Marsh Detective Agency – Blogisode 5

Posted: May 14, 2021 | Author: Daryl J. Yearwood | Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

And now, the exciting conclusion!

Marsh Detective Agency

-Daryl J. Yearwood

Blogisode 5

I grabbed a cab and spent the flight to the police station getting my facts straight. I was impressed, in a way, to the lengths people are willing to go for something as intangible as love. It was always either love or money.

Brennan was waiting when I arrived at the station. He hustled me into an interrogation room before anyone could stop him, as if anyone could. A few minutes later, he came in with Gloria and Clarisse in tow.

“Take a seat ladies,” said Bull.

“Why are we here?” asked Clarisse.

Bull looked at me and said, “Good question, Marsh. Hope you have some good answers.”

“We’re here because two murders have been committed, and you two,” I motioned at the women, “are the only suspects in all of this.”

They started to protest, but Bull held up his hand. “Let him speak.” He looked at me and nodded. “Go ahead.”

I looked at Gloria and said, “When you came in to have me prove you killed your husband . . .”

“Wait,” interrupted Brennan. “If she killed her husband, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because she didn’t kill him. She just needed me to prove she did.”

“If she didn’t kill him, why did she say she did?” said Brennan.

“Are you going to  do this the whole time,” I asked, “or can I tell what happened?”

“Fine,” Bull snorted. “Do it your way, but ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere until I get answers.”

“As I was saying,” I looked back at Gloria, “you wanted me to prove you killed your husband, but that made no sense. The only thing I could figure was that you needed to take the fall for someone else. But who?” Gloria was definitely unsettled.

“At first I thought is was your son. By the way, Biff? Really? Is that even a name?”

“Can we stay on point here?” said Brennan.

“Sorry,” I said. “It wasn’t Biff, he had a decent alibi, playing tennis with a friend at a benefit with several dozen witnesses. Plus, Biff, like you, had nothing to gain by killing his father.”

I looked at Clarisse. “You insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Stanford were fighting over money, and that it happened often enough to be a thing. Problem is, Gloria denied it and no one else seemed to ever remember the Stanford’s arguing over money. Why would they? They had all they could ever want.”

“So,” said Brennan, “an affair?”

“That’s what I thought,” I answered, “but I couldn’t tie anything together.” I looked at Gloria. “You never really had any male attachments other than your husband.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Stanford. “I simply shot him in the heat of the moment.” She crossed her arms and sat back in the chair.

“I know that sounds good,” I said, “but the detective can affirm that heat of the moment is very rare in murder. It’s so often a need. Someone had to get rid of Mr. Stanford. So the question is why?”

“And why was the guard killed?” asked Brennan.

“Exactly,” I said, turning to Clarisse. “Why was poor Joe killed?”

Clarisse didn’t answer. “Am I under arrest?” she asked Brennan.

“No, Ma’am,” he said. “But if you stand up to leave, you will be, so I suggest you answer questions and cooperate.

“I have rights,” Clarisse declared.

“Only if I arrest you,” Brennan bluffed. “Is that what you want?”

Clarisse sat back in her chair and sighed.

“Joe had to die,” I said. “He knew the truth and he came to my office to tell me. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there, but someone was, and that someone did not want Joe talking about what he knew.”

“And what did he supposedly know?” asked Gloria.

“He knew who really killed your husband, and more importantly, why.”

Gloria blanched.

“He knew that Clarisse killed your husband.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Gloria. “Clarisse would never do such a thing. I told you, it was me.”

“And luckily I didn’t believe you.”

“But what about Joe?” asked Brennan.

“I’m getting there,” I said. “It was the motive that made things work out for me. I knew love came into this somewhere, just not where I imagined.” I turned to Gloria. “I had to prove you killed your husband so that the real killer wouldn’t go to prison. The killer you are in love with.” I looked at Clarisse.

She stared back, defiantly. “I had to kill him.”

“No,” cried Gloria. “Don’t. Please. I can’t lose you.”

“It’s alright,” said Clarisse. “That bastard found out about my affair with Gloria, and he was going to divorce her and cut her off. I couldn’t let that happen. He called her an abomination.”

 “And Joe saw you kill Mr. Stanford,” I added.

“Yes,” said Gloria. “I found out that he knew, so I followed him to your office. He was going to tell you what Clarisse had done. I couldn’t let that happen.” The two women were sobbing and holding hands.

“And you grabbed his gun, he pulled the trigger, and the hammer cut your hand instead of firing.” I pointed at the bandage. “That’s how you got that cut.”

