Charles Mauer was sure riskin’ a broken ankle, navigating around footstones in soupy fog with a dead flashlight, but the muttering figure ahead drew him like a fly to honey. He eased up next to Marty Craghill’s headstone. “Officer?”
Greaves turned, sunglasses clacking against his temples. “Ah, the PI.” He pointed to the grave. “Reckon they’ve been buried here long?”
“’Bout three years. Know much about old Freemason Marty?”
“Not him I’m wonderin’ ‘bout. Who’s the stiff atop his casket? That’s the question.”
Out came a rumpled notepad. “Know who killed him?”
“Can’t say. Need me the coroner to dig him up and pull that slug out.”
“Shot?”
“Big ‘ol hole right through the noggin’.”
Mauer’s pen scratched.
“My Ruger’s a body dog. Found ‘em right quick.”
“Best there is.”
“Darn right. Where’d that dog get to?” His whistle faded with him into the fog.
“’Till next year, Greaves.” The soft glow of creeping dawn chased Mauer back into his sedan, where a weight settled on his shoulder with a low whine. He rubbed the shepherd’s ears. “I’ll find who killed your daddy, Ruger. No matter how long it takes.”
I wrote this 200 word (title included) short fiction based on the photo prompt for a writing competition in 2023. The character nags at me from time to time with plot nuggets and snappy dialogue. I hope to get back to Mauer the Medium at some point—he has about four books ahead of him.
I love the snappy writing! I feel like there’s old timey zingy 20s music in the background!