Just One Thing . . .

This is the first place entry from the February Aspiring Writers Flash Fiction contest on LinkedIn. The challenge was genre: fantasy, theme: paranormal encounter at a ski resort, highlight: a cell phone. Length: 600-715 words.

X-file #227: Last Words

“Mulder, what are you doing? We’re going to miss our flight.”

“Aw, come on Scully,” the FBI agent said over his shoulder, while pointing out his selection to the clerk, “are you telling me you can walk through this cloud of cinnamon aroma and not buy at least one bun to eat on the plane?”

“It’s called self-control, Mulder,” the redhead snapped, before stalking off to the gate.

She was still fuming when he dropped down in the seat next to her on the plane. She sat, with tight lips, while he savored the coiled bun, licking his fingers to get the last traces of the warm icing.

“Can we discuss the case now?” she asked, “Starting with the reason we are flying to Salt Lake City.”

“Okay, it’s a case of communication with the dearly departed.”

“Talking to the dead? You’ve got to be kidding,” Scully said, “Why is that a case for the FBI?”

“Two reasons,” Mulder said, “the messages are recommending actions that are affecting a big real estate deal that is important to the local economy. So the mayor called his senator, who called in a favor from the director.” Scully rolled her eyes. “The communication is coming as text messages, received in an area that has no cell coverage.”

“That’s it? That’s why we’re flying to Utah? What a waste of time.”

Scully was still complaining as Mulder drove their rental car up the mountain. They were to meet someone from the mayor’s office at the abandoned ski lodge. The black town car was there waiting for them, a man emerged as they parked.

“John Osmond,” he said, offering his hand, “no relation”.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder, and this is Special Agent Dana Scully,” Mulder replied, “can we get out of this wind while you fill us in?”

Osmond produced keys and led them inside the lobby. “This is where it happened. Merilee Osmond–no relation–claims she got text messages from her dead father right in this lobby. Merilee is the daughter and heir of Winchester Osmond, who built this lodge. It was the first one up here, and really launched Salt Lake City’s winter tourism business.  As you can see, it’s now pretty run down, and the city had plans to tear it down. We planned a winter sports complex to help our bid for the Olympics. Winchester was reluctant at first, because of his sentimental attachment to the old lodge, but he finally agreed.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Scully asked.

“Winchester died before signing the contract. In his will, he requested that Merilee scatter his ashes atop the mountain on his birthday, June 22. He requested that she carry his old cell phone with her and bring it here in the lobby afterwards. When she got back from the tram ride to the mountaintop and came here, the phone started vibrating. There was a text message saying ‘Don’t sell my home–Daddy’–Merilee freaked, and now she won’t sign the papers.”

“Couldn’t this have been some sort of prank?” Scully asked, “Anyone could send that type of message.”

“Ah, that’s where it gets interesting,” Mulder said, “the message came from an account that was created by Winchester Osmond, and the account has not been compromised.”

“One more thing,” Osmond said, “there is no cell signal up here, never has been.” He pulled out his own cell, “check for yourself.” Mulder and Scully pulled out their own cells and verified that there were zero bars.

“Here’s the phone itself,” Osmond handed them a sealed plastic bag. “No one has touched it since Merilee got the message. Please find an explanation for this, so we can get Merilee to approve the sale.”

Back at the hotel, Scully did some research online, while Mulder examined the phone.

“I’ve got it!” Scully said triumphantly, “There’s a company called Last Words that will contract to send emails or texts after your death. Winchester’s accounts show a payment to them. That’s got to be the source of the text.”

“What about the lack of signal?” Mulder asked.

“On June 22, magnetic waves from a solar flare reached earth and boosted signals for that one day. No mystery, case solved.”

“Except for one thing,” Mulder said, “there’s no battery in this phone.”

This entry won third place in the Aspiring Writers contest for the first half of January 2012. The genre was fiction: suspense, theme: first day on the job, highlight: an email you received in error. Length: 600-715 words.

Natalie was glad to finally be actually on the job. She’d had almost two days of site orientation, safety training, security training, and computer security training, before being allowed to go to her new office. She still had to wait for her security clearance to come through, but the company had fast-tracked her accounts, so a sealed envelope containing her username and temporary password was waiting on her desk. 

Her computer was already booted up and waiting for her to enter her username and password. Once she did, Outlook launched automatically. There was a stream of routine emails waiting, from the cafeteria, the library, and other departments. One message was titled “Need your approval ASAP”.  Probably the Savings Plan or United Way Natalie thought, clicking on the message.

“Ned, we need to move two kilograms of plutonium from the basement lab in building 25-J to the testing facility in the northwest corner, first floor, of building 3-L. Please advise, soonest. –Bob.” 

That was definitely not routine. Those buildings were not inside the classified area. What on earth were they doing with plutonium, much less with it outside the fence? That email message was a clear security violation. The  systems geeks were going to have a time purging the unclassified system..She wondered who Ned was. In the company directory she found Ned James Dunne.  Her own username was NJD, for Natalie Jasmine Donner. Ned was in X division — which meant his work was classified.  

The training she had just received labeled this as both a security incident and a computer security incident, to be reported to her division’s security and computer security officers ASAP. Natalie wondered which one she should call first, but looking at the little orange card of emergency numbers, found that both positions were filled by the same person, Kevin Centrella. She dialed his number. 

“Hello, Kevin?” she said timidly, “My name is Natalie Donner, I’m a new hire and I just got an email that looks like a computer security violation and, um, a security violation too.”