“Yes,” Clarisse said.

“You shot him with your gun while your other hand was jammed in his firing pin. Pretty gutsy.” I turned to Brennan. “So, that second blood sample,” I said, “will give you a match for Miss Stanford.”

Bull scratched his head. “I’ll be,” he said. “You did it. Two murders and two murderers all over love.” He shook his head. “Ain’t it the way?”

“Ain’t it though?” I shook my head, too. It seemed the thing to do.

Brennan’s eyes suddenly lit up, and he pointed at me. “And you’re out your fee!” Bull laughed way too hard at that.

I flipped him a nice titanium alloy bird. “Sorry,” I said, sarcastically. “I’ve been having technical difficulties.”

END

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And now – Blogisode 4 of Marsh Detective Agency

Posted: May 1, 2021 | Author: Daryl J. Yearwood | Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Marsh Detective Agency

-Daryl J. Yearwood

Blogisode 4

I was waiting in her car when she got in. She saw me in the mirror and jumped. “You scared me to death,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“Seems to be a popular condition,” I said.

“I heard about Joe. It’s terrible. He has a wife and kids.”

“Had,” I said, watching for a reaction. Nothing.

“I was expecting to be arrested by now,” she said. “Time is running out.”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” I said. “What are you not telling me?” I asked.

“I’ve told you everything,” she replied. Her eyes were highlighted in the mirror and seemed to glow from the inside. “You just need to do your job.”

“I spoke with your son. He seemed to think that you and your husband were fighting over money.”

“We were fighting, but not about money,” she said. “Money has never been an issue.”

“So. Did he find out about your affair?” It was a bluff, but man did it pay off? She tried to hide it, but I’d hit a sore spot. “Was it Galloway? Were you two having a go?”

“No,” she said with quite a bit of defiance. She turned in the seat and pointed her finger at me, a bright white bandage on the flesh between her thumb and finger. “I was not having an affair, and certainly not with Joseph Galloway!” That last bit was sincere.

“You were having an affair, then, just not with Galloway. Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Get out,” she said. “Get out and do your job!”

“Fine. Fine,” I said, opening the door. “One last question,” I said, “What did you do to your hand?”

“Get out,” she repeated.

I stood by her downed window and said, “I’ll do my job, but you better hold up your end.”

She started the car and sped away. I’d struck a nerve with that affair business, that much was certain. I needed to get back to TeleCorp.

###

Clarisse avoided my direct stare, shuffling papers on her desk. I asked her again, “Was Mrs. Stanford having an affair with one of the men at work?”

“Gloria would never do that,” she said.

So, Stanford’s first name was Gloria. I think that was the first time I’d heard it. Good detective work, moron. “Was Mr. Stanford having an affair? Was that what the argument was about?”

“No,” she said, still acting distracted by her paperwork. “I told you before that they were arguing about money. It’s happened before.”

“That’s funny,” I said, “Gloria,” there was a reaction there, “said they never argued about money.

Clarisse squirmed a little in her chair and looked up. “I’m sure you misunderstood.”

“May be,” I said. “I still think she was having an affair, though.” Clarisse definitely blushed.

“If you have nothing new to ask, I need to get back to work,” she said.

“Of course.” I got up to leave,

I was whistling as I left the building. I do that when I figure things out.

I called Brennan. “I’m coming in. Keep the clowns away from me until I fill you in. It’ll take a few minutes. Pick up Gloria Stanford and Clarisse Klaus for questioning. I’m on my way.

###

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And now – Blogisode 3 of Marsh Detective Agency

Posted: April 20, 2021 | Author: Daryl J. Yearwood | Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Marsh Detective Agency

-Daryl J. Yearwood

Blogisode 3

“I don’t get it, Marsh. There was a dead body in your office.” Detective Brennan chewed his gum like a teenage girl, popping and cracking it as he folded and rolled it with his tongue. That’s what he did when he was thinking, and he was in high gear. “Why shouldn’t I just drag you in myself. It would look good in my jacket to be the one who collared the high and mighty Jean Marsh for murder.”

“Because I need time to sort this out,” I said, “and deep down, you actually like me,” I added.

“Hmmpf!” he scoffed. Brennan was wide as a door, and if he didn’t like you, you were in for a tough time. Nobody bullied the detective. Not without losing a few teeth. “I like you Marsh. I really do, but this is stretching it.”

“I’m close, Bull. Real close. I just need a few more hours.” Marsh checked to make sure the alley was still clear. “I had forty-eight hours to pull this in, and I’m getting close to the deadline. You got anything you can give me?”

