Scorpio's Lot Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Ray Smithies
two acquaintances but never friends. My one contact with both
men was a monthly meeting where community issues were discussed and acted upon.
I noticed Buchanan throw
something to the ground, his hands flying in all directions like a lost tourist
in some non-English-speaking country. Johnson expressed his dislike with strong
verbal retaliation. What on earth was going on here? What would make these two
men act in such a way? Whatever the reason, it didn’t look good and it was best
ignored, I thought.
I turned the ignition key and hit
the accelerator. Ben Johnson had climbed into his car at the same time and,
unexpectedly, he reversed straight into my path, forcing me to slam on the
brakes. I came to a screeching halt, but I had already collected the rear
corner of his bumper bar.
Johnson got out of his car and
came over to inspect the damage, grumbling as he made his approach.
‘Oh, it’s you, Tom. Sorry about this,
my fault entirely. Your damage appears less anyway, so just send me the bill
and I’ll take care of it.’
‘Very well,’ I replied, studying
a damaged grill and headlight in addition to some minor bodywork.
‘See what you made me do!’ fumed
Johnson, directing his comment toward Buchanan standing on the footpath. With
that brief encounter he drove away, still muttering to himself.
‘Stephen, what in the bloody hell
is going on between you two?’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen either of you behave
like this before.’
‘Tom, I’m sorry it had to come to
this. As you heard, Ben will pay for the damage. As for our disagreement, we
just had a misunderstanding over something that got out of hand.’
‘It must’ve been a massive
misunderstanding from what I’ve just witnessed. As far as the car’s concerned,
it’s not so much the money but the bloody inconvenience of getting the damn
thing repaired!’ I remonstrated, thinking misfortune seemed to come our way
when we do a favour for someone.
~ * ~
The
next day I couldn’t help but think that life at the park would never be the
same again. On top of everything, I now had this murder investigation to
contend with. It would only be a matter of time before the city detectives
arrived, reliving the events of yesterday with their countless routine
questions and treating us all with a degree of suspicion.
Perhaps there would be a visit
from the Pedley Advertiser, with some bloody reporter exaggerating the
article to give us publicity, but for all the wrong reasons. I could picture
their front-page accusations directed at the park for negligence and
discrediting the good reputation of Pedley. After all, bad news does sell.
I was going about my morning
chores when I was confronted by Kurt Muller who was returning from the beach
with his legs still covered in wet sand. Muller, a park resident, was a
powerfully built man in his late thirties who was strong as an ox. He was often
referred to as a bludger by his fellow tenants. They said he drank constantly,
was unpredictable, irresponsible and generally kept to himself. He had an
intimidating presence, an arrogant tongue and was cunning by nature. Contrary
to his unsavory character, Kurt Muller was no fool.
‘A good morning for a walk, Kurt,’
I started, to encourage a response.
‘Cut the crap. All this murder
business has turned the place into a sideshow. Bloody hell, there are more cops
and spectators than residents!’
‘But that’s to be expected. You’d
better brace yourself for more police because I’ve heard there are two
detectives about to arrive from the city.’
‘Just have them keep their
distance!’ added Kurt aggressively and with that he continued on his way.
Around fifty minutes of routine
tasks went by, with my mind reliving the past twenty-four hours rather than
concentrating on the jobs at hand. This constant torment was playing havoc with
my thoughts. Why was Jake Reynolds murdered? Was he the
men was a monthly meeting where community issues were discussed and acted upon.
I noticed Buchanan throw
something to the ground, his hands flying in all directions like a lost tourist
in some non-English-speaking country. Johnson expressed his dislike with strong
verbal retaliation. What on earth was going on here? What would make these two
men act in such a way? Whatever the reason, it didn’t look good and it was best
ignored, I thought.
I turned the ignition key and hit
the accelerator. Ben Johnson had climbed into his car at the same time and,
unexpectedly, he reversed straight into my path, forcing me to slam on the
brakes. I came to a screeching halt, but I had already collected the rear
corner of his bumper bar.
Johnson got out of his car and
came over to inspect the damage, grumbling as he made his approach.
‘Oh, it’s you, Tom. Sorry about this,
my fault entirely. Your damage appears less anyway, so just send me the bill
and I’ll take care of it.’
‘Very well,’ I replied, studying
a damaged grill and headlight in addition to some minor bodywork.
‘See what you made me do!’ fumed
Johnson, directing his comment toward Buchanan standing on the footpath. With
that brief encounter he drove away, still muttering to himself.
‘Stephen, what in the bloody hell
is going on between you two?’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen either of you behave
like this before.’
‘Tom, I’m sorry it had to come to
this. As you heard, Ben will pay for the damage. As for our disagreement, we
just had a misunderstanding over something that got out of hand.’
‘It must’ve been a massive
misunderstanding from what I’ve just witnessed. As far as the car’s concerned,
it’s not so much the money but the bloody inconvenience of getting the damn
thing repaired!’ I remonstrated, thinking misfortune seemed to come our way
when we do a favour for someone.
~ * ~
The
next day I couldn’t help but think that life at the park would never be the
same again. On top of everything, I now had this murder investigation to
contend with. It would only be a matter of time before the city detectives
arrived, reliving the events of yesterday with their countless routine
questions and treating us all with a degree of suspicion.
Perhaps there would be a visit
from the Pedley Advertiser, with some bloody reporter exaggerating the
article to give us publicity, but for all the wrong reasons. I could picture
their front-page accusations directed at the park for negligence and
discrediting the good reputation of Pedley. After all, bad news does sell.
I was going about my morning
chores when I was confronted by Kurt Muller who was returning from the beach
with his legs still covered in wet sand. Muller, a park resident, was a
powerfully built man in his late thirties who was strong as an ox. He was often
referred to as a bludger by his fellow tenants. They said he drank constantly,
was unpredictable, irresponsible and generally kept to himself. He had an
intimidating presence, an arrogant tongue and was cunning by nature. Contrary
to his unsavory character, Kurt Muller was no fool.
‘A good morning for a walk, Kurt,’
I started, to encourage a response.
‘Cut the crap. All this murder
business has turned the place into a sideshow. Bloody hell, there are more cops
and spectators than residents!’
‘But that’s to be expected. You’d
better brace yourself for more police because I’ve heard there are two
detectives about to arrive from the city.’
‘Just have them keep their
distance!’ added Kurt aggressively and with that he continued on his way.
Around fifty minutes of routine
tasks went by, with my mind reliving the past twenty-four hours rather than
concentrating on the jobs at hand. This constant torment was playing havoc with
my thoughts. Why was Jake Reynolds murdered? Was he the