Cartimandua Wants More Time.

Cartimandua says she is not ready to address the man or men in her life. She is not not sure her father is the right person. She has no desire just yet to address her husband who became her political enemy or her lover who had little character.

She suggested I take this space and and share one of my stories. So I will give the beginning of a story I am working on. The end will come later.

                                                         Considering Murder

                                                                    Part 1

I have always been hotheaded. I yell, I scream, I swear. But I never considered murder.

I am a writer. A writer finally successful enough to quit my day job. After two years of looking for my Eden I bought a small house off the beaten path. From the yard I could see nothing in any direction  but what I imagined - the day I bought it- green in spring, deeper green in the summer, a palate of color in the fall. In winter bare limbs peering out from the evergreens

.

The ideal place for solitude. On torrid summer days I could walk my Eden in scant clothing. On some occasions no clothing at all. That was the case on a hot humid day three weeks after I moved in. I had just shed my shorts when from behind the dense pine tree hedge as the back of my house I heard, “Yohoo. Mr. Murdock.”

Scurrying to retrieve the shirt I had hung on a tree branch I tied it around my waist.

Pushing their way through the low hanging pine branches the young couple appeared before me. “Welcome to the area,’ the young man said. “I’m Harold Hayes. This is my wife Amy. We live just over there.” He pointed. “It’s not that far, but you can’t see it for the trees.”

Before I could respond he continued, “My wife’s father is the pastor of the church just down the read. We’d like to invite you to join us. 10:00 every Sunday. 7:00 Wednesdays.”

Searching for a proper response which would not reveal my atheism I said, “That’s nice, but I have mu own church.”

“Where?”

“In town. I try to go as often as I can.”

I had not set foot in a church for over ten years—except for weddings and funerals. My evolution- or some might say my degeneration- had led me from my Southern Baptist roots to Methodism to Presbyterianism to Unitarianism and finally to no church but Nature Herself.

Would that that had been the end of my contact with the Hayes. But it was not to be. The following days revealed an open view from their mobile home of the pond below my house. The pond I envisioned perfect for nude swimming. With resentment bordering on hatred I hunted the bikini I brought from a recent trip to Munich.

Harold and Amy – no it was Amy who proved my nemesis. Days after that first encounter and my finding the bikini I met another neighbor. She appeared one morning at my door with bread (freshly baked if my smell was good). “Welcome to the neighborhood”, she said holding out her offering. “According to Amy you are totally lacking in decency. I knew immediately I had to meet you. You may not know that you are not only godless, but most likely licentious. That is not her word. I doubt she knows the word.” Her lips spread; her eyes smiled. “Are you licentious? Or are you just wicked?”

I extended my hand. “I’m Connie Murdock. Connie for Conrad and you're?”

“Jennifer Collins – down the road a quarter of a mile. Yellow house on the left. Married. No children. Not a member of Amy’s church.”

“What a relief.”

“But I’m not as sinful as you. She says you’re downright wicked. Your behavior leaves nothing to the imagination. She wants me to join her in raising objections to your living here. Amid god fearing people. And I assure you I am not the only person she has talked to.”

“What the Hell have I done to offend her? I only met her once.”

“You wear the most scanty pants she has ever seen. Scantier than her husband’s underwear.” Jennifer’s eyes shone.

“That little bitch.”

That little bitch. I should never have uttered those words – then or later on. But I did utter them.

In quite respectable shorts I was weed-whacking the growth around my pond’s edge whe I saw Amy coming my way.

“Mr. Murdock, I don’t mean to be unneighborly, but you are cutting into our land.”

“But this pond in mine – or so I was told when I bought it.”

“So it is. But the line goes – “ She came closer. “Here, let me show you.” She stood not a foot from the edge of my pond. “Right here—straight line from that oak tree over there, through here, to the big pine up there.”

I smiled. “Then I offer my weed-whacking to you free of charge.”

She did not smile. “We’d prefer you don’t mess with our land.”

As she left my pulse raced, my face burned. I admitted I was hot-headed. Never more than at that moment.

“You fucking little bitch,” I said, unaware was still within earshot.

My hope that I could avoid any contact with her was not be realized. Two days later I was not yet dressed when there was a knock at my door. When in hastily donned shorts and shirt opened the door, I found myself fact to face with the Sherriff. “Yes?”

“You’re Conrad Murdock?”

“I have a summons for you to appear in court.

                  *                            *                          *                              *                               *

Neither the lawyer I engaged not the judge I faced showed any concern for my plight. I was sentenced to probation pending refrain from inflammatory remarks to or about the claimant and from wearing inappropriate clothing within view of the claimant.

Now I was really angry. I was seriously considering murder. Far too many people act out of anger before careful planning. I had some careful planning to do. Thus began my entrance into murder.