“Gotcha on the hook for some chits, eh?” Brennan chewed faster. “Yeah, I got one thing. Blood not matching the victim was on the hammer of the pistol. There were two different blood-types at the crime scene, you know, your office!”

“Thanks, Bull,” I said, ignoring the jab. “I need this one.”

“Okay, tell you what.” Brennan snapped his gum. “I’ll give you till midnight, Marsh. Then, if you don’t turn yourself into me, and I mean me, Bull Brennan,” he tapped himself on his barrel chest, “all bets are off.”

“It’ll all come to you, Bull. I promise.” Marsh disappeared into the shadows to the sound of popping gum.

###

TeleCorp had been a bust. “I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.” That was the line I kept hearing. Old man Stanford had died from two bullets to the heart at close range. The son, the one Mrs. Stanford forgot to mention, the one named Biff of all things, he added the missing details. Mom and the old man had a fight over money. Mom capped Pop in the heart with two .38s from a snub-nosed revolver she always carries. That last bit’s good to know. Must be in her purse because judging from the dress she was wearing at my office, if you can call it a dress, and if you can call my closet an office, she wasn’t wearing a gun. And who, for Christ’s sake, names their son Biff?

The only other person of any help had been Mrs. Stanford’s assistant, Clarisse Klaus. Tall blond with a quick wit and piercing eyes. Her hand was sporting a bandage between her thumb and index finger. My hand throbbed in sympathy. The hand I don’t have. It did that from time to time. Phantom pain they called it. “Stapler injury?” I asked, trying to be funny. “Something like that,” she replied, not amused. Guess I’m no comic.

 Miss Kraus had the skinny on the company financials, but everything looked in order. Occasionally, my accounting degree pays some dividends. Clarisse was a hot one, though, and she was a big fan of Mrs. Stanford. Went on about her community involvement, work at the shelter, all those things you hear and wonder, “Who has the time?” Perks of not having to work, I guess.

“Why do it?” I asked out loud. There’s no motive that I can see. Money is no big thing to people like the Stanfords. She could buy anything she wanted, so why would she need more. Sure, rich guys are stingy, but with a wife like that, slinging a little cash her way had to have its rewards. None of this made sense. Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg? The answer was obvious. She didn’t kill him, and she’s willing to throw her life away to protect whoever did pull that trigger.

The Stanford’s penthouse apartment turned up nothing. It was locked up tight, but my hook came in handy taking out a small window allowing me to unlock the door. Another dead end, of course. I couldn’t go back to the office. The Cops would certainly be waiting to bring me in. There’s only so much Bull can do.

At least, thanks to Brennan, the dead body in my office was no longer a mystery, his identity, that is. Joseph Galloway, 28, security guard for TeleCorp. The why and who of his demise was still unknown. Maybe he had come by to spill the beans and got offed for it.

###

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And now – Blogisode 2 of Marsh Detective Agency

Posted: April 17, 2021 | Author: Daryl J. Yearwood | Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Marsh Detective Agency

-Daryl J. Yearwood

Blogisode 2

The pounding was getting louder, and the body on the floor of my office wasn’t going anywhere – too heavy, too stiff.

I slid out of the window and down the fire escape. The cops hadn’t covered the alley, so I ran across to the other apartments and climbed up the escape to the fourth floor. I opened the always-unlocked window and dashed through the living room. Old lady McKenna gasped as I trotted past her in the kitchen.

“Good luck,” she said, realizing it was me. Her words followed into the hallway along with the aroma of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies. Someday I’m going to have to try one. Once on the street, I managed to duck, without being seen, into a cab hovering beside the curb.

“TeleCorp on Bunt Street in the Zone.”

“Got it.” The cabby smacked the flag and pulled up into traffic without looking. A chorus of horns heralded our departure as I keyed up a search on TeleCorp. The display hovered over my phone – lists of employees, directory of management, 3D map – all of the public info. I needed more that what was available to the regular stiff, so I launched the troll that one of my tech-savvy clients had written for me as payment for pictures of his wife in less than favorable poses with his business partner. While the troll went to work digging through the backside of the TeleCorp server arrays, I set the phone on my knee and watched the city zip by.

Rain was falling as we headed into the Zone, and everything glistened in the glow from the ever-present street lights and store-front signs. The occasional neon added bright colors to the mix, and produced a sort of city rainbow that carried a very different connotation than its namesake.

Zoners don’t care for people like me, so I pulled out a pair of gloves and slipped them on, hiding my prosthetic enhancement. That’s what the meds call it. I usually just call it my hook. People say I’m insensitive, but hell, it’s my hook.