“Really?” a man’s voice said, sounding bored, “why don’t you tell me what it says, WITHOUT mentioning any of the words that you think make it a violation.”

“Okay,” she said, “It was sent to me by mistake, from somebody named Bob, asking permission of someone named Ned,  to move a specific quantity of a particular material from one location to another”

“This material,” the man asked, not sounding as bored now, “would it be a controlled substance? Don’t say the name!” 

“Yes, it is definitely a controlled substance,” she replied, “and one that is not supposed to be in either of the locations mentioned.”

 “Okay,” he said, all business now, “You did the right thing. Stay where you are until I get there. Turn your monitor off, but leave the computer on. Close your blinds and your office door, and don’t let anyone in.”

She did what he said, then sat down to wait. She had a feeling “Bob” was going to be in big trouble.  Checking her watch, she saw it was after eleven. She was supposed to join Suzanne at noon for a meet-and-greet with the rest of the group, but that wasn’t looking likely.

Kevin knocked, displaying his badge before entering. He turned her monitor back on and did a flurry of typing, while making cryptic comments over the phone. Finally, he hung up and grinned at Natalie, “Welcome aboard, you passed the final test.”

“Test? This was a test?”

“Of course,” Kevin said firmly, “it was the final test of your training. You don’t think we actually have plutonium wandering around the facility, do you?”

Natalie didn’t know what to say. Kevin headed for the door, “You’re on the network for real now. If you hurry, you can still make that lunch.”

The group was just getting their food when she arrived. “Hey, Nat,” Suzanne said, “you missed all the excitement!”

“Yeah,” a dark-haired young man chimed in, “the guards came in and dragged some guy right out of the food line.”

“That was Bob,” said a new voice from behind her. “Nice to meet you, Natalie. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Ned Dunne. As soon as your clearance comes through, you’ll be working for me.”

This is the winning entry from the November Aspiring Writers Competition. The constraints were, genre:Murder Mystery, theme: Thanksgiving, focus: Body in a Closet, limit: 715 words. The year’s winners will be published in an anthology by Lebrary.

When I found out that my husband Steve was to interview billionaire Paul Bannister AND that we were invited for Thanksgiving dinner, I was in heaven! Sylvia Bannister’s wardrobe was legendary, and now I could sneak an up close peek at it.  Steve always warned me that my habit of “closet snooping” would get me in trouble some day. This was the day. When I opened the double closet doors, I saw . . . Sylvia. Her dress was lovely, a daring print that set off her blond hair, but it didn’t do a thing for the darkening blue bruises around her neck.

Steve was covering the series of murders attributed to the “society strangler”.  The police were baffled. The killings always took place at private events. None of the servants or catering staff were present at all the events. And although there was considerable overlap in the guest lists, all the guests had alibis for at least one of the murders. The surviving spouses, normally prime suspects,  had rock solid alibis.  Steve’s editor wanted a piece on how the elite kept their spirits up in the holiday season, knowing that they, or rather their wives (for the strangling victims were all female) were being stalked by a killer. Not that the men were safe, for in a few cases male guests had been stabbed. Police suspected those victims had interrupted  the killer.

“Ah, here she is,” Steve said as I tried to sidle back into the room unnoticed, ” so, did you sneak into Sylvia’s closet, or finally ASK for a tour?” He laughed. I flushed with embarrassment as everyone turned to stare at me. Great, he was going to get me killed with his big mouth.

“Uh, no, I , uh, couldn’t find her,” I stammered, “I got all turned around and gave up. Is she here?” I looked around the scattered crowd of guests as if I expected to see her. The men were all drinking and laughing. The few women looked grim. None of the guests looked like they were hiding a secret yen to strangle women. Although, taking another look, I realized that the group of men included the husbands of all the women who had been killed.  And if I was not mistaken, the widows of the stabbed men were also all present. What a creepy gathering.

I pulled Steve aside. “Sylvia is dead,” I whispered, “I found her in the closet, strangled — what should we do?”

“Just keep quiet,” he whispered back, “I’ll handle it.” I felt as grim as the other women looked. I was relieved when our host announced dinner was ready.  The guests slowly filed into the dining room, finding seats designated by engraved place cards. To my dismay, I was between two of the widowers, with Steve at the other end of the long table.

There was one empty seat — Sylvia’s. As the guests began to murmur, Steve stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen, our late hostess will not be joining us. My wife went snooping in Sylvia’s closet and found her body. Sylvia has been strangled, and her murderer must be one of the people at this table.” The murmuring stopped as  Steve walked slowly around the table, to rest his hands on the shoulders of our host. “Paul here has an alibi,” he said, “he was in plain sight of the entire group all evening.”  He walked on to stand opposite me. “In fact, the only ones who left the group — besides Sylvia, that is — were my nosy wife, and Charles.” He pointed to the man seated on my right.

I scrambled to get up, and away from Charles, who I assumed was Sylvia’s murderer. But the man seated on my left grabbed me by the arms. Paul had also gotten to his feet and was donning surgical gloves. “We’d all like to thank Steve for organizing our little collaboration. It took detailed planning to be sure that we all had alibis when our spouses were killed. After all, what reason would Charles here, have to kill my wife Sylvia, if not as payback for Steve killing his wife? And now for Steve’s reward.”

 I could hear the guests applauding softly as Paul closed his hands around my throat.