What's Harold Been Up To?

How long was it going to take to find out what happened to my neighbor who died suspiciously on the banks of my pond? The only likely suspect to date was me. After all she had taken me to court on an obscenity charge. It was no secret that I called her a bitch. I had writing to t do.

                                                  CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                Part 10

How long had I stared at the blank computer screen before I shut the infernal machine down? Writing on a keyboard is a skill I never mastered. Early in my school years I learned papers I wrote on the keyboard never rose above the spiritless C level. But those I penned on the back of my father’s discarded computer printouts never sank to the mediocre C. The cross-outs, the inserts and underlines forced my writing into an acceptable form. Having returned to scrap paper and pencil I proudly examined four pages of messy but promising pages. Ignoring the relentless ringing of the telephone became too much to tolerate. ‘Turn the damned thing off’, I muttered to myself. I was just about to do so when it rang again. “Hello. Who’s calling?”

“Well I love you too, Grouch Ass.” Jennifer’s voice. “Told you I’d do some snooping.”

“And?”

“Well, well. Aren’t we just too—too—. You ok?”  Not waiting for an answer she said. “Your bud Harold has moved out?”

“Hell I knew that.”

“Not just out, but way out. To Thomasville. That’s some thirty or so—“

“Damnit, Jennifer. I know where Thomasville is. Why there?”

“Don’t know for sure. Two theories are flying about. Moved into his brother’s basement because he can’t stand living in the trailer without Amy. Or moved into his brother’s basement because a cute little number lives just down the road.” Jennifer stopped talking.  When I said nothing she continued. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah, and I heard. Harold’s moved away from the pain of a wifeless relationship or to the joy of a new relationship. I got it.”

“You might exude a bit of enthusiasm. You can’t imagine the gossip I’ve had to not only listen to, but join in on to get this. Keeping my ears and eyes open all the time is not as easy as you might think. By the way how’s the writing going?”

“I’ve gotten started. I think.” Looking down at my scribble I said, “I’ve gotten started.”

“Ok. Back to it. I’ll be in touch. If all else fails you might try a murder mystery.”

“You’re so funny.”

“Sorry. Get to it. I’ll call if I have anything to share."

Back to it was not as easy as it sounded. Suddenly the stack of bills due, the dust bunnies in the corner of the room, the unfinished letter to my mother--.  All loomed as emergencies. I stared at the last half page I had written. I fought to focus my writing.