Final Act Dianne Yetman (popular ebook readers txt) 📖

a lot of shopping before her black mood turned to gray and was now skim milk white - only tinge of blue hanging about.

She had been lucky enough to get a parking spot on the waterfront.  She had made her way through the park dodging adults and children, park workers, dog walkers and their canine companions, bikers, cyclists, artists, runners and the plentiful, mostly cranky, red squirrels, although they came nowhere near her crankiness.  At the Sailor’s Memorial, she left the boardwalk and hit the wooded trail.

Brilliant leaves covered the path drifting downward from the trees in a steady flow thanks to last night’s heavy frost.  Walking ever deeper in the woods where the ground was still frozen, she focused on the sound of the leaves crunching under her feet.  The pain in her head finally eased, she quickened her pace and ten minutes later, she heard the screech of the gulls.   Turning right, away from the sea, she climbed the hill further into the woods.  She wasn’t ready for civilization yet.

An hour later, she made her way back to the waterfront, walked purposely past her parked car, and started to climb the large paved hill leading to Spring Garden Road, the street filled with boutiques, designer shops, craft stores and a Mall filled with goodies you find anywhere else in the city.  If the layout in the storefront window attracted her, she went in and bought.  Her last stop was at La Elegant, where she spent too much money on a red origami silk blouse and black Squeeze jeans.

She was glad she stopped when she did as she had to swing her purchases from one hand to another to make it back down the hill to the waterfront.  The waitress interrupted her reverie and placed the one dish meal of curried fish fillets with carrots, potatoes, onions and tomatoes in front of her.

Twenty minutes later, her long legs stretched out under the table, sipping a cup of expertly brewed tea, she felt the last of the morning’s anxiety dripping into the dregs of the tea.  She was ready to resume control.

Control.  She smiled at the word.  How many times had Roger called her a control freak?  Too many to count – at the precinct, in the car, on the way to interview a suspect, while jamming at a bar, celebrating an arrest, and once at an autopsy.  His broad, handsome black face would break into a smile and he would begin his rant – you’re more highly structured than a mechano set, Kate, lighten up, for God’s sake.

He had no room to talk.  She had no doubt about what he was doing with his Saturday. In his garage, face under the hood of his beloved Mustang, or at the race track with his buddy Randy, putting their cars through their paces. Structure, love of control, fresh air and exercise versus gas fumes – no contest. Control it is.

Hoisting her parcels, she strolled back to the car, dumped the packages in the trunk, popped one of her favourite CD’s into the surround sound system and listened to the brilliant guitar playing of Jimi Hendrix.  She made her way to the trendy north end of the city.  It wasn’t always trendy; it had been one of the areas to avoid if you didn’t want to be mugged and the like. If she knew how and why neighbourhoods spiralled upwards, she’d invest what remained of her trust fund stash in real estate, but it would be a waste.  She’d sucked at forecasting winners and chances are she could predict a winning lotto ticket before cashing in on the real estate market.

Pulling up in front of June’s hair dressing shop, she couldn’t believe her luck.  She had called on her cell from the cafe to see if she had any openings and bingo, a cancellation.  Opening the door to the salon, the familiar smell of shampoo, perm solutions, and scented candles wafted in the air.  Fifteen minutes later she was caped, looking at her reflection in the mirror while the scissors chopped down her heavy mass of chestnut curls. The sounds of the magical jazz pieces of Scott Joplin filled the salon.

June Grayson, a widow, a quiet, thoughtful woman, had been managing her fly away curls since her university days.  They had a unique relationship, neither one infringing on the privacy of the other, both comfortable with silence.  Hair cut, she left her usual generous tip and drove to the gym.

4:15pm

She cued up for the machines and 60 minutes later, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, she headed for the exit.  There was just enough time to drive home, shower, change and meet her friends for pre-dinner drinks.  She bounced her way towards the exit.

And there, on the other side of the glass door, stood the stalker. She pushed open the door; he closed in; they stood toe to toe.

“Hi Kate.  What are you doing here on a Saturday?  Caught your workout, impressive.”

He made a show of looking at his watch.

“Close to cocktail hour.  How about joining me for a drink?”

Kate wondered how he knew her name then quickly realized the vulture had hung around the front desk picking up name droppings.

“The answer is the same. No. Not now, not ever.  Now please set aside.”

He didn’t move.

“I like a woman with spunk Kate.  Turns me on.”

“I’m only going to repeat myself once.  Get out of my way.  Now.  Surely, the message’s simple enough to get through to the tiny brain in your muscle bound head.”

She watched as the red welt on his neck spread up his face.  A direct hit.

“Nasty bitch, aren’t you. Get a kick out of putting men down.  Prefer women do you, Kate?  Should have told me before this, leading someone on isn’t good manners.”

She looked at his clenched fists, ran her eyes over his frame and though he was a bodybuilder, her gut told her he wasn’t a fighter.  She took a