Scandal at Shady Point

From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 2

Randy Turner had been in love with Dana since he first saw her in history class. When his folks moved to the city, he changed schools and Dana took up with Mike. Randy hadn't seen her since. Now he was lying beside her all sweaty and warm. He felt as if he had completed something, like he could strike an item off of a list and move on with his life, now that it was complete. He had wanted to bed her since junior year; now he had.

But the front door opening made them both sit up. They didn't look at each other, they jumped up in different directions. Randy scooped up his tighty-whities from the floor and put them on, then his shirt. He looked for his jeans, then remembered he had left them in the living room. He picked up his boots and one sock. The other one wasn't within his field of vision and he wasn't going to waste valuable time looking.

Dana had thrown on her cleaning shift and ran out to cut off her husband, closing the bedroom door behind her.

“You're all sweaty and I'm in the middle of cleaning our bathroom.” Dana said, pushing him away before he could smell another man's cologne on her. “Go on into the other shower and get cleaned up before you even try to kiss me.”

When the door closed and the shower could be heard running, Randy Turner came out of the bedroom with his boots in his hand. He grabbed the jeans from the back of the couch and pulled them on, trying not to make a noise or fall down. He barely got them zipped when Dana motioned to him from the front door.

“Go!” she whispered, and she pushed him out, closing the door behind him.

Randy Turner wasted no time running, barefoot and holding his boots, to his dusty gray Honda up on the road. He jumped in, pulled the visor down and caught his keys in his right hand. Randy pulled out into the lane, thankful that it was a quiet Saturday afternoon and not a busy weekday. He was hoping none of the neighbors had seen him leave. He wondered if anyone had witnessed their innocent meeting at the book store or the way they warmed up to each other at the coffee shop next door. He hoped none of Mike's friends observed one thing leading to another until they fell into bed, heaving and sweating, entwined like grapevines.

Randy Turner pulled the up to the curb in front of his small townhouse, turned off the engine and sat, staring out of the windshield. Once inside the house, he threw down his boots, flopped on the couch and reflected on the mess he had made of things. “But at least,” he thought, “I got out of there without getting caught.”

Still it didn't feel right. He didn't feel right. Even his pants didn't feel right. There was a lump in his jeans that didn't make sense. He felt the front pocket and found a set of keys ― truck keys, and a house key. Randy could feel the blood drain from his face. These were not his jeans!


When Mike came in, he had in a long, dusty case from the garage. In the case was a rifle. He was one of the few residents of Shady Point who did not have a firearm handy, but that changed now, he had his old rifle in the house. He opened a box of .22 shells, pulled the bolt, loaded a shell into the chamber and closed the bolt. Dana heard the sound. She shuddered to hear it.

“Sooner or later,” he said, calmly to the bedroom door, “you will tell me who he is. Then I'll kill him.”

The locksmith charged triple to come out on a Sunday. Mike didn't care.

“Double-key, I want to be able to lock the door from both sides,” he said.

“Sure, no problem,” replied the locksmith.

Mike sat in the large, central living room, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, keeping an eye on every door and window, in case the culprit should come back to speak to his wife. He doubted the man would show up at the door to return his wallet and keys.
“I'm sorry,” Mike imagined him saying, “I got your jeans by mistake when I was stumbling over myself getting out of your house after banging your wife.” Yeah, Mike could just imagine that apology going down.

“All done,” said the locksmith.

Mike stood by the door watching the locksmith drive away. He closed the door and locked it with his new key. “No one's getting in – or out – of this house now,” he thought.


“Harry,” Mike told his boss on Monday morning, “I'm taking some time. I've got leave coming, so I'm taking it.”

“Everything OK, Mike? Is Dana OK?”

“I'll get back to you on that.”

“Well if there's anything I can do...”

“Thanks, Harry. I'll let you know.”

Mike hung up the phone. The call was a courtesy to Harry; Mike didn't care about the job – not anymore. He still had on the same khaki pants and shirt. He had slept on the couch in them. He nibbled at snacks, but wasn't hungry. He hadn't drunk much of the whiskey, most of it was left. He wasn't drowning his sorrow, he was numb to it.

If he had thought about it, he would have wondered if Dana was hungry, but he didn't think about it. He didn't think about her at all.

At nine, he showered in the guest bathroom. He heard Dana moving about the house. When he came out, he saw the bedroom door open; Dana was not in sight. Mike went into the bedroom, dressed in clean slacks and a shirt and left for the bank; without his wallet, there were arrangements to make.

Upon his return, Mike found Sheriff Willis waiting for him outside the house. Sheriff Willis had caught Mike and Dana necking after the prom a few years back, warned Mike not to drive drunk at his bachelor party and later, attended their wedding in his only fitting suit. Now he was at their door in his uniform.

“Dana tells me you've locked her in,” said Sheriff Willis.

“I locked the door to keep strangers out. If she was inside when I did it, then there you are.”

Mike took out his house key and went to the front door. He opened it to find Dana standing there in blue jeans, cloth shoes and a large, cable-knit sweater. She had been crying. She wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back into a hasty pony-tail. She looked terrified.

Sheriff Willis stepped through the door and looked from Mike to Dana.

“Doors open, Dana,” said Mike. “If you want to leave, no one's stopping you. There is one thing I'd like to know: the name of your lover.”

Dana turned pale as fear overcame embarrassment. Sheriff Willis looked from her to Mike, sizing up what he had to deal with. Dana ran past them out of the door, up the drive and onto the road.

“Let me talk with her. Maybe I can help you sort this out,” said Willis.

“If she won't tell me, I'll find out sooner or later,” said Mike, throwing the keys on the counter. “Until then, she can stay out there for all I care.”

“Mike, don't do anything hasty. Let this simmer some, you and Dana have a good thing going. Don't let one stupid mistake screw it up.”

Mike just looked at the sheriff with lowered eyes, tight lips and clenched fists. It was plain that the conversation was over.

All through the night, Mike's demons danced through his head, keeping him only half asleep. His jeans, his house, his wife; his anger. The man had taken his wallet and keys. He could steal his truck anytime, but he couldn't get into the house, not anymore. He could still get into his wife, though, wherever she was. So what! He didn't care anymore. He was cold and numb. Priorities had shifted.