Just One Thing . . .

This entry won third place in the Aspiring Writers contest for the first half of January 2012. The genre was fiction: suspense, theme: first day on the job, highlight: an email you received in error. Length: 600-715 words.

Natalie was glad to finally be actually on the job. She’d had almost two days of site orientation, safety training, security training, and computer security training, before being allowed to go to her new office. She still had to wait for her security clearance to come through, but the company had fast-tracked her accounts, so a sealed envelope containing her username and temporary password was waiting on her desk. 

Her computer was already booted up and waiting for her to enter her username and password. Once she did, Outlook launched automatically. There was a stream of routine emails waiting, from the cafeteria, the library, and other departments. One message was titled “Need your approval ASAP”.  Probably the Savings Plan or United Way Natalie thought, clicking on the message.

“Ned, we need to move two kilograms of plutonium from the basement lab in building 25-J to the testing facility in the northwest corner, first floor, of building 3-L. Please advise, soonest. –Bob.” 

That was definitely not routine. Those buildings were not inside the classified area. What on earth were they doing with plutonium, much less with it outside the fence? That email message was a clear security violation. The  systems geeks were going to have a time purging the unclassified system..She wondered who Ned was. In the company directory she found Ned James Dunne.  Her own username was NJD, for Natalie Jasmine Donner. Ned was in X division — which meant his work was classified.  

The training she had just received labeled this as both a security incident and a computer security incident, to be reported to her division’s security and computer security officers ASAP. Natalie wondered which one she should call first, but looking at the little orange card of emergency numbers, found that both positions were filled by the same person, Kevin Centrella. She dialed his number. 

“Hello, Kevin?” she said timidly, “My name is Natalie Donner, I’m a new hire and I just got an email that looks like a computer security violation and, um, a security violation too.”

“Really?” a man’s voice said, sounding bored, “why don’t you tell me what it says, WITHOUT mentioning any of the words that you think make it a violation.”

“Okay,” she said, “It was sent to me by mistake, from somebody named Bob, asking permission of someone named Ned,  to move a specific quantity of a particular material from one location to another”

“This material,” the man asked, not sounding as bored now, “would it be a controlled substance? Don’t say the name!” 

“Yes, it is definitely a controlled substance,” she replied, “and one that is not supposed to be in either of the locations mentioned.”

 ”Okay,” he said, all business now, “You did the right thing. Stay where you are until I get there. Turn your monitor off, but leave the computer on. Close your blinds and your office door, and don’t let anyone in.”

She did what he said, then sat down to wait. She had a feeling “Bob” was going to be in big trouble.  Checking her watch, she saw it was after eleven. She was supposed to join Suzanne at noon for a meet-and-greet with the rest of the group, but that wasn’t looking likely.

Kevin knocked, displaying his badge before entering. He turned her monitor back on and did a flurry of typing, while making cryptic comments over the phone. Finally, he hung up and grinned at Natalie, “Welcome aboard, you passed the final test.”

“Test? This was a test?”

“Of course,” Kevin said firmly, “it was the final test of your training. You don’t think we actually have plutonium wandering around the facility, do you?”

Natalie didn’t know what to say. Kevin headed for the door, “You’re on the network for real now. If you hurry, you can still make that lunch.”

The group was just getting their food when she arrived. “Hey, Nat,” Suzanne said, “you missed all the excitement!”

“Yeah,” a dark-haired young man chimed in, “the guards came in and dragged some guy right out of the food line.”

“That was Bob,” said a new voice from behind her. “Nice to meet you, Natalie. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Ned Dunne. As soon as your clearance comes through, you’ll be working for me.”

This is the winning entry from the November Aspiring Writers Competition. The constraints were, genre:Murder Mystery, theme: Thanksgiving, focus: Body in a Closet, limit: 715 words. The year’s winners will be published in an anthology by Lebrary.

When I found out that my husband Steve was to interview billionaire Paul Bannister AND that we were invited for Thanksgiving dinner, I was in heaven! Sylvia Bannister’s wardrobe was legendary, and now I could sneak an up close peek at it.  Steve always warned me that my habit of “closet snooping” would get me in trouble some day. This was the day. When I opened the double closet doors, I saw . . . Sylvia. Her dress was lovely, a daring print that set off her blond hair, but it didn’t do a thing for the darkening blue bruises around her neck.

Steve was covering the series of murders attributed to the “society strangler”.  The police were baffled. The killings always took place at private events. None of the servants or catering staff were present at all the events. And although there was considerable overlap in the guest lists, all the guests had alibis for at least one of the murders. The surviving spouses, normally prime suspects,  had rock solid alibis.  Steve’s editor wanted a piece on how the elite kept their spirits up in the holiday season, knowing that they, or rather their wives (for the strangling victims were all female) were being stalked by a killer. Not that the men were safe, for in a few cases male guests had been stabbed. Police suspected those victims had interrupted  the killer.

“Ah, here she is,” Steve said as I tried to sidle back into the room unnoticed, ” so, did you sneak into Sylvia’s closet, or finally ASK for a tour?” He laughed. I flushed with embarrassment as everyone turned to stare at me. Great, he was going to get me killed with his big mouth.

“Uh, no, I , uh, couldn’t find her,” I stammered, “I got all turned around and gave up. Is she here?” I looked around the scattered crowd of guests as if I expected to see her. The men were all drinking and laughing. The few women looked grim. None of the guests looked like they were hiding a secret yen to strangle women. Although, taking another look, I realized that the group of men included the husbands of all the women who had been killed.  And if I was not mistaken, the widows of the stabbed men were also all present. What a creepy gathering.

