Excerpt from Death By Mail

 

Murder is never pleasant, even when it’s warranted. There are many kinds of murder. There is murder of the body. That’s the easiest type of murder to identify. Then there is murder of the spirit, which is a slow, insidious process often committed by a spouse. Finally, consider the murder that completely destroys a person’s life, from which they never recover, committed by someone unknown. Sometimes we call this type of murder—fate.

Let me explain. I was about to become a victim of fraud, which eventually would end with the murder of an innocent person. I was dragged into this poisonous affair through no fault of my own. Rotten business it was, too. Was it by evil human design or simply fate? I swear it was not my fault.

I was having a bad day. My left leg hurt like the dickens, which made me cranky, which caused the animals to sense my foul mood. The mama llama, who had never liked me in the first place, spat the apple so generously offered into my face. The sheep ran away, and even my horse, Morning Glory, refused to trot over to the fence, even when I offered a stick of peppermint. What horse doesn’t like peppermint?

“Traitors, all of you!” I yelled, feeling more out-of-sorts because of the animals’ rejection. “To think of all the money I’ve spent on vet bills, not to mention your feed. Ungrateful lot!”

Even Baby, my faithful two-hundred pound English Mastiff, was careful not to bump into or accidentally hit my aching leg with his massive wagging tail. Instead, he comforted by leaning into my bad leg, which was normal mastiff behavior when protecting. Yes, mastiffs like to lean into a person when they are not sleeping or eating or lying asleep in the doorway.

“Get away!” I snapped, pushing Baby off. When I saw the dog’s confused expression, I relented. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You were just trying to help.” I sank down in the golf cart, feeling despondent.

Baby jumped into the cart, heavily panting.

I gathered a towel and wiped the strands of drool hanging from his mouth. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Baby. I’m having a bad day.” I scratched behind his ears and gave him a doggy biscuit. To show no hard feelings, he licked my hand before inhaling his treat.

Seeing Baby had forgiven me, I suggested, “Let’s see if we got mail.”

I wasn’t expecting any actual letters, as all I’ve gotten for the past two years were bills and advertisements. Still, I was ever hopeful for real mail—a social invitation, a letter from an out-of-touch friend, or a funny card from a neighbor. A pen pal would be nice.

We rode down the gravel driveway, passed through the electronic gate, and pulled up to my bee-shaped mailbox. Not being able to reach it, I carefully got out of the golf cart, nursing my bad leg, and pulled out the mail. Leaning against the cart, I sorted through the post.

“Bills, bills, advertisement from a mortuary company.” I turned to Baby. “They’ve got my number,” I mumbled, referring to the funeral home. “Bills and more bills. Jeez.”

Unexpectedly, I came across a blue envelope with my first name written in neat print tucked between two catalogs. Hoping it might be an invitation from one of my neighbors, I tore it open. In my haste, a single piece of paper escaped and drifted onto the ground, landing upright. It had one word written in bold ink—DEATH!