Finish the Fiction Story Contest - Week #34 - @bananafish

The Last Will and Testament of Geralda Connors
by @gwilberiol

My name is Elisha Crow and I hate my job.

I'm waiting in my office, a sealed envelope before me on the mahogany desk.

I glance at the potted plant, plastic since the real ones keep dying on me. Then at my Harvard's law degree nailed to the wall.

Geralda Heather, nee Connors, died last week, alone in her villa. Her husband left her with twelve million bucks, which she held very close, and a vast hatred towards humankind, which she spread passionately. She died with locked doors and closed windows; dogs and gardener outside on the lawn. No signs of a struggle. She had a weak heart.

I adjust my special glasses and examine my guests.

Sprawled on the sofa as if it belonged to her alone, Brigitta Connors scowls at me. She disapproves of any skin color but her own, and I'm black, wearing a suit that she decided I've stolen. She's the victim's sister, but they weren't on speaking terms. She has the only spare keys to the villa and an alibi.

Sitting rigidly on the small chair near the window, once-violin-prodigy Pearl Heather wilts under my scrutiny. She ran away from home in her teens. She's bald, wrestling with one of the bad cancers. Lost her flat and savings to the medical bills. She's the victim's estranged daughter. She has no friends, no prospects, a pair of lovely eyes and a motive.

Shuffling his feet and glancing at the armchair wondering if it's all right to sit down is John Cotter, the gardener. Employed by the Heathers for fifty years, and they weren't kind people. He's the key witness and a stubborn one, insisting nobody came to visit on that fateful day.

My cell phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. Finally!

Aconite. How did you know, you old fraud.

It's Francine. So bright, so full of life. I wish she'd let me date her, but she's too smart for my cheap lies.

I type: 'I had a hunch, Fran.'

Bull. And I'm Lieutenant Brown to you. Where are they now?

'They're all here. I'm about to start.'

We'll be there in thirty minutes. None of your theatrics, you read me?

'Can't promise that.'

I'm warning you, Crow!

I put down the phone. Sighing, I take off my special glasses, clean them with a handkerchief and leave them on the desk.

I blink as my vision clears. I see Brigitta, looking bored and haughty. Pearl, gazing dreamily at the sky outside. John, who settled for balancing uncomfortably on the armrest.

And the pale specter of Geralda Connors, my client, staring at her killer. She's livid.

I hate my job. I wish it was a job I could quit. You can stop an investigation; you can exit a tribunal. But anywhere I run, I'll still be a psychic. And the dead can tell.

"Ladies and gentleman; thank you for coming," I begin. "Before I read the will, there's a story you need to hear."

My Entry:

“This little story begins with a person . . .” I said looking at the death mask of Geralda Connors. Her throat slit open from the murder weapon. Her hollowed out blank eyes. She just stood there with her hands on her hips, posing for me, and I knew that the game of Charades had begun.

I’d never been good at this game. Only each ghost had its own way of communicating, and with the injury she’d suffered, she found this method the easiest way to get the message across.

Geralda puffed up like a man and walked all tough around the room.

“John Cotter you killed Geralda Connors!” I yelled out. Everyone in the room looked at him in shock.

“No I didn’t!” Cried John.

Geralda shook her head no and put her arms around him to comfort him.

“OK. Just testing you out,” I said coolly.

Geralda started to do the same thing again.

“This story begins with a person who on the night of the murder walked brazenly into the house . . .” I said, as she nodded her head. “That means the murderer is here.”

Geralda stopped what she had been doing and tapped her index finger to her nose, then pointed at me. The tension in the room began to build.

Geralda moved a finger across her throat and pointed down the hallway.

“The knife used to slit Geralda’s throat came from the kitchen!”

Once again Geralda tapped her index finger to her nose, then pointed at me. This time she smiled as if we were really beginning to get somewhere.

“Just get on with the Will, Crow. You’re embarrassing yourself making up this stupid story as you go. We all know my Sister got murdered with a knife from the kitchen. It was in the news for God’s sakes,” Brigitta Connors said from her relaxed position on the couch.

Geralda gave Brigitta the evil eye.

“You killed your Sister!” I yelled.

“That’s absurd!” Brigitta yelled back.

Geralda began shaking her head “no” profusely.

“OK, well then that leaves Pearl Heather.” I said not so confident now.

All three of them began to complain to me at that moment. Even Geralda’s ghost dropped her arms to her side in despair pleading with me to listen to her more carefully.

At that moment Pearl’s husband, Ethan Heather, returned from the bathroom and took in the scene asking, “did I miss something?”

Finally, Francine pushed in through the front door with the police in tow.

“Arrest that man!” Francine announced pointing at Ethan. She then looked at me, and the people in the room arguing and carrying on.

“Crow, I told you none of your theatrics.” Francine said and sighed.

I raised my arms in defeat, as Geralda’s ghost crossed her arms and shook her head in disapproval.

Thank you,
Cyrus Emerson

Red Roses the audiobook for your consideration at the Voice Arts Awards (NYC), and the Grammys (LA).
https://www.audible.com/pd/Fiction/Red-Roses-Audiobook/B07F2LWHPN

Red Roses narrated by Kira Omans
www.kiraomans.com

Red Roses music by Rike Luxx
www.rikeluxxbeats.com

Red Roses sound by Pond5
www.pond5.com

Also, available from The Author:

Fear and Loathing in the State of Jefferson - ebook
https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed?asin=B079R5KLPN&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_GsURAbAVDYNEM

Lost Angel – Introduction with Ray Manzarek of The Doors
https://www.downpour.com/lost-angel?sp=249812