I pulled Steve aside. “Sylvia is dead,” I whispered, “I found her in the closet, strangled — what should we do?”

“Just keep quiet,” he whispered back, “I’ll handle it.” I felt as grim as the other women looked. I was relieved when our host announced dinner was ready.  The guests slowly filed into the dining room, finding seats designated by engraved place cards. To my dismay, I was between two of the widowers, with Steve at the other end of the long table.

There was one empty seat — Sylvia’s. As the guests began to murmur, Steve stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen, our late hostess will not be joining us. My wife went snooping in Sylvia’s closet and found her body. Sylvia has been strangled, and her murderer must be one of the people at this table.” The murmuring stopped as  Steve walked slowly around the table, to rest his hands on the shoulders of our host. “Paul here has an alibi,” he said, “he was in plain sight of the entire group all evening.”  He walked on to stand opposite me. “In fact, the only ones who left the group — besides Sylvia, that is — were my nosy wife, and Charles.” He pointed to the man seated on my right.

I scrambled to get up, and away from Charles, who I assumed was Sylvia’s murderer. But the man seated on my left grabbed me by the arms. Paul had also gotten to his feet and was donning surgical gloves. “We’d all like to thank Steve for organizing our little collaboration. It took detailed planning to be sure that we all had alibis when our spouses were killed. After all, what reason would Charles here, have to kill my wife Sylvia, if not as payback for Steve killing his wife? And now for Steve’s reward.”

 I could hear the guests applauding softly as Paul closed his hands around my throat.

This piece won 2nd place in the September Flash Fiction contest in LinkedIn’s Aspiring Writers group, with the paramenters: Historical Fiction, theme: Coming to America, Focus: Uncle Ed’s Store, word limit: 715.

Colin huddled into the smallest ball possible and snuffled back tears as he watched the sailors dump his cousin Brian overboard. Colin didn’t risk a peek over the railing; he didn’t want to see if sharks were still following the ship. A coffin ship, Uncle called it.

The first omen came one week out of Liverpool, when passengers did not get the promised weekly seven pounds  of food. Next the daily water ration was cut from three quarts to one. Uncle Eamonn had pulled out his strange haversack, which was a wooden cabinet with doors and drawers and bunches of sacks hooked to the sides.  He said that Eamonn was his Irish name, but in America he would be called Edward, Ed for short. The haversack, he dubbed “Uncle Ed’s store”.  Opening a small drawer, he pulled out smooth pebbles for the two boys to hold in their mouths against thirst. “I soaked these fine pebbles in the clearest, purest river in all Ireland,” he declared, “feel the coolness and let it soak into your mouths.” Somehow that  did make them less thirsty, between the pints that were doled out four times a day.

Hordes of Irish were emigrating, fleeing the Great Hunger. Colin remembered the bridge of tears where he bid farewell to his mum.  Gram had gone into one of her spells and had grabbed Colin’s arm and crooned:

“From Kerry ye come, but Cork ye must be
to voyage with Eamonn across the blue sea
in gets ye out, and out gets ye in
if ye but stay down for a full count of ten”

Colin did come from County Kerry, but the rest made no sense to him. Uncle shook his head, warning Colin not to question the prophecy, so Colin put it out of his mind.

Colin’s own sister Eilis had emigrated first, her passage paid by an indentured contract as a domestic. She had saved up to send Colin’s fare.  But crossing conditions had worsened in spite of the 1842 Passenger Act. Colin shared his berth (a wooden box six feet long and a scant eighteen inches wide) with Uncle and Brian, each taking eight hours to rest. At least they had an upper berth, so they didn’t have to suffer noxious drippings from above.

Uncle Ed had encouraged the boys to sneak up on deck as much as possible, for the fresh air. Whenever allowed, he sluiced them down with buckets of cold seawater, especially after other passengers started dying of the fever. When the boys were groaning from hunger, Ed dug in the “store” and found  stringy pieces of leather that he bade them chew. He must have earlier soaked the leather in some kind of broth, because a pleasant flavor was released, and chewing it calmed their stomachs.

But there was nothing in Uncle Ed’s store to help when Brian got the fever.  Colin was ordered away, and found a hidden spot on deck where he huddled and cried.  He was still hidden when the cook and carpenter came up to get some fresh air.

“We’re sure to be quarantined,” the cook said, “just like the last run.”

“Aye,” agreed the carpenter, ” we’ll probably get loose after a few days, but those poor buggers below decks will be penned up for weeks.”

“Good thing we’re paid in advance, not on delivery!” the cook said, “won’t many of this bunch make it, especially the women and  children.”

Colin waited till they were gone, then scurried to tell Uncle.  The grim look on Ed’s face almost scared Colin. “Can ye swim boy?” he asked.

“Aye,” Colin answered, “like a right cork.”

“A cork?” his uncle began, “now I understand your Gram’s warning.  Listen carefully.” Uncle described a bold plan and swore Colin to obey it exactly.

When they neared port, Colin was crouched in hiding, watching for the closest point of land. Ed shouted “In gets ye out”, and Colin dove over the side, swimming underwater “for a full count of ten” .

Finally dry,  after hiding two days and nights, Colin snuck  to the docks. Food was everywhere,  more than he’d ever seen. Someone tossed him an apple, “Eat, boy!”  He looked up to see Eamonn, Uncle Ed,  smiling, “Out gets ye in! Welcome to America!”