Free Flash Flood by Susan Slater Page A

anthology of poetry she’d worked on for five years.
    â€¦as we overlook his trespasses…
    She wanted to scream. Even in death he was forcing her to play a part. But to be fair, he hadn’t twisted her arm, made her buy the black cap of a hat with a chin length veil and three-digit price tag, the perfect accessory to the black linen suit and tailored pumps. Grieving widow might be her best wifely role. The Emmy for best widow, singly or in a series. God, not a series; once was enough.
    High fluffy, gray-white clouds floated over the sun, blocking its glare. She kicked off the other shoe and tried to concentrate on the minister, who droned on extolling the virtues of the air-space contained in the box in front of him, pausing for effect to touch the coffin every fifth sentence. My God, she was so cynical and maybe even on the verge of hysterics. She just wanted this over. A burial of Eric, however symbolic, so that she could get on with life.
    But would she have gone through with the divorce had he lived? Or would he have talked her out of it? More promises of repentance, how he needed her.
    The first glittering slice of rainbow appeared just above the minister’s head, a second to the left and a third just peeked through the clouds between them. Solar halos. It was a sign. It had to be. Her life couldn’t be such shit without promised help. Maybe it just attested to her state of mind, but the parhelia were as good a sign as any. Sundogs wouldn’t lie.
    ***
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDan, please.”
    â€œGod damn it, Carolyn—”
    â€œI hate that language.”
    â€œI’m trying to stop.”
    â€œWell, it doesn’t sound like it.”
    â€œTruce?”
    â€œOkay. But I don’t know why you won’t do this one thing for me. For yourself.”
    â€œHave I been wandering around here bemoaning the lack of a love life?”
    â€œYou’re her dinner partner, for God’s sake, you’re not taking her to bed.”
    â€œThat’s it, Carolyn, I’m going to get a bar of soap. I will not tolerate that language.” The last was said in a pretty good imitation of his sister’s voice. And it got the result he wanted. Carolyn burst out laughing.
    â€œNow tell me why this is so important.”
    â€œShe’s my friend. Her son is the same age as Jason. She’s a widow.”
    â€œI think I hear violins.”
    â€œDan be serious. She’s perfect for you.”
    â€œRemember the last time you played matchmaker?”
    â€œThat was in high school.”
    â€œDisasters are long remembered.”
    â€œI know you’re not gay.”
    â€œThanks. Is that Philip’s opinion, too?”
    â€œDon’t be snotty. I wish you two would get along.”
    â€œWe do. Sort of.” Carolyn’s husband was a little too officious for him, but there wasn’t any out-and-out animosity.
    â€œSo, we can count on you? You’ll sit across from her at dinner and make some kind of small talk, then walk her to her car.”
    â€œHey, who said anything about walking anyone to a car?”
    â€œOkay.” Carolyn threw up her hands. “Just the small talk. You don’t have to see her again.”
    And probably won’t, Dan concluded to himself.
    ***
    Dan had been in Roswell two days and he was already restless. His sister had set him up as “dinner companion” to some friend of hers, probably a hopelessly small-town socialite with small-town interests. Bet she’d never heard of the Cubs.
    He’d hoped to hear from the informant but there had been nothing. The results were in on the Cisco Kid. Again nothing, not one thing showed up in any test that smelled of foul play. Death was attributed to a bronchial virus. Simple act of nature. He’d drive out tomorrow and tell Billy Roland.
    He’d called Midland Savings and Loan. Another dead end. There was no account for an Eric Linden, never had been. Or