him to leave the area though with the stern warning he shouldn’t leave the state. He was still the principal witness to finding a body.
Donnie opened up the book and started reading. Detective Hobbes had deduced the killer was using misdirection by leaving red herrings everywhere. The canny investigator wasn’t fooled by them. Watkins fell for every ruse of course. The cigarette butt was obviously planted and the broken shoelace was a ploy to trick the police.
Then there was the question of the scarlet thread. On the body was a single strand of a red fiber that Hobbes found most intriguing. Donnie couldn’t fathom what the detective thought it meant, but then neither did Watkins. The man snorted as the detective pointed out to his associate every implication the brilliantly dark red clue could hold.
There was some kind of wrinkle running through the murder he’d witnessed as well. What had he missed? Like the obtuse Watkins in the book, Donnie couldn’t see what that might be.
He set the book on the nightstand and took off his glasses. Donnie closed his eyes and tried to remember things in a logical order. Was there a pattern that he’d missed? He tried to carefully retrace the events that led to him finding a body improbably in a library and being arrested for murder.
Donnie had been hired to play a part. He’d married a woman to get out of debt, an act so desperate he wondered if it was a flaw in his character. The woman wasn’t who she said she was. They’d acted out a scene as a married domestic couple, he more than her. Donnie opened his eyes. Kevyn hadn’t even really pretended. She had her dalliances with the maid and other servants while he was the faithful, if that was the right word, spouse.
Next, he came upon a body. No, that wasn’t right. He’d been directed upon a body, elaborately positioned and presented for his finding. But by whom had he been led and why? Those were the key questions to any mystery. Donnie opened his eyes and looked over at the book laying splayed with its cover facing him. On the jacket was a picture of a skein of brilliantly blood red yarn. Its strands reached out from the coil and formed an intricate web-like pattern. At the corners of these gatherings were images. There was the picture of a thimble, a depiction of a treasure chest, a drawing of a cornucopia, and the silhouette of a man looking around a corner.
“This is ridiculous,” Donnie said out loud. “I’m no detective. I can’t see how all this plays out.”
A wave of exhaustion hit him as the heater kicked on, its squeaky fan blowing warm air across his face. There was the burnt smell of dust and a faint hint of gas in the air. Donnie sniffed and scowled at the odor. The room seemed a bit warmer though. He closed his eyes again and the last thing he recalled before drifting into sleep was the taste of blood. In his frustration, the man bit his own tongue trying to stop the feeling of helplessness that was filling his brain.
Maybe things would be clearer in the morning.
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7
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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