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Wednesday, June 1, 2011

From "Voice Mail Murder" by Patricia Rockwell

Voice Mail Murder
She felt waves lapping at her feet, pulling gently at her sides, but still allowing her to sleep, to rest.  She could see—well, maybe not see—creatures floating by.  Fish?  Maybe.  Large creatures, coming closer.  One looked very much like—Shoop!   Yes, there he was standing up on some sort of surf-board, his long, grey trench coat flapping in the tropical breeze.  And the man was barefoot!  What! she thought.  Shoop would never walk around barefoot.  Oh, it was a dream, she remembered.  It was Shoop, all right.  He was motioning to her, his face frozen in that infuriating smirk of his.  She couldn’t help but laugh as she glanced down at his shoeless feet.  He had his pant legs rolled up, supposedly, she presumed, to keep them dry, but that wasn’t going to happen.  He was drenched.  Still, he beckoned to her—wherever she was.  She wasn’t sure.  But he was looking right at her.  She could hear music—like that tinkling island marimba band music playing in the distance.  Shoop did a leap in the air, and he and his surf-board flipped around and headed out into open waters, overcoat flying in the breeze. 

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