Free Short Story, What Nick Saw

 Here's a little bit of a back story about one of the characters from Glory Road, A Mayhem Senior Style Mystery. I hope it will send you over to Amazon to preorder the book.😀

WHAT NICK SAW, A GLORY ROAD STORY

“There. All fixed up.” Dr. Lefotho grabbed two pillows from the bed and placed the woman’s hand on them. “Let’s get a bit of ice on it, too,” he said.

The husband rose from his armchair, but Nick waved him back. “I’ll get some,” he said, stepping into the spartan hotel bathroom for the ice bucket.

Outside, the air held a tang of citrus, and something Nick couldn’t identify. Jasmine, maybe. He hummed Amazing Grace while strolling toward the ice machine. Crickets chittered. A couple argued inside one of the rooms near the infinity pool.

Nick filled the bucket with cold, clear cubes. The couple’s voices were louder now. Something about leaving her rings on the dresser. “Anybody could steal them,” the man said.

A loud thump stopped Nick near room 123. He turned his head toward the sound. Beyond a large rectangular window, harsh fluorescent light showcased the couple. Sheer curtains rustled in the aromatic night breeze.

The man, slight of build and red-faced, gripped the woman’s blouse in both fists. Nick’s fingers tensed on the insulated container as the man yanked her upright. Blood dripped from her nose.

“I’ll teach you to take care of the things I give you,” the man yelled.

Nick swallowed hard. The woman with the broken finger—that was who he was here for. That was what mattered. Not this. He hurried on.

Later, after Dr. Lefotho had left, Nick sipped a pina colada as he watched moonlight shimmer on the pool’s still water.

Soft whimpering came from the chairs behind him. Nick turned. The woman he’d spied on earlier sat huddled on a vinyl chaise lounge. She held a washcloth to her cheek.

“Are you okay?” Nick asked, bending toward her.

“I’m fine,” the woman answered. Her voice shook.

“You, know I couldn’t help but see what..” Nick took a sip from the plastic cup in his hand. “Uh, happened. Back in your room.’ He nodded toward room 123.

The woman rose, holding onto the arm of her chair with one hand while pressing the cloth to her cheek with the other.

“Please.” She gestured toward Nick, palm out in the classic halt gesture. “If he sees me talking to you…”

She slipped into the shadows.

Tuesday morning. Nick eyed the reheated conch fritters in front of him. Sighing, he crunched into rye toast instead, sending an avalanche of crumbs down his stubbly chin.

The Dorren Islander sat next to the soggy fritters. Nick pushed the plate aside and opened the paper. A vaguely familiar face gazed up at him below large type that said, “Tourist’s Wife Falls from Flounder Cliff.”

“What’re you doing, Buddy? Trying to catch flies in that open gullet?” said Nick’s roommate, David Winterspoon Smythe. He swiped at Nick’s head with one large hand while sidestepping to the coffeepot on the tiny apartment range.

Nick ducked. “A woman fell off one of those cliffs over on the windward side.” He studied the photograph. “The husband looks familiar. But I can’t quite place—”

“You gonna eat those fritters?” David scooted into the rickety chair across from Nick and pulled the conch to his side of the table.

Shaking his head, no, Nick drew his upper lip into his mouth. “I’ve got it,” he said, slapping the table. “It’s that guy from the hotel. The couple I saw fighting.”

David swallowed a fritter, then said, “Fell, my ass. He probably pushed her.”

“For real. He was whomping on her pretty good.” Nick examined the scarred kitchen table. The scent of stale grease wafted up from the takeout restaurant downstairs. He exhaled sharply. “God. I could’ve stopped him.”

“Nah. You couldn’t have done anything.” David rose and placed the now-empty platter in the sink. “Maybe he killed her because he saw you nosing around.”

“Thanks a lot. Now I feel rotten for even talking to her.” Nick took a sip of coffee. “I’ve got to go to the police with this.” The floor creaked as he pushed away from the table.

David pulled one side of his mouth up into a sardonic half-smile. “The Dorren Island Police? Come on.” He raised both arms over his head and yawned.

Nick raised his eyebrows.

“Remember when Winston Bright rammed that shack with his jeep?”

“Yeah.”

 “And paid off the cop right there in the street?” David slurped his coffee, then set the cup by the sink. He belched, covering his mouth with a paw-like hand.

“Whatever. I’m going down to the station.” Nick grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.

The Dorren Island Police Barracks was, quite plainly, a dump. The squat concrete building didn’t even have a door, just an open archway leading into a stifling room with a desk and an off-kilter metal filing cabinet. Nick wondered if the drawers of the cabinet had ever been opened.

The smell of damp concrete made Nick’s nose stuff up. He pulled a bedraggled tissue from his front pocket and blew into it. It didn’t help.

“What you here for, man?” A gangly youth in wrinkled khakis rose from behind the desk. “Tourist driving license fifty dollars.” He gestured toward a sign hanging askew on the peeling green wall to Nick’s right.

“What?” Nick stared at the sign. He shook his head. “No. I don’t want a license. I’m here to report a murder.”

The officer grinned. His teeth were white and even. “Murder? Now we don’t want any of that.”

Nick smiled back. “May not want it, but we sure got it.” One thing he’d learned in his two years at Dorren Island School of Medicine was how to communicate with Dorreners. He stuck his lips out and jerked his head toward the gaping rear entrance to his left. Knee high grass surrounded a gas grill rusting in the station’s interior courtyard. “Detective man you got on the case with that tourist lady fell off Flounder Cluff might want to hear me, my friend.” 

A black snake slithered onto the lower shelf of the grill. Nick shivered. The islanders kept the rat-eating serpents as pets, but he had never warmed up to the creatures.

“Speak, then.” The youth pulled a much-chewed pencil from behind his left ear as he grabbed a clipboard from the battered desk.

Nick spewed his story out: the incident at the White Shell Hotel, his shock at finding the man’s picture in the paper. “I’m not saying it’s murder, man,” he finished. “Just giving you a little something-something might help in your business.”

“Oh yes. We thank you so.” The young officer put his hands together in the traditional Dorren gesture of gratitude. “I sure will give this to the big boss soon as he comes in.”

Nick returned the gratitude gesture and turned toward the door. As he pedaled away on his Schwinn ten-speed, sweat beading on his forehead, he muttered to himself, “Probably never hear from them again.”

At least he’d tried.