###

“If you killed your husband,” I said, “why come to me? I don’t help people run from the cops. There’s no money in it.”

“You misunderstand.” She turned and watched the traffic jammed above the street below the window. She turned back after a moment, tugged at the bottom of her jacket, and let out a heavy sigh. “I need for you to prove that I did it.”

I gotta say, I’ve heard some lines in my day, but that was a new one. “People usually pay me to prove their innocence.”

“But I’m not innocent.” The cigarette twitching between her fingers betrayed her. The cool, calm demeanor was an act.

“I shot my husband, Mr. Marsh,” she said around the cigarette, and ashes fell onto the breast of her jacket. “In the heart,” she continued, brushing at the ashes only to make a mess of gray streaks across the cream colored fabric. She looked up. “Twice.”

###

Tune in next time for Blogisode 3 of Marsh Detective Agency!

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Stroke, COVID, and Stress Test, Oh My!

Posted: April 15, 2021 | Author: Daryl J. Yearwood | Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

So, delays abound. In December 2019 I experienced a stroke that took away my ability to type. Just as I got my fingers back to some semblance of control, COVID struck in December of 2020. December is NOT my month. I’m able to type again despite struggling against Post-COVID heart issues. The good news is Ace Season 2 is almost ready to post. In the meantime, here is a flash serial titled Marsh Detective Agency. A little cyber-noir to fill the void. Flash in nature, the blogisodes will post quicker than the Saturday matinee rate of Ace Clanahan and the Curse of the Golden Jaguar. That being said, here it is – Marsh Detective Agency.

Marsh Detective Agency

-Daryl J. Yearwood

Blogisode 1

It wasn’t my typical job. I’ll grant you that. But it was cash up front, and that’s the best kind of work – in and out with no loose ends. And it would have been except for the dead body on the floor and the cops pounding on the door.

###

She walked into my office two days ago, and everything changed.

“Sixty credits a day,” I told her. “Plus expenses,” I quickly added.

She tossed two coins on the only clean spot on the card table that passed as a desk. Half a K in real money.

“I’ll triple that if you can do the job in forty-eight hours, Mr. Marsh.”

“Two days, huh?” I fingered one of the coins, the embossed eagle reflected in the alloy of my hand.

Her gaze gave away her curiosity. “Sorry,” she said, seeing that I had noticed. “I’ve heard of them, but never seen one. What happened?” she asked.

I wiggled the cybernetic digits. “Stuck it someplace it didn’t belong.” I could tell she was disappointed – wanted details, violence, blood, veins. “Yeah,” I said in answer to the question in her smoldering green eyes. “It hurt.” The small smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth spoke volumes.

“Would you like to know what I want?” she asked. The smile vanished, washing the danger from her eyes. Too many meanings dripped from her words.

I tossed down the chit, motioned her to a chair and poured two bourbons. It was after 10:00am, so I made mine a double. Everybody needs rules.

“I’m all ears, Miss . . .?”

“Mrs. Stanford,” she said. “It’s my husband.” She hesitated.

“Sleeping around?” I prompted. “Missing?”

She took a long drink, set down the glass, and out of a pearl-adorned case, she pulled a cigarette – the real thing, not those electronic substitutes. Paper, tobacco . . . a real honest-to-goodness cigarette.

“He’s dead. Murdered.”

“Your husband was murdered?”

“Yes. He is,” her voice cracked, “was the president of TeleCorp.”

I took my lighter and flicked alive the element. She moved close and placed the cigarette end against the glow-screen, puffing it alive.

“Isn’t that a job for the cops?”

She inhaled and then slowly blew out a cloud of smoke that swirled around her auburn hair.

“I’d rather leave the police out of this, for now,” she said.

“Why?” The question was obvious, but I asked it anyway.

She pulled hard on the cigarette, and her words came out with the smoke. “I killed him.

###

TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR BLOGISODE 2 OF “MARSH DETECTIVE AGENCY!”

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Ace Clanahan and the Curse of the Golden Jaguar – Season One

Posted: July 1, 2014 | Author: Daryl J. Yearwood | Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

In preparation for Season Two, here are all six Bogisodes of Season One. Enjoy, and spread the word about Adventure Serial Fiction! Read the rest of this entry »

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Ready, Set, Go!

Posted: April 3, 2012 | Author: Daryl J. Yearwood | Filed under: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Thanks for your patience while I took time off to launch my fantasy novel, The One Rider.  I will post the next blogisode in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.  Thanks, again!  In the meantime, check out my other blogs here and here.

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