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Murder at the B&B. An Ophelia Perhaps Mystery.

IMG_1470All Those Violins Can’t Be Good.

I creep through the small forest surrounding the church and enter from a side door. The old ladies crowded into the church pews look back at me. I may be the only one not wearing a hat. But someone else is coming in from the opposite side door. A tall man in a trench coat. A beige trench coat. No hat.

He sits down at the end of the far right pew.

I turn my attention to the small orchestra at the front. All those violins can’t be good. This will be the Four Seasons as I’d feared. I’d have almost welcomed the Four Seasons done by a metal band, Even a dixieland band.

The priest makes some announcements. He even mentions parishioner Oscar Briggs, who is doing much better apparently and appreciated the cakes and sweets people had been bringing to the hospital. He then introduced the conductor, and, just as the concert master tunes the group to his A, I decide I can’t do it. I can’t just sit there and suffer through this classical music workhorse.

I flee into the night, past the church bulletin board with all the concert flyers, past the photos of missionaries in Africa, and then past the bins in the rectory driveway. Someone behind me clears his throat.

“Pumpkin! I’ve finally found you!”


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