How much can you pack in a 3 minute short story? Well this one has a murder, a clue in the form of a riddle and an unexpected plot-twist.
She breezed into my office one cold September morning. I’d been enjoying a hot cup of Starbuck’s finest and surfing the web for local news. The famous lexical semanticist Professor Edgar Nettleston had been found dead, a gunshot wound to the head. The police verdict was suicide.
She held out an elegant hand as she floated towards me and I glimpsed a wedding band with a stone the size of a peanut M&M.
“I’m Edith Nettleston.”
“Sorry about the old man.”
“I’m not. He loved me, but he loved words more. I’ll be brief. My husband was working on a paper that will rock the very foundation of lexical semantics. It’s worth a fortune in lecture tours, but nobody can find it. I believe his suicide note is a clue to its whereabouts.”
She removed a scrap of paper from her blouse.
“It’s all written in lower case. My husband was a stickler for correct grammar. I refuse to believe it doesn’t mean something.”